The Deadliest Sin

by Caroline Richards

  “I do so hope”—Felicity’s sultry voice drifted over the three shimmering candelabra—“you are a trifle more eager to join us in our play this evening than when we last parted company. Although I must say, if you’ll allow me, that gown does little to enhance your already pallid complexion and frail figure, my dear. Are you quite certain you are recovered from your earlier ordeal? Such drama, but then one supposes drama is necessary to hold the attentions of Lord Strathmore for any length of time.”

  Felicity lowered her lashes over feline-shaped eyes and darted Strathmore another quick look.

  Julia smiled pleasantly. “I am quite recovered. Thank you for your kind concern.”

  Beaumarchais glanced up with sudden interest. “Indeed, my dear. I trust you are up to some spirited activities this evening. Why I hear our host has moved the venue to one of the caves with its cavernous banqueting hall and cozy little monk cells—for our use, they inform me, should any of us require additional privacy.” He finished with a sly chuckle that was echoed by several other men within hearing distance.

  “We may be joined by additional guests,” Felicity continued, with a thin smile for her host at the end of the table. “Wadsworth does so enjoy a surprise.”

  Julia’s bare shoulders, gleaming in the candlelight, tensed imperceptibly. “What a convivial and generous host so eager to extend his hospitality and to invite yet more favored guests to his estate,” she said with an inquiring tilt of her chin. Strathmore knew exactly what Julia was thinking, the hope lighting in her eyes that Faron would make an appearance, as promised. His gut tightened in response.

  “It would not be the first time,” Beaumarchais supplied. “Wadsworth’s august ancestor was known to have entertained King George IV himself in the very caves of the abandoned chalk mines.”

  “Along with his royal courtesan.” Felicity smirked, clearly privileged to have in her possession such an important piece of prurient knowledge. “I hear there still exists a silver snuff box, oval in shape and delicately engraved, which contains a tightly packed clump of hair claiming to be trimmed from the mons veneris of the King’s mistress.”

  “Quite the keepsake!” Beaumarchais took a deep gulp of his wine before giving an imaginary toast to the long-dead King and his revelries.

  Felicity dabbed her linen napkin at the corners of her mouth. “As a case in point, one does so quickly bore, does one not? Particularly for men of the world, men of experience, such as the gentlemen who join us here this weekend.” She swept a hand over her low décolletage in case anyone had failed to notice its fulsomeness. “I do so look forward to the upcoming adventure, although truth be told, it does require a particular stamina and appetite. Would you not agree Miss Woolcott?”

  Through the candles, Strathmore watched as Julia took a sip of her wine as though she’d barely absorbed Felicity’s deliberate baiting. Then her eyes lifted and locked with his.

  God damn. Strathmore instantly recognized his inability to control his physical and emotional response when it involved Julia Woolcott. Even in the midst of that nest of vipers, his need for her had become so great, his desire so acute, he wondered if he was the same man who had once crossed a desert on horseback or ever dreamed of holding the original Ptolemy map in his hand.

  He wanted Faron out of their lives and Julia Woolcott safely in his. Then he would have a lifetime of her next to him. The image of her disheveled and wanting floated in his mind’s eye and, for the life of him, he could feel himself hardening beneath the fine wool of his trousers. An exotic warmth shimmered in his blood stream. He reached for his wineglass.

  “I have heard it said,” continued Felicity, her eyes riveted on Julia, “that our host knows precisely each of his guests’ proclivities.”

  “I am certain Sir Wadsworth has in his possession such information,” responded Julia above the twittering of laughter. “He is the consummate host, after all.”

  “I don’t believe you understand fully the implications of Wadsworth’s research,” said Felicity. Her smile was smugly malicious. “Your escort for the weekend, Lord Strathmore, if we were to take an example, is a man of prodigious appetites.”

  Julia’s fingers whitened around the stem of her wineglass.

  “Of which I know first hand,” Felicity continued unabated. “Which makes your erstwhile outburst, what with the pistol brandishing and the like, all the more inexplicable and positively mysterious. What did you expect, Miss Woolcott, from Lord Strathmore? That he should be brought to heel like a whelp newly taken from its litter to do your bidding? Hardly likely or realistic. Trust me when I say,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “that a man of Strathmore’s appetites and experience will never be content with just one woman.” She gave a chirp of laughter. “How hopelessly naïve!”

  Julia carefully set her wineglass aside. “I appreciate your generous insights into Lord Strathmore’s character, Miss Clarence.”

  Felicity fingered a fat curl resting just above her bosom, expanding with every excited breath she took. “The list of women is seemingly endless, my dear, although completely understandable given the man’s prowess. Naturally, the specifics of those on other continents are unknown to us. But once again, only imagine, ten years out of the country,” she mused aloud.

  Strathmore remained seated, the unfolding scene floating before his eyes as Felicity tried to drive a perceived rival from the field.

  “It simply staggers the imagination. The harems, the mistresses he hired to teach him exotic sexual play, the rumors of debauchery that we here, in the comparatively safe shores of this emerald isle”—Felicity’s theatrical roots were showing—“find completely shocking. And Strathmore’s translation of the sexual mores of primitives…that scandalous compendium is simply wicked in its scope and breadth!” Her voice was a hushed undertone that nevertheless carried across the room to the end of the dining table where Strathmore sat. “My dear, I thought you should know so you may enjoy the evening’s festivities with a rather more open mind.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “This possessiveness of yours regarding Lord Strathmore is peculiar to say the least, given the man’s history and, dare I say it, given your rather meager charms.”

  Strathmore imagined what Julia was thinking—most of which was true. But it was all in the past, his past, transformed into a blur of memory. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he felt the need to shed his evening coat, a fine sheen of sweat trickling down his spine. The sensation was strangely familiar, an effervescent warmth chafing his blood which was, inexplicably, rushing to the erection between his legs. He moved swiftly, his chair scraping against the marble floor. In two strides he stood behind Julia, the words tight in his throat. “I regret you’ve had to deal with this…”

  “A former mistress?” Julia offered quietly, her voice touched with irony, her back to him. “One of hundreds?”

  There was no excuse nor reasonable answer. Not a bolstering thought. All he knew was that all of it was irrelevant because of the reality of his love for Julia. More pressing was the gnawing certainty that Felicity’s display served as an elaborate ruse, that they were being led into an elaborate trap. Yet all he could do was breathe in the familiar scent of Julia, lavender and freesia, which he would recognize if he were blind. Julia looked up at him and held his gaze, trust blazing from her eyes. She quickly lowered her lashes before anyone could interpret the quicksilver understanding passing between them.

  “Oh dear, was it something I said?” Felicity smiled beguilingly at Strathmore, aware of the pot she was stirring. Her thin lips spread into a smile as she watched Julia rise from the table, removing her napkin from her lap, carefully avoiding Strathmore who stood a mere inch away from her. It was as though they were alone, despite Wadsworth’s small audience hanging on every word and nuance. Disregarding it all, and with a small nod, Julia walked from the dining room, leaving the assembled guests with gaping mouths and a few awkwardly timed guffaws.

  Beaumarchais launched from his seat. “I shal
l go after her,” he said, smoothing the wings of his hair with elaborate concern. “Should she require consolation.”

  “Leave her be,” said Strathmore with quiet menace. Beaumarchais remained rooted to the spot, the cold authority clear in the low voice. “As for you, Felicity,” Strathmore continued despite the waves of heat coursing through his body, “I require a moment of your time. Privately.”

  “Here, here now.” Wadsworth’s jowls shook as he tried to move his bulk from the table. “I shan’t have our weekend interrupted with such squabbling. Once was more than enough.”

  Strathmore and Felicity ignored their host’s exhortations, and a strange light appeared in the actress’s eyes. “I should be more than pleased to accompany you wherever you desire, my lord Strathmore,” she cooed. “The music room perhaps?”

  He nodded curtly, dismissing the assembled guests with the turn of his back. “I am positively atremble,” said Felicity for the benefit of her audience, with a mocking smile and a small wave over her bare shoulders.

  The music room was as he remembered, the piano at the center surrounded by gilt-edged divans and the French doors through which he, with Julia draped over his arms, had escaped—it seemed so long ago. Someone had seen fit to light the sconces which flickered wild patterns onto the watered silk covered walls. Loosening his cravat with an impatient hand, Strathmore cursed under his breath, as sparks of desire shot through his bloodstream. It was not altogether an unfamiliar sensation. Something flickered in his memory, a potion he had once consumed at the behest of a bedouin chieftain, just before—

  “More wine, darling?” Felicity was pressing a long-stemmed glass into his hand. The realization struck him like a blow to the side of the head. The wine at dinner had been laced with cantharides.

  Plump arms fastened around his neck. “What the hell are you doing, Felicity?”

  “Don’t play coy, Strathmore, darling. It doesn’t suit you a whit.” The plunging neckline of her gown gaped as she nestled closer against his chest and with a certain deft skill began unbuttoning his white linen shirt to the waist of his trousers. “I can see that you’re more than ready for me.”

  His gaze drifted over the abundance of perfumed bosom that seemed to plead for his touch. One long fingernail was already tracing circles over his chest. “Your musculature is spectacular, darling. But then again, I’m sure you already know that.” She purred throatily.

  Odd that he had an erection that could drill through rock and yet odder still that he felt unmoved. And phenomenally detached. “Who put you up to this, Felicity. And why?”

  She slanted feline eyes at him from beneath a sweep of blond hair which fell in waves upon her rounded shoulders, softening her sharp features as did the pink rouge on her cheeks and lips. As an actress, Felicity Clarence was adept at the tricks that would help her appear younger.

  “You mean telling Miss Woolcott the truth? She deserves to know.” Her thumb brushed over his bottom lip. “I was hardly lying, darling. Your reputation precedes you—nothing to be ashamed of, certainly in present company here at Eccles House. We more than understand.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking. Who doctored my wine?” In all likelihood Beaumarchais, but Strathmore wondered how much Felicity knew and whether he could make use of whatever information she held close to her opulent bosom. His gut tightened at the thought of Julia alone in the house. The sooner it was over, the better.

  “I don’t concern myself with such details, darling.” Felicity pressed rouged lips to his neck. The heavy scent of attar of roses and musk enveloped him. “You are so unlike the milquetoast Englishman, Strathmore. You can’t begin to imagine how much that appeals to me.” Unrelenting fingers slipped beneath his shirt, her fingers drifting over his abdomen to unhook the top of his trousers. Her lips curved as one finger traced over the impressive bulge in his trousers. “Unlike the typical Englishman, indeed, and so remarkably endowed.”

  Strathmore’s fingers wrapped around her wandering hand, halting its journey. Her eyes, staring up at him, widened. “Perhaps you should concern yourself with details, Felicity,” he said.

  Her fair brows rose tremulously and she forced a sultry smile. “Whatever do you mean, darling? I believe, judging by the evidence in hand, you are as eager for a tryst as I am. As a matter of fact, it’s as though you can hardly survive through dinner without bursting.”

  He smiled grimly. “You get what you want if I get what I want. Simple.” Strathmore resisted the overwhelming urge to disentangle the arms wrapped around his neck like an asp.

  Running her hands over his hardness, Felicity heaved a sigh and thrust out her lower lip. “Can we not just play, darling?” One arm dropped to grasp his hand, pressing it to one silk-covered breast as extra inducement.

  “We’ll play soon enough, Felicity.” He tried to keep his voice pleasant, all the while wondering where Julia had gone, hoping she had locked herself in their rooms. The specter of Beaumarchais, all unctuous concern, intruded, the knowledge spiking his blood hot and dangerous, more than the aphrodisiacs ever could.

  “Dear Lord, you’re magnificent, Strathmore,” Felicity breathed into his ear, her hand between his legs.

  The faster, the better, he thought. Felicity’s breast was heavy in his hand, the nipple pushing impatiently into his palm. He forced himself through the motions. “What did Beaumarchais ask of you, Felicity?”

  “Simply to augment your wine, darling, with a little extra something,” she whispered, her breath coming in small pants. She tugged on the silken ties binding her bodice. “And to arrange a little impromptu interlude with you, after dispatching the wan-faced wraith you insist upon bringing with you to these affairs. I can’t imagine how she would ever hold your interest.” With a shrug of her shoulders, the dress pooled at her waist, demonstrating that she had dispensed with corset and chemise. Voluptuous with a narrow waist and fleshy hips, her breasts hung full and heavy, her nipples large and dark.

  Strathmore thanked the gods he didn’t believe in that the aphrodisiacs were having their desired effects because he would not have been able to feign passion without them. A pitiful testament to the man he had become since meeting Miss Woolcott.

  Dutifully, he filled his hands with the heaviness of Felicity’s breasts, shutting out the memory of silken skin, long limbs, and resilient flesh. “Beaumarchais must have a specific purpose in mind,” he muttered into Felicity’s ear.

  “I think, most of all,” she breathed heavily, “he wanted to cause a diversion, to have your little Miss Woolcott all to himself. Though God only knows why.”

  A diversion. To separate the two of them, thought Strathmore ominously. He shoved a hand into the blond tresses, pulling Felicity closer to him in a show of lust. He crushed his mouth over hers, determined to see the situation to its end, all too aware the hot desire flaming through him had been prompted by his images of Julia. The plan was diabolical, torturous, a flagrant challenge to a man whose love for a woman made it impossible to erase her from his mind or body because she had invaded his blood, his very being. It wasn’t the aphrodisiacs that made him want to crawl from his skin with a howl of disgust.

  Strathmore opened his eyes. Felicity stepped away from him, her breasts flushed and heaving in restrained passion. The thought of touching her in more intimate places filled him with uncommon dread. He swallowed hard. “What else do you know?” Each word was finely tempered steel.

  He was aware of his erection, an attraction Felicity could not resist. “I can see that you’re impatient,” she said, and he composed himself, his hand deliberately setting Felicity’s stroking fingers aside.

  “Not as much as you are.”

  Felicity licked her lips and kneeled at his feet. She arched her back so her breasts jutted upward, offering herself to him. “I don’t know much of anything at all,” she murmured, languidly stroking his erection.

  “You won’t get what you want,” he said in a deliberate, commanding tone, “in your careless mouth
unless you tell me what little you do know.”

  Felicity stroked him, reveling in his rigid length and full turgid arousal which pulsed through him with a startling autonomy. “There is to be,” she said in a small voice, her rapt eyes focused on the casual stroking of her fingers, “a special ceremony to be held in the caves this evening. Beaumarchais requires that your little Miss Woolcott attend without you.”

  It was as though a bullet shot through his brain. Strathmore watched with a curious detachment as Felicity leaned over and drew his manhood into her mouth with avid enthusiasm. Only to see, across the room, the handle of the door rocking.

  Beaumarchais’s voice boomed theatrically from the other side. “Why I believe I saw them last repair to the music room. The last door on your left, if you’ll recall, dear Julia.”

  Chapter 17

  The image should have been imprinted on Julia’s mind and soul forever. The scene spoke of heinous betrayal except that she knew differently in her heart. This was but one more step in a cruel and elaborate dance choreographed by Faron. She fled from the scene in the music room after one agonizing look.

  “I take it you have had quite an eyeful, Miss Woolcott,” said Beaumarchais, his fine features filled with obvious concern. Julia was barely aware of his hand on her arm, leading her through the narrow hallway, down a flight of stairs, and into the main hall of Eccles House where the mammoth chandeliers blazed in all their ostentatious glory.

  Julia wanted to run. She wanted to hide. But she would do neither—finally. Still oblivious to the hand on her arm, she fought through the fog of pain lancing her side, where her heart pulsed for Strathmore. It was enough, she told herself, finally enough. The word infused her limbs with a fury and determination to be done with the mad world into which Montagu Faron and Alexander Strathmore had plunged her.

  “I’m hardly surprised, my dear,” said Beaumarchais at her side unaware that she was scarcely listening. “He is obviously a bounder, what we in French call un bete, a beast, with none of the breeding or politesse expected from a man of a certain rank and station. Not that one does not deserve diversions.” He continued unabated, leading her into the drawing room off the main hall. “However, I can understand that you have had an upset, all the more reason I should be pleased to offer you a sympathetic shoulder upon which you may exhaust your fit of pique.”