Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1)

by Isobel Carr

  Ivo stared down at the fob. Friends and admirers, or lovers? He couldn’t help but wonder. She herself had said she never granted any man more than one night. That could mean only one of two things: either she’d spent a lot of lonely nights since her husband had died, or she’d taken half of London to her bed.

  He couldn’t help selfishly hoping it was the first, but he honestly didn’t care if it was the latter. It didn’t matter. None of her former lovers was ever going to enjoy her charms again.

  Ivo called frequently during the days leading up to the promised rout. Frustratingly, he never managed to get back into George’s bed. By week’s end, merely being admitted to her presence in no way satisfied him. Nor did it fulfil the tenets of their bargain. Being near her without being with her was slowly driving him mad.

  When he arrived for dinner the night of the rout he found George’s house near to overflowing. It might as well have been a fashionable gentlemen’s club. With callers constantly coming and going, it was impossible to get her alone for more than a moment, a fact which was fast beginning to irk him far more than George’s impish smile.

  Smythe led him up past the main salon to the smaller boudoir on the second floor. There was a small group already gathered there, including Bennett and several other men he’d met at the shooting party. George was seated in the middle of them, curls powdered to an outrageous pink, attired in a perfectly indecent gown of yellow topaz silk embellished with a great quantity of passementerie. The bodice was cut so low he was sure he could see the top of her areolas peeking out like the moon rising over a hill. He kept telling himself he was imagining it—must be imagining it—but, nonetheless, he couldn’t stop himself from staring. Almost couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and touching.

  Seated beside her was a lovely blonde who appeared to be about his own age. She perfectly suited his ideal of womanhood: she was stately and voluptuous, with just enough decorum in her dress to impress the world with a clear idea of her status. Her hair was threaded with a scarlet ribbon that matched the red brocade of her gown, surmounted by three enormous white ostrich plumes. She was introduced as Lady Morpeth. Ivo bowed over her hand with a schoolboy grin.

  When he straightened and released the countess’s hand, George said, ‘I’m sorry there isn’t more female companionship tonight, but frankly, I just don’t know all that many women who are willing to brave my house.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know very many men who are willing to share these four walls with their wives,’ Brimstone said with a smirk.

  ‘If some of you would just get married,’ Lady Morpeth chided, ‘Georgianna and I wouldn’t always be a circle of two.’

  Bennett jumped into the fray to assure Lady Morpeth that if only he could find a woman with half her beauty and a smidgen of her wit he’d marry her tomorrow.

  ‘Fustian,’ she responded, clearly flattered. ‘I don’t know how many simply wonderful girls I’ve thrown into your path, only to have them cry on my shoulder afterward.’

  ‘Girls, my dear Lady Morpeth. Girls,’ Brimstone said. ‘It’s damn distressing to be constantly forced to spend all one’s time with girls so fresh from the schoolroom that they’ve not a clue about the world. No conversation. No opinions. No wit. They’re children, and what’s worse, they’re boring.’

  ‘Boring?’ Lady Morpeth sounded put out and perturbed. ‘I assure you that Miss Franklin was not boring. She was very well informed and quite beautiful. But you didn’t take to her any better than the rest.’

  ‘Well informed?’ Bennett sputtered. ‘That girl, while extraordinarily pretty, is about as bright as my boot, and about as well informed as my six-year-old nephew.’

  Lady Morpeth smouldered visibly. Before she could respond, the door swung open and Smythe arrived to announce dinner, saving Bennett and Brimstone from her wrath.

  George went down to supper on Morpeth’s arm, leaving his wife to Ivo. On their way down the stairs, Lady Morpeth professed in a loud stage whisper that she possessed an addiction to faro.

  ‘Rupert knew I had gambling in my blood when he married me,’ she informed him. ‘So it’s a good thing I also have luck, or I’d have put us both in the basket by now.’

  From in front of them the earl called back to his wife, warning her to quit bragging. ‘It’s a better thing that you came with a fortune large enough that your losses at faro are of no concern.’

  Ivo laughed. George glanced back at him with a peculiar expression on her face. It wasn’t jealousy, but it was awfully close to possessiveness.

  Satisfaction and desire welled up, filled his chest, pushed out into his limbs.

  He had her.

  They travelled to the Devonshires’ in two carriages, the ladies riding in one with Lord Morpeth and Brimstone. Ivo crammed into the second with the rest of the men, elbows and knees pushing against each other. By the time they arrived, the hostess had already stopped personally receiving guests, but was easily spotted standing across the crowded ballroom, surrounded by her court of Whig grandees. The Morpeths stepped off to greet their hosts, and Brimstone quickly swept George out onto the dance floor to join in a riotous Scottish reel.

  Ivo found himself wandering about with Bennett and George’s brother-in-law, Viscount Layton. All three of them carefully avoided the circle of turbaned mothers accompanied by the remnants of past seasons’ debutantes. Every once in a while, he would catch a glimpse of George as she flitted by in the arms of yet another man. And each time he had to grit his teeth to keep from storming out into the sea of couples and tearing her away from whatever scoundrel she was with. Eventually Layton deserted them to flirt with a dashing young matron who’d caught his eye while Ivo and Bennett drifted out of the ballroom for a few rubbers of whist.

  When he re-emerged several hundred pounds the richer, he found George flirting with an elderly roué. The old man was dressed in the first stare of fashion. He was still ruggedly handsome, despite the lines of dissipation that marked his face. Jealously welled up in Ivo as the man patted George on the arm and she laughed at whatever sally he had just made, casting him a coquettish glance out of the corner of her eye.

  Ivo glared disapprovingly at the scene before him until George spotted him and beckoned him over.

  ‘Somercote,’ she called, attracting the attention of a large segment of the guests, some of whom tittered loudly as they watched the scene unfold, ‘come over here and meet my master of horse.’

  ‘Alençon,’ George’s elderly admirer ventured, languidly extending his hand, a fortune in lace cascading from his wrist, a large emerald ring adorning one finger. ‘Purveyor of ponies, and ardent admirer of anything and everything our George deigns to fancy.’

  Ivo smiled in spite of himself as he shook the ancient duke’s hand. He was behaving like an ass, jealous of men old enough to be her grandfather. The duke looked him over, sizing him up. Taking him in from the very expensive wig atop his head to the sapphire buckles on his black silk pumps.

  ‘Ivo Dauntry, Earl of Somercote. And I imagine you’ve quite a bit of competition there. All the world appears to admire Mrs Exley.’

  ‘Certainly the male half, anyway,’ the duke conceded. He sighed and touched his fingers lightly to George’s cheek. ‘Take this child out and dance with her, my lord. Don’t know what the world’s coming to when beauties like this are left to rot with old men like me. If I were thirty years younger—twenty even!—I’d not allow a one of you near her. It’d be pistols at dawn for sure.’

  ‘Flatterer,’ George remonstrated, standing on tiptoe to kiss the duke’s cheek before allowing Ivo to lead her out onto the floor.

  The musicians struck up a quadrille and Ivo led her through the intricate steps of the dance.

  ‘Are you having a good time?’ George asked innocuously, as the steps of the dance brought them together and their hands joined momentarily.

  ‘I am now.’ Ivo turned away, moving as the dance required.

  ‘Now who’s offering Spanish c
oin?’ she asked with a flirtatious twinkle.

  ‘Not I.’ Ivo caught the slightest hint of her perfume as they passed. The faint scent of jasmine resurrected a panoply of memories, furthering his enjoyment of the envy he saw on so many other men’s faces. They might imagine, but he knew. And he intended to keep it that way.

  ‘Did I mention that your dress is indecent?’ Dauntry smiled at her with as close to a saturnine expression as George had ever seen. ‘Alluring, charming, and incredibly indecent.’

  ‘No, you didn’t.’ George felt her smile growing even wider. ‘But I’m glad you approve.’

  Dauntry leered back at her. As the music ebbed, he maneuvered her off the dance floor and out one of the long open doors and onto the terrace.

  She tilted her head so she could see his expression, but made no protest as he led her down the marble stairs and out into the artfully lit formal garden. Other silent couples were slipping off into darkened corners, or returning, slightly rumpled, shaking out their skirts, shooting their cuffs, patting their hair back into place.

  Scandalous, really, the things that took place at balls. George bit her lip, concentrating on keeping her balance on the uneven gravel path. Pebbles rolled and slid, her heel skidded out from under her. She kept upright by clinging to Dauntry’s arm, hard and impossibly strong beneath the velvet sleeve of his coat.

  She was thoroughly intent on enjoying her own foray into impropriety. Events such as this really were more fun when one was flirting in earnest.

  Lord knew she’d never thought to become any man’s mistress…at least, not until now, not until Dauntry. Why he should prove different from the others she didn’t know. She’d thought about it long and hard, studied it from all angles, trying to pin it down, to categorize it. She hadn’t come to any conclusion at all.

  He simply was different.

  Along the far right wall of the garden they found a secluded bench, well screened by a bower of evergreens. Dauntry paused, blew out the lamp that had been hung just outside, and pulled her into the dark recess. His hand skimmed up her side, slipped easily into her bodice, lifted her breast enough to free the nipple.

  He cupped her bare breast and ran his thumb across the exposed skin. ‘Wearing powder, aren’t you?’ he whispered, close enough that his breath caressed her skin.

  ‘Yes—’

  He bit her ear. She gasped, unable to continue her sentence or even think.

  Her nipple budded against the warm centre of his palm as his fingers slid enticingly across her flesh. Her head fell back and she began to yield. After a week of flirtation she was almost surprised to finally be in his arms. Surprised and immensely grateful. If only they were somewhere more conducive to seduction than a garden.

  The sudden sound of feet coming down the gravel path and a high-pitched, feminine giggle broke them apart. Dauntry pushed her deeper into the arbour, blocking any view of her with his back and shoulders. When the merry couple’s footsteps had receded into the dark, he pulled back slightly. In the dark she could just make out the wicked grin he was wearing.

  A moment later he was straddling the marble bench that took up most of the space inside the arbour and she was straddling him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, searching for purchase. Her feet dangled alarmingly. One shoe slipped off as she tried to find the ground.

  ‘Eh-eh-eh,’ Dauntry chided, hands sliding from her waist to her hips, holding her immobile. He dipped his head and caught her nipple between his teeth, pulled on it, drew it into his mouth. Heat enveloped her. Pulsed through her. He sucked harder, rolling the flat of his tongue over the ruched tip of her breast. Bit down hard enough for her to feel all of his teeth, distinctly.

  ‘Stop it,’ she hissed. He was going to leave a bruise.

  He took his mouth away from her breast, leaving her nipple tender and damp. It tightened painfully as the cool night air rushed over it.

  ‘Ever made love at a ball?’ His hands moved down her thighs, swept her petticoats up and to the side with a loud rustle of silk. She shivered, unable to help herself.

  ‘Ever wanted a man so much you didn’t need kisses? Petting? Preparation?’

  She throbbed even as he spoke. Wanton. Hungry. Ready. ‘No…’

  His hands fumbled between them. He gripped her hips, lifted her, brought her back down so that the head of his cock rode the already slick folds of her sex, lodged at the entrance of her body.

  ‘No, you never have?’

  Her weight bore her down.

  ‘Or, no, you never will?’

  The thick head pushed in, parted her, and the shaft followed, filling her. Her hands locked on his shoulders, fingers digging in.

  He thrust up, the muscles of his thighs and back powerful enough to raise them both. She sank down another tantalizing inch, unable to control her descent. Unable to do anything but bite her lip and pray she didn’t cry out.

  His hands slid back around to grip her bottom, kidskin soft and warm against her skin. She tried to grip with her knees, to gain some small bit of control. He chuckled, low and evil, and leaned back, rocking her, drawing her down.

  The bullion trim and metallic embroidery that decorated his coat scraped the tender flesh of her inner thighs. The hilt of his dress sword dug coldly into the back of her leg.

  She arched as he hit the mouth of her womb, running painfully aground. ‘Not there,’ she gasped.

  ‘No, not there,’ Dauntry agreed, straightening, lifting her, bringing her back down at a different angle. ‘There.’

  Her body met his. He groaned, bringing his arms up and around her, wrapping his hands around the tops of her shoulders. Pulled down on her as he thrust up, entering her as fully as possible.

  George gave up trying to control the situation and began to rock in time with his shallow thrusts. She was close. So close. Her feet and hands were tingling. She couldn’t catch her breath. So close…She tucked her head to his shoulder to keep from screaming.

  Dauntry pulled her down hard and she felt the pulse of his climax deep inside her. His cock twitched. Once. Twice. And went still.

  She made an incoherent whimpering sound of protest. She’d been so close.

  ‘Didn’t finish?’

  He sounded pleased, the bastard.

  ‘You weren’t supposed to. That one was for me.’ He settled back, leaning away from her, his cock still hard inside her. ‘I’ve got all night to make it up to you.’ He kissed her breast and tugged at her bodice and stays until she slid decorously back inside them. ‘Promise.’

  She rocked forward, taking every last bit of him into her, wanting to bite him, slap him, punish him. Wanting him to keep his promise that very moment, not at some distant point in the future.

  ‘I’ll make our excuses,’ she said. ‘Meet me on the front steps.’ She kissed him softly, just a brief meeting of lips, then bit his full lower lip hard enough to make him wince. She let go feeling wicked, wanton, and oddly powerful.

  Dauntry lifted her off him and swung her to one side.

  She fished about in the dark for her shoe. Found it, shoved her foot back in. She took a moment to shake out her gown, straighten her bodice, and let the hammering of her heart subside, then she slipped out of the arbour and hurried up the path.

  My God.

  Gravel crunched underfoot, loud as cannons in her ears. Giggles erupted out of dark corners. Moans and gasps joined them in a decadent chorus.

  Dauntry had just tupped her in the gardens of Devonshire House and she’d enjoyed every moment of it, so much she half wished to turn about and ask him to do it again.

  The first notes of a country dance washed over her as she stepped onto the veranda, lively and playful. She smiled and glanced out into the seemingly deserted garden before hurrying inside to find her friends and make her excuses.

  It took several minutes for Ivo to bring his raging body back under control. He certainly couldn’t go anywhere in the condition he was in. He sat in the arbour, breathing deeply, mentally tallying th
e cost of dredging the pond at Ashcombe Park, until he’d calmed down enough to lose his erection.

  He stood and buttoned his breeches, smiling into the darkness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something so outrageous. So indulgent. So delightfully selfish. And she’d enjoyed it. Amazing.

  After smoothing the skirts of his coat, he hurried after George, slipping through the hall, skipping the ballroom entirely. He wasn’t about to force his way through the throng inside, or risk bumping into one of their friends. He had a promise to keep, and he meant to spend the rest of the night keeping it. Repeatedly.

  When he’d collected his coat and hat, he hurried down the steps to find George already waiting for him, her secret smile glinting in her eyes.

  ‘I’ve told Lady Morpeth that you’re escorting me home.’ She slid her arm through his and tugged him down the pavement towards her coach. ‘The boys are used to taking a hack home, or out to one of their clubs. They may have already left for all I know.’

  Ivo climbed into the carriage behind her. The footman shut the door and Ivo pulled George into his lap. Before they had even rolled away from the curb he had her tumbled back across his legs and the seat. He removed one glove with his teeth and sent his now naked hand questing up under her skirts.

  ‘Will your house be full as usual?’

  ‘Possibly…’

  She gasped as he slid a finger into her, ran his thumb over her still engorged clitoris.

  ‘The boys sometimes regroup there after a ball before setting off for their clubs or their mistresses’ beds.’

  He slid a second finger in and she began to pant and to rock, her body reaching for the release so recently denied her.

  ‘It’s not unusual for us all to end the evening with a drink.’

  She gasped and her legs began their tell-tale quiver.

  ‘But if I choose to have that drink in my boudoir rather than the drawing room, who’s to gainsay me?’