Engaged in Sin

by Sharon Page

  “Believe me, Anne, no one in Society will dare say a word against you—”

  “Devon, you have not bludgeoned any more men in Hyde Park, have you?”

  “No. They know better than to provoke me. When you are my wife, they will treat you with respect.”

  “Grudgingly. Venom will be behind the politeness, and that will find a way of coming out.”

  He stopped and turned her to face him. He was white-faced, the wind whipping his wet hair. “Anne, what does it matter what anyone thinks? I don’t care about your past, and I don’t give a damn what hypocritical society matrons think of it. I love you for who you are. For seven months I’ve watched in awe as you opened your school and worked to change the world. You are the most amazing woman I’ve ever known.” He ducked his head. “Or do you keep saying no because you don’t feel I’m good enough for you?”

  “Devon!”

  Hesitantly, he reached out. The bulge of her belly stood between them, and he rested his palm on the crest of the curve. “I want our child to be legitimate. I want to raise our baby with you. Let me have that, Anne. I promise to be a good husband and father. I know you want independence, but would you be willing to trust me and let me try to make you and our child happy?”

  Her heart broke. Of course she wanted to marry him, and he had come here in a mad dash and deserved honesty. “I want to say yes, but I’m so afraid—”

  Her stomach tightened so intensely, she couldn’t speak. She splayed her hand over her belly, just below his. She had to pant for breath. He held her elbow, keeping her up. A whoosh of water soaked her between her thighs. “Goodness! I was walking alone because … because the midwives in the stews always claimed that a baby might come if a woman was active. I was getting impatient! I think I did too good a job—my water just broke. The baby is coming!”

  The pains were coming quickly. Devon prayed the parson hadn’t left the sitting room.

  He’d had his servants bring the midwife and parson here, but Anne’s cottage was surprisingly rustic and sparse. Water had boiled earlier on the stove, and now he used the warm water to bathe her face. He stroked back her sweat-dampened hair. How could he ever have let her walk away from him?

  “I know what Society is like,” she whispered. “I hate it for the fact that it holds innocent victims to blame. I despise the ton for condemning girls who are ‘ruined’ simply because a man takes advantage of them. I know I will never fit in with Society. You are a duke. You need a wife who is clever, witty, admired by the ton—”

  She broke off. The pains were coming again. He pressed on her back as the midwife had instructed. “I want a wife who dazzles me every moment of the day—with her brilliant mind, her good heart, her sensuality, and her strength. The only woman who dazzles me is you, Anne.”

  “I don’t know if I have the strength to stare down gossip.” She flinched as the pain intensified. She arched against his hand. “I’m afraid that if I go back into Society, I’ll discover I don’t have any courage at all.”

  “You are the most courageous woman I’ve ever known, and I promise I will always be at your side. I’m not leaving now or ever.”

  “It’s true—you are at my side now.” Another pain came and forced Anne to stay quiet. Her breaths came in fierce puffs, and he coaxed her through it. That one had come without any rest between. The midwife had told them there would be a period of very fast, very intense pains, and then the real business of pushing the baby out would begin.

  Most peers would stay in the study and drink through their wife’s labor. Yet Devon was with her, soothing her, giving her courage. How could she keep him from being a true father to his child, just because she was afraid? She had been afraid in the brothel but determined to survive. She had been afraid when she’d discovered those poor innocents were being held prisoner, but she had rescued them. How could she be more afraid of the ton than of people like Madame and Mick Taylor?

  Was it because she truly was ashamed? Devon wasn’t. He told her he didn’t care. He knew all the worst things about her and loved her anyway. He had risked his life in battle. How could she not risk far less to give this wonderful man the family he wanted? How could she be so cowardly that she couldn’t accept love from this perfect man? “Oh, my God,” she cried. “I’ve been an idiot—”

  Another pain. Oh, God. Through a haze, she heard Devon tell her forcefully, “You have not, Anne. I understand why you are afraid. I wouldn’t go home or go out in public because I couldn’t see. I was happier hiding. I do understand. And I would never let you be hurt.”

  “Yes. I want to … to marry you. Yes!” Her words came out in a breathless jumble, but fear turned her heart to ice. “I’ve left it too late. It’s too late!”

  “Never,” he assured her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Her hair was stringy with sweat. Then Devon went to the bedroom door, pulled it open, and hauled a man inside. She goggled. It was Reverend White from the village. Shielding his eyes, the reverend let Devon drag him to the head of her bed.

  “We’re ready to say our vows,” Devon said, as though it was utterly normal to be wed in the middle of childbirth. “But you’ll understand, sir, we should make this hasty.”

  Blushing fiercely, Reverend White sputtered, “Indeed. Yes, Your Grace. Quite quickly.” He lay a book over his hand and clumsily flipped pages. Words began to flow over Anne. “We are gathered here,” the reverend began austerely. Anne couldn’t help it—she dissolved in giggles. Which stopped abruptly as she panted through a labor pain. When it eased, she saw both men peering at her, looking awkward.

  “Her full name is Anne Mariah Beddington,” Devon said.

  “Do you, Anne Mariah Beddington, take this man—”

  The rest was lost to another spasm in her womb, and she cried, “Yes. I do. Yes.”

  “Could we do this faster?” Devon asked.

  The poor man tried, though he stumbled hopelessly over Devon’s extensive name: Devon William George Stephen Audley. Then he got to the moment where the question was done, and Devon had to give his answer. “I do,” Devon said. “Nothing on heaven and earth will keep me from taking this woman as my wife.”

  “Then I now pronounce you man and wife,” the reverend concluded. “Now, as swiftly as I can, I will complete the marriage lines, and you will sign them.”

  As the man took a seat at Anne’s small writing desk, Devon brought the midwife back in. The woman hurried to her, lifted her skirts, and looked. “The head is beginning to crown.”

  Anne winced. “What a madwoman I was to leave this so dangerously close.”

  But Devon took her hand and kissed her. “It’s done now. You are my wife. You aren’t escaping me ever again.”

  The reverend returned with the marriage document. Devon signed it, then held it for her so she could. With a swift stroke of the pen, she became Devon’s wife.

  Anne had thought, with the head making an appearance, that the business would be swift. But apparently the head could recede again. The true work of labor had just begun. She pushed, breathed, screamed, and strained. She was dizzy with pain and exhaustion and worry. Surely it shouldn’t take this long. Not when the baby was so close. But no matter how hard she pushed, she seemed to get nowhere. At one horrible moment, the midwife told her to resist the urge to push. She tried, her body rebelling. With Devon holding her hand, speaking firmly but lovingly, she managed to do it. She understood why men had gone into battle for him. He had a way of making her believe she could do this.

  “All right, Miss—”

  “Actually,” Devon corrected the midwife in his elegant drawl, “Miss Beddington—I mean, Mrs. Audley—is my wife and is the Duchess of March.”

  “Duchess?” The woman blanched. “Goodness. Well, Your Grace, you must give a good push.” The midwife clasped Anne’s leg and pressed Anne’s foot to her hip. Anne gave a huge push, but the midwife coaxed her for more and more.

  Then Devon said, “Anne, there’s a head.”

  She
was too exhausted to say anything, but she laughed for joy.

  “Another push for the shoulder, Your Grace,” the midwife urged.

  After that, she felt a slippery sort of motion, then a cry filled the room. “Good and healthy,” the woman crooned in a triumphant tone.

  Anne felt triumphant, too, in a wash of joy that left her giddy.

  “A blanket, if you please, Your Grace,” the midwife said to Devon. Then she brought the bundle-wrapped infant to Anne.

  “Is he a boy or is she a girl?” Anne asked Devon, confused.

  He blinked. “I forgot to look.”

  She laughed, delirious with relief and happiness. “I thought dukes were anxious for sons.”

  “I’d love a daughter too. Though if she’s like her mother, I will have gray hair very soon.” Gently, he parted the blanket and they both peeked.

  “There, you are safe,” Anne giggled. “A boy.” Thank heaven, she’d found sense and courage and married Devon, so his son could be his heir. And, thank heaven, Devon had proved to be such a patient man, willing to wait for her. Willing to pursue her.

  The midwife cut the baby’s cord and tied it. Anne discovered the work was not quite done—she was ruthlessly massaged for many minutes until the afterbirth was dealt with. She had also forgotten the worry about bleeding, until the midwife gave a satisfied nod. “I think the bleeding is lessening. A very good sign. I believe all has gone well.” The gray-haired woman bustled to the side of the bed and helped Anne put baby to breast.

  “Oh, dear,” Anne said to Devon as she finally managed to get the little mouth to latch on. “I thought this would come naturally and happen with ease.”

  “It’s an adventure for us to explore together,” he said. “My darling wife.”

  Their son sucked and stared up with surprisingly wise eyes. He looked like a wizened old gentleman with wrinkled skin, a squashed head, and huge violet eyes. Eyes like Devon’s. A ring of dark hair ran around the back of his head. “What a journey you have had, little one,” Anne said softly. She looked to Devon. “Would you like to hold him?”

  “A dream come true,” he answered, a glorious smile on his lips. “Just as you are to me.”

  The poor man did not get the chance of a wedding night for four weeks. It worried Anne, but Devon did not seem to mind. He insisted she rest and recover, and he spent almost all his time with their son, whom they named William, for that was the name of both her father and Devon’s.

  Finally the night came when she was ready. Dressed in a gold peignoir, with her hair loose, Anne stood in front of her cheval mirror. Her hair had returned to its natural color and fell to her waist. She had changed in other ways too. Having William had made her plumper. Her breasts were large and generous. Just looking at their reflection seemed to spur them to fill with milk, and she winced. She pulled the satin away, prayed they wouldn’t leak.

  She stared at the connecting door to Devon’s room. They were staying at Eversleigh, one of his four estates. On a wedding night, did she go to his room or did he come to hers? She hadn’t thought to ask. She had pursued him so fiercely at the beginning of their relationship. Then he had pursued her, chasing her to London, then the moors, forcing her to stop hiding and to find happiness. This time, who should pursue whom?

  But one question worried her more: What did he want in a wife? She’d seduced him boldly to become his mistress, but should she now be demure in bed? Normally, dukes married untutored innocents. If she was wanton, would it remind him of her past?

  He’d said he didn’t care about her past. He’d told her he loved her. She knew he must. No man would go through all the hellish bother she’d put Devon through unless he loved her deeply. But she didn’t know what to do for her wedding night.…

  Gathering courage, she stalked to the connecting door, pulled it open. And walked right into Devon’s solid, robe-covered chest. They had met halfway.

  Grinning, he kissed her. But she was as stiff and awkward as she’d been at the beginning. He must have sensed it, for he drew back. Shivering, she admitted, “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make love to you … as your wife.”

  He wrapped his arms around her and drew her into his bedroom. “I want you to be you.”

  “But wives should be … proper.”

  He laughed. She frowned. She was on tenterhooks, and he chuckled. “I love your wanton sensuality, Anne,” he assured her. “There’s nothing wrong with it. It doesn’t prove you are sinful. There is no rule that states you must lie beneath me, stiff as a board and not enjoying yourself, because you are my wife.”

  She had to laugh too. He did make her fears sound … silly.

  “I love you, Duchess Anne. You bewitch me. And this is a partnership—in bed and out.”

  As though to prove his words, he carried her to his enormous bed and laid her upon it. He gracefully moved over her so his mouth was at her quim, his thighs were on either side of her head, and his erection was wobbling, upside down, before her eyes. She arched up and took him in her mouth. She loved the rich, earthy tang of his skin, the sensation of the shaft swelling and pulsing. Devon had to stop kissing her quim to moan deeply. Then together, as partners, they licked, suckled, nibbled, and drove each other to wild ecstasy.

  Anne wailed her climax and fell back to the bed, floating on a cloud of pleasure.

  “The perfect wedding night,” he murmured. He moved around so their mouths were in line and kissed her. She could taste her juices on his lips, knew he tasted his flavor on her mouth. He hardened almost instantly and slid inside her.

  “Mine,” he whispered against her lips. “Mine always.”

  “And you are mine,” she answered.

  He was every bit as naughty with her now as he was when she’d been his mistress. Gentlemen, it appeared, always liked their pleasures to be wicked. She climaxed over and over, until all she had to do was gasp when he was inside her and she came.

  Finally he collapsed over her, braced on his forearms. “You’ve drained me, angel.”

  She wrapped her arms around him, and they fell to the bed together. He groaned. “We might not make love again for another month. It might take me that long to regain my strength.”

  She was worried—until he laughed. He nibbled her ear, his breath a warm caress. She was snuggled in his arms, sleepy and content.

  He whispered, “Now that William is a month old, love, I want to take you to London. Before the ton leaves for the country for the summer, my mother is determined to hold a ball for us.”

  “London?” Panic gripped her. Suddenly she knew she still wanted to hide. But as Devon’s duchess, she couldn’t. She couldn’t avoid London forever. “I don’t want to disappoint your mother. Of course we will go.”

  He kissed her forehead. Then her nose, her lips, and each throbbing, aching nipple. “She always wanted me to marry for love, and she was right. I could never have been happy with anyone but you, Anne.”

  London meant facing scandal.

  Anne had feared one—she was so terrified Devon and his family would be hurt. Of course, their marriage caused shock, horror, and a tremendous furor. At every ball, rout, and musicale, matrons traded gossip behind fluttering fans. Devon was determined to charge through all of the whispered talk. He glared down everyone with icy ducal hauteur. He threatened men who gave her even an appraising look. He took William for strolls in the parks in a perambulator, which dukes simply did not do. Society was calling him the “mad, besotted duke.” He must be deeply hurt to be called mad, and it was all her fault.

  Tonight was to be his mother’s ball—the one that had been postponed when Devon came to the moors. The dowager duchess was hosting a grand event to introduce her daughter-in-law to Society. Anne felt as though she were about to face cannons and a charging army. She had accompanied Devon’s mother and Caro to the most fashionable modiste in London, and she wore a gleaming dress of ivy-green silk. Small emeralds adorned her hair.

  As she stepped out at the t
op of the stairs, Devon was waiting in the foyer. His eyes gleamed when he saw her. “You are beautiful,” he said softly. “And I made a good choice.”

  “In me?” she asked, confused.

  “Yes, and in these.” He drew a long, slim box from his pocket. Inside was a necklace of huge emeralds—a dozen of them, each the size of a robin’s egg. Devon lifted it, dropped the box, and stepped behind her. The stones were cool, heavy, dazzling against her skin. He fastened the clasp, then kissed the nape of her neck. Instantly, she was hot with desire.

  “Now, Anne, give me the chance to show the world what you mean to me.”

  She had no idea what he meant, but she tipped up her chin and walked with him to the ballroom. At his side, she greeted the two hundred guests. Then, with her hand in his, Devon led her out to dance. Couples whirled around in the waltz, which was considered a most scandalous dance. But Devon stopped. “I wanted to waltz with you. Unfortunately, that will have to wait.”

  “Wait?” she echoed. “For what?”

  Instead of taking her in his arms, he dropped to one knee before her. Other couples had to weave around him. Many came to an abrupt halt. At the edge of the onlookers, Anne spotted the dowager, and she had a very delighted gleam in her eye.

  Devon gazed up at her. “Anne, my love, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  The music halted with a screech. Every head craned toward them, because her husband was proposing to her. Again. She gazed helplessly at him, but his smile only widened.

  “Marry me all over again, my duchess. I love you, Anne. You are the most beautiful woman in the world. You have the kindest heart, the most generous nature, but more than that: You are my love. I asked you to marry me once before, but you refused me—”

  Fierce whispers washed over the crowd at that.