His older brother Stephan’s advice surfaced in the vortex of his thoughts. Wise, even-tempered Stephan had been his opposite, his anchor. The only one who’d given a damn about him. But Stephan was gone, too; the familiar grief welled, and Sinjin tried to escape it by plunging into the water for a swim.
The exercise calmed him, focused his thoughts. A week without a drop of drink had been excruciating, but it had helped to clear his head. With the raw, painful clarity of staring straight into the sun, he’d begun to see that, in the two years since Stephan’s death, he’d let his devils get the better of him.
The black devil and the blue devil: that was how he’d come to think of the two opposing sides of his nature. Since his early adolescence, the bloodthirsty pair had staked his mind as their battleground, and even now he could feel their presence, lurking, waiting to make their next move.
The black devil who made him feel powerful and euphoric, limitless. Who lured him with the rush of excitement, the thrill of danger, the numbing high of recklessness. The fast crowd he ran with revered this side of him; like the satyrs and Maenads of myth, they erupted into an ecstatic frenzy at his exploits.
You race like the devil, old boy! his cronies would cheer when he crossed the finish line first, nearly overturning his four-in-hand in the process.
You carouse like a king, they’d crow when he won yet another drinking contest.
You fuck like a god, the wench—or wenches—of the night would purr.
Reaching the other end, Sinjin kicked off the stone wall, propelling his body through the water. He fed off the adulation, even when he knew it wasn’t real. None of them—not his so-called friends or the females clamoring for his attention—knew him. The true him. Who he was behind the fearless stunts and brash confidence. How bedeviled he was by the black beast… and the blue.
What’s the matter with you, boy? Get out of bed. You’re pathetic, worthless.
The duke’s contempt drove him through the pool, shame and anger churning the warm waves. As difficult as his black mood was to manage—in a heartbeat, euphoria could explode into irritability, recklessness into fisticuffs—the blue was infinitely worse. He hated that part of himself. How it turned him into a gutless prat, loaded his pockets with rocks and sunk him into the depths of despair.
Since he’d become the Earl of Revelstoke—Stephan’s title, the one that he, Sinjin, had never wanted—the devils had become even more unruly. He’d tried to play them off each other, using black to stave off blue. All it took was more drink, more reckless feats. More sex. Which was why he’d gone to Corbett’s, an exclusive and infamous bawdy house, a week ago. Why he’d tossed back a few drinks, played a few rounds of hazard, and then gone upstairs with Nicoletta, the club’s newest light-skirt. Why he’d fucked her and then… what?
What bloody happened?
Frustration and anguish twisted his insides. Could the black devil have pilfered a chunk of time from him? In the past, orgiastic sprees had passed in a blur, and he’d drunk himself into oblivion more times than he could count, yet he’d always retained some memory of his escapades. Could it be possible that he’d beaten Nicoletta… and forgotten? There were cuts and scrapes on his knuckles, but since he’d gotten into a tavern brawl prior to visiting Corbett’s, he didn’t know if his injuries were the result of the drunken scuffle… or of beating her. A defenseless female.
His arms plowed through the water harder, faster, as if he could somehow outdistance himself from the reprehensible possibility. As if he could somehow outrace himself—get away from the sodding disaster that he was. From the possibility that he truly was mad.
Lungs burning, he told himself that he was nothing like the others at this “retreat.” He didn’t think a coat rack was a long-lost aunt, didn’t see visions of angels telling him that he was the Savior reborn. He’d been dealing with his devils for more than half his life; he’d learned how to mask and manage them well enough.
Hell, the ton considered him a catch. What a bloody joke that was. Even more amusing was the fact that the more he shunned polite society, the more they wanted him—or, rather, his title and money.
Let them be blinded by status and wealth. By the cocky, good-looking bastard who stared back at him in the looking glass. At least he was no object of pity: he’d rather die than be that.
He’d seen how the hapless lunatics were treated here. He’d glimpsed behind the fashionable curtain of Mrs. Barlow’s establishment to witness the dark underbelly. Despite the fancy trappings, this place was Creavey Hall all over again. Cold seeped in the depths of him, a place where no healing waters could reach.
By God, he did not belong here.
It’ll only be temporary. The emotionless tones of his father, the Duke of Acton, echoed in his head. You’ll stay at Mrs. Barlow’s until this catastrophe blows over. No one will recognize you there—and the waters will do you good. God knows you need to regain your equilibrium.
At the time, he’d been too shaken to refuse his papa’s help, and it had taken the past few days here to regain his footing. To take full stock of his situation and realize that he was hiding like a bloody bastard. His arms shredded the water, his feet kicking until the whole of him was burning. And still he couldn’t shake free of the demons. Of the guilt and self-loathing and churning confusion.
Why can’t I remember? What’s wrong with me?
He forced himself into a more brutal pace. He swam until there was nothing left inside him. Only then did he haul himself out of the pool, flopping onto his back on the smooth stone. Chest heaving, he stared up at the wooden slats of the ceiling and tried to empty his head.
Yet the self-doubts wouldn’t stop, rising in a choir of accusation. Tranquility became a cage, and he was trapped in his own skin with no comrades, no wenches, no mind-obliterating pursuits to distract him. Devil and damn, what was a fellow to do with himself?
He needed an escape. A release before his head combusted with all that was building inside.
Like a buoy in dark waters, a memory drifted to him. The afternoon he’d spent with Lady Evelyn De Ville and her maid… he couldn’t recall the latter’s name, but she’d been a buxom brunette with dark, prominent nipples. A rousing contrast to Lady Evelyn’s delicate blond beauty.
He felt his blood heat, that welcome rush into his cock. He glanced at the closed door; that musicale would keep everyone occupied for another hour at least. Judging from the throbbing state of his erection, he wouldn’t need more than five minutes at most. He wasn’t a man meant for abstinence. The past week had been the longest time he’d gone without sex for as long as he could recall. Maybe releasing his seed would relax and calm him.
He lay back and fisted his cock. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d frigged himself—why put in the effort when there was a surfeit of others to do it for you?—but if he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine it was someone else touching him.
Lady Evelyn’s slender white fingers, for instance, circling the heavy up-thrust flesh.
He could almost hear her breathy, rather affected accents. Oh, Sinjin, you’ve a monstrous large cock. The biggest rod I’ve ever seen.
Considering the source, it was no small compliment. Despite her ethereal looks, Countess De Ville was a connoisseur of the carnal arts. Her experience and appetite rivalled his own. Yet even her innovative bedroom antics had begun to bore him, and lately he’d had a strange yearning for something else. Something he couldn’t name, but that was more than burying his prick in a convenient orifice, more than a fleeting release followed by that dark, unending emptiness…
Focus, he told himself. Stay on the subject literally at hand.
His biceps flexed as he stroked his thickening flesh. As he recalled, Lady Evelyn was an expert in fellatio, possessed of a voracious mouth. His breath quickened as she licked up and down his turgid shaft, tonguing the flaring dome before taking him deep. He tried to ignore her slurping and gagging; the lascivious sounds were meant to arouse, no doubt
, but she took it a bit too far, sounding like she might cast her accounts.
Concentrate, you fool.
He shut his eyes. The maid—mustn’t forget her. She joined in the fun, crawling between his legs and lapping at his bollocks while Lady Evelyn bobbed on his cock. Yes, this was more like it. Two ladies—one fair, one dark—intent upon his pleasure… and each other’s. The maid abandoned him, her dark head slipping beneath her mistress. Lady Evelyn ground her sex against her servant’s lusty mouth, moaning, the sound reverberating against his iron-hard shaft.
Right-o. Everyone to their fancy, as he always said.
His climax was nearing; he needed just a bit more to tip the scales. He pulled Lady Evelyn’s mouth off the meat of his shaft and positioned her on her hands and knees. He plunged into her sopping cunny, riding her as she panted out encouragement. Not to be left out, the maid wriggled beneath her mistress, adding her lips and tongue to the lascivious joining. Apparently in the mood to return the favor, Lady Evelyn’s head dipped to her servant’s dark thatch.
His strokes quickened, his sac drawing taut, ready to fire—
A rustling sound tore him from his fantasy. His eyes snapped open, gaze shooting to the doorway. Through the haze of lust, he saw… a young woman? Small and prim, she was staring at him with enormous eyes.
In that moment, two incredible facts flashed through his mind. One, he’d been caught—red-handed, so to speak—by some virginal miss. Two, the lady’s eyes were the exact color of the pool: a pure aquamarine, mesmerizingly clear… faultless. Her tongue darted out to wet her plump coral lips, and, devil and damn, he felt that swipe from his balls to his cockhead.
How long has she been watching?
The thought sent an erotic buzz shot through him. Within his fist, his rod jerked, a droplet seeping from the bloated crown. The hot trickle over his knuckle shattered the remnants of his fantasy, reality crashing over him. With a curse, he released himself, made a grab for his robe. Before he could get the bloody thing on, he heard the rapid-fire retreat of footsteps.
He spun around; she was gone.
Heart thudding, he stared at the empty doorway. Who the bloody hell was she? Distracted by her startling eyes, he’d only gotten a vague impression of the rest of her: dowdy dress, neat little features. Was she a visiting relative of one of the patients?
He dragged a hand through his wet hair. If she was as prudish as her appearance suggested, he’d probably shocked her half to death. Although he didn’t recognize her—he avoided innocent ladies like the plague—he wondered if she knew who he was...
By Jove, what if she did recognize him—and told someone about it?
Frost spread through him. His papa was working to control the damage he’d caused, asking only one thing in return: stay at Mrs. Barlow’s and out of sight. His Grace had spread the fiction that Sinjin had hailed off to the Continent on a whim. If word got out that Sinjin was not abroad but housed at a lunatic asylum where he’d been caught in flagrante with himself…
His face burned. He had to nip this problem in the bud. He’d go find the chit—she’d likely come from the musicale—and ascertain whether she knew his identity. If she did… well, he’d come up with some plausible explanation for his behavior. Somehow.
Cursing, he strode off to get dressed—and to contain yet another scandal.
Chapter Three
Polly hurried back to the musicale, her mind and senses awhirl. It was intermission, and under the watchful eyes of the attendants, the patients were docilely filing into a line in front of the refreshment table. Before Polly had a chance to collect herself, Rosie cornered her by the door.
“There you are. You missed the first part of my performance,” Rosie said with a pout. “Where did you wander off to?”
“Sorry. I had to get some air,” Polly mumbled.
“You’re flushed.” Rosie’s pique faded. “Are you feeling unwell?”
She didn’t know what she was feeling. Shocked, afraid… tingly all over. What she’d encountered in the bathhouse had been the most depraved thing she’d seen in her entire life. That man—what he’d been doing! Lying by the side of the Roman bath, he’d appeared like a young Bacchus come to life, wicked and entirely unabashed in his steam-glazed decadence.
The torchlight had burnished his mahogany hair, kissed the divinely handsome contours of his face. He had the body of a god, too: beneath his taut skin, sleek muscles had rippled with unmistakable power. His chest had resembled cut slabs of granite, no hint of softness save for the sprinkling of bronze hair. That trail of hair had drawn her gaze downward like a magnet toward the lean ridges of his abdomen, past the prominent vee of muscle girdling his hips, to his…
She swallowed, her mouth dry. She’d seen sculptures of the nude male form, but apparently they didn’t accurately depict that part of a man’s anatomy—at least not this man’s. Heavens, his male equipment more resembled that of the mythical satyr: larger than life… beyond shocking! She saw again the wicked pumping of his fist, the animal pulsing of his aura, and a wave of dizziness washed over her.
“Gracious, now you look positively feverish. Shall I fetch you some lemonade?” Rosie said.
“No. I’m fine.” Her quivering voice and insides contradicted her.
“It’s me—your bosom chum and sister, remember?” Rosie’s hands planted on her hips. “Out with it, Pols.”
Polly gnawed on her lower lip. How on earth could she describe what she barely comprehended herself? How could she put into words the depraved behavior that she’d witnessed?
Then it occurred to her: the fellow must be insane. Of course. He was at Mrs. Barlow’s for a reason after all. Perhaps he’d lost control over himself—over his animal impulses. Polly had heard tales of madmen barking at the moon. Might the poor man be afflicted with a similar canine delusion? Dogs, after all, were in the habit of licking themselves in unmentionable areas, and what he’d been doing was sort of similar, wasn’t it?
He must be a lunatic, she reasoned with relief. It was the only plausible explanation for his unnatural behavior. And if he’d unleashed strange sensations in her—she felt shivery and shaky, a hot viscosity coating her insides—well, any sane person would feel discomfited.
Expelling a breath, she said, “I saw someone acting, um, oddly is all.”
Rosie snorted. “Given the setting, that’s hardly—”
A loud crash cut off the rest of her sentence. Polly started, her gaze jerking toward the refreshment table to their left. A wooden platter lay on the floor, cheese scattered around it, grapes rolling off like marbles. The cause of the disarray appeared to be one of the patients: the young ginger-haired man she’d noticed earlier.
“I don’t want any cheese!” he yelled. “It’s full of poison! You’re trying to kill me!”
A murmur rose from the other patients. A few spat out their food.
“Calm yourself, Kirkham.” A burly attendant approached him, hands raised. “You don’t want to disrupt the party. Why don’t you and I have a chat outside?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you!” Kirkham’s eyes were wild, like those of a hunted creature. He grabbed a pitcher, threw it down, glass exploding into shards at his feet. “You don’t want to chat. You want to throw me in the coffin and fill it up with water! You want to kill me, you want to kill all of us!”
Patients were looking at each other, nodding, whispers getting louder.
Someone shouted, “You tell ’em, Kirkham!”
Mrs. Barlow pushed her way through the crowd to stand next to the attendant.
“For God’s sake, Lubbock,” she snapped at the guard, “get a hold of him.”
Desperation oozed from Kirkham in waves of yellow-brown. He suddenly crouched and came up with a large shard of glass in his hand. Blood trickled from his palm, matching the red aggression in his aura.
“Put that down,” Lubbock ordered. “Don’t make this harder on yourself.”
“You want to murder me—well,
I won’t make it easy for you!” Kirkham swung the makeshift weapon in a wild arc.
Lubbock pounced. Kirkham managed to dodge the brawny guard, who flew straight into the table. Dishes and utensils went flying, the clatter mingling with the patients’ shrieks and cheers. Other attendants entered the fray, but fear made Kirkham as slippery as a lamprey, and he evaded them all. He headed straight for the open door next to where Polly and Rosie stood transfixed, their hands gripped together. In the next breath, Polly felt Rosie’s fingers being torn from hers and heard the other scream.
Kirkham had grabbed Rosie! He held her in front of him like a shield, the jagged glass blade pressed against her throat. Heart pounding, Polly took a step toward them.
“Please don’t hurt my sister,” she pleaded.
“Stay back.” Kirkham edged his way backward toward the exit, keeping Rosie between him and the approaching battalion of attendants. “Try to stop me and she dies!”
“Let her go or it’ll be the worse for you,” Lubbock warned.
“It can’t get worse than this place. I’m getting out of here, one way or another. Now stay back—or I’ll cut her, do you hear me?”
Wings of panic thumped in Polly’s chest as the guards ignored his threat, closing in on him as he backed toward the door. She stood helplessly, seeing the rising waves of aggression, the way the black energy fed off itself until it choked the entire room. One false move and…
Kirkham reached the exit—and in the next moment, he yelped, his face contorting with pain, his makeshift weapon falling from his grasp. He was yanked through the door and out of sight, and Rosie stumbled forward, free. Polly scrambled over, throwing her arms around the trembling girl while the guards rushed past them.
“Are you all right?” Polly said shakily.
“I most certainly am not.” Rosie’s jade eyes widened, her face pale. “Serves me right for trying to be a do-gooder. This is the last time I do anything charitable.”
A relieved chuckle frothed up Polly’s throat just as Thea came rushing over.
Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 3