Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  Her soft hands brushed his palms as she placed the infant’s swaddled bottom in his hand, then she pressed her bundle to his chest and arranged his other hand to cradle the head. The lingering scent of curdled milk hit his nose. But no matter how stinky the little one got, the women didn’t seem to mind.

  He’d held his nephew only twice before, and he felt as though he was juggling a priceless vase, but he knew what Cerise meant. Gingerly, he cupped the back of the baby’s head and held the warm body to his shoulder.

  “Move him for a moment. Let me drape a cloth over your shirt.”

  He lifted the baby and felt Cerise lay something on his shoulder. This time he cradled his nephew so he could rest his cheek against the small, oddly shaped head.

  “I wish I could see him.” He winced at the raw yearning in his voice. He bloody well couldn’t, and he had to learn to accept it. But this miracle in his hands felt so strange, and touch and smell weren’t enough. They would never be enough.

  “The shape of his head is changing,” she said.

  He felt the top of the head, still tender and delicate. “Not quite so much like a cone, is it?”

  “Not anymore. He’s very tiny, but not the tiniest I’ve ever seen. He’s strong and healthy, and he loves his food.”

  Devon laughed at that. It was hard to speak with his heart so tight. He ruffled the fine, silky strands of hair that seemed to make a circlet around the baby’s head. Cerise’s fingers stroked there, too, gently touching his. He liked the contact. This felt strangely, inexplicably natural, exploring his burbling nephew with his mistress at his side. “It’s so hard to tell what he looks like by touching his face,” he said. “I can tell he has a tiny button of an upturned nose and Cupid’s-bow lips.” He stroked the upper lip, felt a new, puffy place, and frowned.

  “A sucking blister,” Cerise told him. “Very common.”

  Then a cry vibrated next to his ear. Cerise’s hand covered his on the baby’s back, and she guided him to rub and pat. “I think a belch is coming,” she warned. And it did—an amazing belch for such a small thing. Afterward, Devon’s back felt unusually warm.

  “His lunch came with it,” she said lightly. “Fortunately, the blanket on your back caught it all. Now he may settle down to sleep. He’s enjoying the way you’re stroking him. His lids are closing.… He has lovely long eyelashes, just like yours.”

  He felt the rise and fall of the tiny baby’s steady breaths pushing against him in a gentle rhythm. It was so soothing, it was putting Devon to sleep.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, Your—Devon.” Cerise led him to the chair. And as he sat, listening to the little one sleeping, he knew what he hungered to do. Nestle his nephew into the cradle and make love to Cerise. With his sister in the house, he hadn’t done it for days.

  But he wasn’t certain if he would disturb the warm bundle slumped on his chest if he got up. He heard footsteps moving away from him. “Don’t go,” he said abruptly. “I need you.”

  “I’ve given the maids a break to go for tea, so I thought I would change the baby’s bed.”

  He’d never imagined sitting in a nursery, holding a child. And right now, as much as he wanted to make love to Cerise, he knew he had to wait while she changed the bed. It was so astoundingly domestic for him that he laughed. “The truth: I don’t know what I would have done without you, love. That’s what I learned when you left for the Black Swan. I need you. Come here.”

  He could sense her at his side. “Bend down, angel.” He kissed her, tasting her full lips. “You, love, are like no mistress I’ve had before.”

  “Oh, dear,” she whispered. “I know I don’t behave as a proper mistress should. I shouldn’t be changing blankets—”

  “I think it’s charming, the way you tend to everything.” Her anxious tones had touched his heart. She definitely was like no lover he’d ever had. Most of them were concerned only about what he could give them. “And you are taking care of my little nephew the way you took care of me. You are more special to me than any mistress I’ve ever had before.”

  She stood, utterly silent. The sounds of crunching gravel and churning hooves broke the quiet.

  “A carriage,” Cerise said swiftly.

  He wasn’t mistaking the trace of fear he heard behind her crisp tones. Cradling his nephew to his shoulder, he rose. He began to feel his way, taking slow steps to cross the room, but Cerise stopped him. “I will look.” And within a moment she described the carriage below, the four black horses, and the tall golden-haired gentleman who jumped down from the vehicle.

  “That must be Cavendish,” Devon said. “My sister’s husband.”

  A hand gripped his forearm. “You are not planning to fight with him, are you? Not after your sister has just had the baby. You wouldn’t dare call him out.”

  “That, angel, is not for you to decide.” But what in hell was he going to do? Cavendish had broken his sister’s heart. How did he forgive that?

  His voice had been sharp, hard, and enough to disturb the baby’s sleep. His nephew strained off his shoulder, away from the fresh blanket Cerise had laid on it, and cried. The plaintive sound was like nails driven into his nerves. He had to control his instinctive tension, the tightening of his hands, his urge to fight. He was holding a baby.

  “You must not fight,” Cerise declared. She could command his servants and rearrange his house, but she had no right to dictate how he should protect his sister. Then she plucked his nephew from his arms, startling him. Making him understand she feared his rage. “What are you going to do?”

  He tried to stop his bristling anger. She was right: It wouldn’t make Caro happy if he shot her husband, or even if he beat the bastard to a pulp. It wouldn’t endear his nephew to him in the future. But he itched to take action, to make Cavendish pay. To teach him he had better behave himself with Caro. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  “Where in the blue blazes is my wife?”

  From the shadowed foyer, through the open doors of the house, Anne saw the Earl of Cavendish storm toward Devon, who strode out to greet his brother-in-law, with his walking stick and a footman for a guide.

  Tall, powerfully built, with thick golden hair, the earl glowered with fury, looking exactly like an avenging angel. Anne rocked the baby, keeping him quiet, amazed at the cool, controlled way Devon stepped forward and warned, “You will not see her unless you calm down. Caro has just had the baby, and she is recovering—”

  “The baby! She’s had my child and I didn’t know.”

  Anne could see the earl’s shock and anguish; Devon must have heard it. He moved to his brother-in-law, slung his arm across the man’s shoulders. She was startled by the forgiveness in the gesture, and she sagged in relief. But the earl pushed his arm away. “March, why didn’t you send her home the instant she got here?”

  “Why didn’t you pursue her at once?”

  The blond earl yanked off his beaver hat and raked his hand through his hair. “Damnation, I tried. I assumed she had gone to March House. But there I learned she’d left without telling anyone where she was going. We assumed she went to a friend. No one thought she would come to you. I wouldn’t have known but for receiving a letter. I was sick with worry about her. And having wasted time chasing her, I’ve missed the birth of my child.”

  “You would have spent the birth process in the taproom with me, drinking away worries—”

  The earl went white. “Worries? Did something go wrong? Is that why she’s in her bed?”

  “No. I was told the birth was swift and relatively easy. Caro was marvelous and strong. Cavendish, come and see your son.”

  Anne retreated from the door, then hurried upstairs with the earl’s son. She found Lady Cavendish just waking and struggling to sit up. She gave a beaming smile at the sight of her son.

  “Here he is,” Anne said. “Still sleeping, but I expect he will wake soon and want his dinner.” She tucked the lad in his mother’s arms while a maid placed pillows behind t
he countess’s back. Even rising from very little sleep, the countess looked lovely, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder, her violet eyes gleaming with delight as she stroked her sleeping child.

  Anne got down onto one knee at her side. “Your Ladyship—”

  “After all we’ve shared now, Cerise, I think you must call me Caro. You’ve seen me perspiring, grunting, and shouting in labor.”

  The gesture of acceptance touched Anne. “Your husband has come. Devon is bringing him.”

  “Oh, no.” Color drained. The violet eyes went huge. “Oh! Oh, my God. What am I to do? I don’t want to see him! He’ll be furious.”

  “I don’t think so. I think he will be delighted to see you.”

  A shaky hand fumbled to push back a wayward curl. “I look a fright—”

  “You look beautiful,” Anne said firmly. She faced her new friend. “You must see him and you must speak to him. You both have a newborn son, a child who deserves a happy family and will feel much safer if he senses his parents are in love. Devon told me you made a love match. Surely you can talk to each other and make things right.”

  She knew she had just overstepped the bounds of a new friendship. To Anne’s surprise, Caro nodded as she cradled her son to her breasts. Little fists waved with hope. “All right. I will speak to him. He can come and see his son.”

  Anne planned to leave after she gave Caro’s message to Devon. This was a family matter, after all. But he insisted she come with him and Cavendish to his sister’s room. Once there, the earl and countess stared blankly at each other. The earl said, “That’s our son?” His wife answered only, “Yes.” They looked as awkward as young lovers pretending not to be nervous over a first kiss.

  The baby must have sensed the tension, for he kept coming off the breast—Caro wore a lacy blanket for modesty in the feeding. He cried, and the countess could not coax him to stay on.

  Finally Anne risked everything—Devon’s anger, losing the countess’s friendship, being tossed out. “Lord Cavendish, Caro came here because she is unhappy. She believes you have fallen out of love with her. I don’t know what you have done, but you have given her reason to believe you’ve strayed. You two must talk to each other! You are brand-new parents. And, as you can see, your son senses unhappiness.” She hoped that was a trump card, but she felt regret when Cavendish stared in shock at his baby and Caro clapped her hand to her mouth.

  “Is this true?” the earl asked slowly. “You are unhappy? You … left me?”

  “You didn’t want me,” Caro answered, a blush washing over her cheeks.

  “How could you think that?”

  “How could I not? Harriet made it very clear how intimate you had become with her. She told Lady Fenwick about your bed play with her when she knew I was in earshot.”

  Cavendish blinked. “I’ve never touched her, Caro. Whatever she said, it was lies.”

  They spoke swiftly back and forth, Cavendish refuting and Caro looking increasingly upset and embarrassed. He dropped to both knees by her bedside. “Why didn’t you speak to me, Caro? Yes, Harriet pursued me. I told her to stop, I made it plain I wasn’t interested, but the woman would not listen. She was driving me mad. The more she chased me, the more irritated I became.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Caro cried. “I think I must have gone mad. I believed I’d lost your love—”

  “Never. I admit, I’ve been afraid to touch you for fear of hurting the baby. I admit the idea of fatherhood overwhelmed me. My own father was a coldhearted brute. I know I’ve been withdrawn, worrying about what kind of father I would be.”

  The little one had finally settled to feed. Anne impetuously handed a cloth to the earl, advising, “You will need a cloth, my lord.”

  Devon grinned. “Put it over your shoulder,” he advised. “For when your son is finished.”

  Then Anne and Devon retreated and quietly pulled the door closed.

  “Do you think my sister has learned not to leap to conclusions?” Devon asked.

  “I imagine so,” she whispered. “They are obviously very much in love.” Anne could not understand how Caro could not have seen the obvious—how much her husband loved her.

  Caro’s nervous voice sounded muffled through the door. “Do you forgive me? If I hadn’t run away, you would have been there for the birth—”

  “Devon tells me men are not allowed in the birthing room anyway. They stay by a brandy bottle and get drunk. Of course I’ve forgiven you. But I don’t intend to let you out of my sight from now on, my lovely wife. Have you named our son, my dear?”

  “I haven’t given him a name yet! Cerise and I spoke of it, and she urged me to wait until you came. She was quite certain you would come for me.”

  “That was Cerise? I suppose she was certain. She must have been the one who sent the letter, telling me where you were.”

  “I take it you were responsible for the letter sent to my brother-in-law?”

  As soon as Cavendish had uttered those words, Anne knew that Devon would confront her. She knew she had taken a great risk. Fortunately, it had worked. Had Cavendish not raced to his wife’s side, would there have been a happy ending for them? “Yes,” she said simply.

  Devon pushed open the library door. He wore no expression, and she had no idea what to expect. Was she to be punished? Every instinct warned her to expect his anger. A mistress did not meddle with her protector’s family. Anne was certain of that. Perhaps she’d finally pushed him far enough and he would let her go.

  With his walking stick, he made his way to the long table. He leaned on it, turning to her footsteps. “You didn’t tell me about it.”

  “I know. I’ve overstepped my bounds. Do you plan to punish me?”

  “An intriguing idea.” A slow grin lifted his lips. “But for what should I punish you, angel? Your plan worked. Apparently there is nothing like a baby to bring a man and wife together and make them have an honest discussion. I didn’t bring you here to punish you. I hoped you would read to me while my family is … busy.” He looked so boyishly hopeful, her heart fractured.

  “Of course I will!” And she would do it magnificently.

  “I have a special book in mind. It’s called The Mayfair Mansion. It’s up on the top shelf, at the end of the south wall, by the windows.”

  A brass ladder ran along a rail around the shelves, and Anne pushed it to the last column. Devon had followed the noise of the ladder, and he gripped the base as she climbed to the top. Running her finger along the books, she searched for the right one.

  Suddenly her skirts flew up from behind. “Devon—”

  He let her hems drop, but he held her hips. “Turn around to face me, angel. Carefully.”

  Heart pounding hard, she did. He looked so deliciously handsome with his head tipped up to her, his dark hair falling across his brow.

  “I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly for taking care of my sister while she was giving birth,” he said softly. “I have to thank you for helping set things right between her and Cavendish, for healing her broken heart, for helping them find their love again.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Save that thought. When I’ve finished thanking you, you can tell me if you thought it wasn’t necessary.”

  He lifted her skirts again, bunching them at her hips. She gasped as she saw her legs bared, her nether curls exposed. But Devon had locked the library door. There was nothing to fear. Except losing her balance as he embraced her thighs and gently kissed her curls. The ladder brought her quim to the level of his mouth.

  “Wh-what are you going to do?” she whispered.

  He flicked his tongue over her clit, and she trembled on the step. Then he moved back, looking, with his tousled hair and flashing eyes, like a pirate intent on ravishing her. “Guess.”

  His mouth touched her cunny once more, and he held her bottom to keep her pressed against his face. He devoured her, lavishly stroking his tongue over her most sensitive place. On the rung of the
ladder, her feet tingled and her legs quivered.

  Thank heaven he held her firmly. She trusted him. He wouldn’t let her fall.

  She ran her fingers through his hair as he nuzzled her nether lips. His tongue surged inside her, filling her with heat. “Devon, I might fall off the ladder when I come,” Anne said.

  Devon had to stop licking her to promise, “You won’t.” She was adorable. He’d never felt such intimacy with any lover before. Cerise was unique. All she had done was give to him, and, in truth, she’d asked for nothing in return but a safe haven. She touched his heart as no woman had done, except Rosalind. And he’d thought he would never let a woman into his heart again.

  But, hell, a man did not fall in love with his mistress. It was too damned awkward. He had to remember that. This was about sex. He couldn’t let it become more than that.

  He licked her, savoring her every moan. He felt safe in this, the trade of pleasure. She began arching to him, and he held her tight, determined to keep her safe on the ladder but let her go mad with ecstasy. He had to admit he loved tasting her, making her come.

  “I want you inside,” she begged huskily.

  But he intended to make her come first. He wanted to treasure her orgasm without being distracted by his own. So he nuzzled, nibbled, and drenched her plump, hard clit with his tongue. She tasted of sin and passion, more intoxicating than brandy could ever be. She rocked against him. Her hands tightened in his hair.

  Then she came with a deep, hoarse growl. Her quim ground against his mouth, her cries echoed off the shelves, and he held her tight to keep her from falling. He knew when she finished by her gulping breaths. He lifted her off the ladder. “Grab the book now, love. I want to make love to you, but I would very much like you to read to me first.”

  As Cerise settled on a tall chair at his side, Devon heard pages flip and then her abrupt gasp of shock. “This isn’t a book I can read. It’s filled with erotic pictures!”