The footman vigorously shook his head. “Oh no, my lord. She ain’t either of those. She’s a countess. The Countess Carrington, her fancy little card said.”
Every hair lifted from the back of Sin’s neck. The title was familiar, but he couldn’t picture the lady’s face, and that was a warning in itself. “Tell me about her.”
“Beautiful blonde. Young, the old earl’s treat to himself. I know she’s been stuck in the country for years, only came to town when he permitted it and only allowed out for select occasions. Her uncle is an acquaintance of yours, though: the Duke of Waverly.”
“Ah,” he said, frowning as the connections fell into place. What the hell was Grace Lloyd-Gates, bishop’s daughter, dutiful wife, and excruciatingly virtuous widow doing at Fallen? Women like her usually refused to come within thirty feet of the building, unless of course they were waving placards. Perhaps she was here on a dare? Surely she couldn’t be seeking membership.
Could she?
…
Unable to sit still for a minute, Grace circled the elegantly furnished parlor. On another occasion, another address, she might have curled up on the overstuffed chaise and gazed for hours at the exquisite paintings on the walls, or perhaps ran her fingers over the keys of the polished pianoforte.
Not today.
Today, her stomach was in knots, perspiration misted her skin, and only through some sort of miracle had her feet obeyed the command to walk up to Fallen’s front door. It was one thing to ponder solutions, but being here at the entirely unfashionable hour of ten o’clock in the morning to begin the boldest, riskiest, most ill-thought out plan of her life, was something else entirely.
“Lady Carrington. My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting.”
The rich, deep voice nearly made her jump a foot in the air, but straightening her shoulders, Grace turned in a swirl of lavender-striped skirts.
And nearly swooned.
It was him. The lord they called Sin was the same man she’d fantasized over since that long ago day in Hyde Park, and if anything, he was even more divine up close. Short-cropped chocolate brown hair, exotic amber eyes, strong, square jaw, perhaps a touch under six feet in height, but so broad in the shoulders he appeared much bigger. Under that shirt, trousers, and crisp cravat she would wager he was sculpted muscle all over.
“Good morning, Lord St. John,” she replied quickly, trying to gather her scattered thoughts while ignoring her hardening nipples and an unfamiliar throbbing between her legs. “Thank you for seeing me at this hour and on such short notice. I know it is most, ah, irregular.”
One eyebrow arched, but there was an unexpected kindness in his crooked grin. “I must admit, my lady, you are not someone I ever thought to welcome through Fallen’s doors. Is there something I can assist you with?”
“Yes,” she blurted, but the rest of her carefully rehearsed speech dried up, and she wanted to scream in frustration. This devastating man would hardly be inclined to assist a stranger behaving like a gormless twit.
“And that is?” he prompted.
Feeling a blush storm across her cheeks, Grace swallowed hard. “Forgive my hesitancy. It is a most delicate matter.”
“Are you in trouble? Is your late husband’s family causing you grief?”
“No. Nothing like that. It’s my father. He…he has contracted me a second marriage to a most unsuitable man and I simply cannot do it.”
The baron tilted his head, his expression curious. “Did you come here seeking an alternative husband, Countess? Because I have no desire whatsoever to marry, despite your obvious charms.”
“No! Ah, no, my lord…” Grace broke off, and took a long, deep breath. Courage, girl. “What I would like, is for you to partially ruin me.”
“Partially ruin you?” he said, amusement returning as he settled onto the nearby chaise, one booted foot resting casually across the other. “My dear lady, while you are absolutely in the right city and the right club for ruination, I’m not sure I understand the partially part.”
“Oh dear, that did sound odd, didn’t it? What I meant was, creating a mild scandal with, no offense intended, the most notorious rake in London, believable enough for my new fiancé to be so horrified he cries off and leaves me in peace.”
“Countess—”
“Please, do call me Grace,” she said, daring to take a few steps closer.
“Very well, Grace. You realize this plan has numerous glaring flaws? If this fellow is a man with any sort of sense, he wouldn’t give you up for anything. Not even a, er, mild scandal with…come on, I’m only about fourth or fifth on London’s notorious rake list…hmmm, perhaps third. But you’re a widow, with a widow’s experience and needs, not a silly chit fresh out of the schoolroom.”
“The gentleman in question is Lord Baxter.”
Lord St. John’s lips tightened, and just for a moment something dark and dangerous swirled in his amber eyes. “Baxter?”
“You know him?”
“Indeed. A creature of the most stringent taste and morals, dedicated to cleansing society. That we could all be as purebred and without taint as him.”
For the first time in days, true hope flared. “The wedding date is set for June first. I was permitted to come to town with just my maid-companion to have a new wardrobe measured. She is completely loyal and will make excuses for me if needed. And…and I can pay you! Here, take this, it is all I saved from my allowance,” she said, striding forward to drop a drawstring purse into his lap.
“Grace,” he said with a sigh, tossing the purse back to her. “Keep your pin money. If your mild scandal idea does work, we’ll discuss terms once your situation is settled. Besides, I have a weakness for beautiful damsels in distress, and ladies forced into situations they have no desire to be in angers me. Especially when said situation involves men with…a highly inflated sense of entitlement.”
She choked on a relieved sob. “Oh th-thank you. Thank you, thank y—”
“All right, pet, enough. Now, come and sit down and tell me exactly what you consider a mild scandal for partial ruination to include.”
Lord St. John’s tone was idle, yet those fascinating eyes were fixed on her with an unsettling directness, the kind of focus that implied he learned a person’s strengths and weaknesses, truth and falsehood, in a heartbeat. If she answered with anything less than absolute honesty, he would know, and probably change his mind.
Grace sank onto the chaise next to him and stared at her clasped hands. “I’m not sure. But I know it must be public. Perhaps kissing and touching at a ball or in a carriage?”
His lips twitched. “Kissing and touching. I see.”
“Is that so unexceptional here?” she said hotly, hating her own naïveté. “Do people walk around Mayfair wearing nothing but rouge and a smile nowadays? Are there lewd displays atop horseback on Rotten Row?”
“Restricted to Thursdays,” St. John said, nodding gravely. “And not so popular a pastime in the winter months. Embarrassing for certain gentlemen, you understand.”
“But never for you,” she replied, then clapped her hand over her mouth. Where on earth had that comment come from?
He burst out laughing, a delightfully warm and hearty sound that spoke of humor regularly indulged. “Thank you, but saddle chafing and windburn are rather off-putting. I must admit to a definite preference for indoor fucking. Beds, desks, window seats, walls, chaises…”
Like this one? Grace’s cheeks heated to boiling point. “I’ve only known the marriage bed. And that taught me relations between a man and woman meant enduring pain in darkness twice a week. But I’m sure there is so much more. There must be. My maid tells me women flock to you quite willing to risk all, so I imagine you offer a far different experience.”
“Christ, Grace,” he said, all humor vanishing as he took an audible breath. “Look at me.”
“I can’t.”
“I said look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she lifted her h
ead. His gaze was sympathetic, but barely leashed heat burned as well, making her gown feel far too tight. Seconds later, a rough, slightly callused fingertip dragged a tingling path of fire across her lower lip, then darted down to caress her collarbone and the lace-edged bodice of her gown.
Grace’s nipples hardened further and she shivered. It should be embarrassing, how fast a brief, expert caress from a near-stranger aroused her, but all she could think of was offering anything he wanted to continue, mild scandal be damned. “My lord, please, I—”
“Lovers should be on a first name basis, even temporary, fake ones. Call me Sin.”
“I am very grateful for your assistance.”
He shrugged. “Well, it is a most intriguing challenge, devising a deliberate yet mild scandal for partial ruination. But in the interests of science and justice, I shall ponder some options. Regrettably I have a series of meetings today, but be here tomorrow morning at eleven, and do not be late. Tardiness results in penalties.”
Grace nodded quickly, desire and relief and uncertainty coiling tightly within her.
The betrothal-ending mission had begun.
Chapter Two
Baxter. Goddamned fucking Baxter.
The hated name had pounded his mind all damned night, and not even a particularly bright and sunny morning could improve his temper.
Unclenching his fists, Sin let his gaze travel the length and breadth of his private parlor. He willed the soothing combination of pale blue silk walls, white velvet chaises, and gold trim to calm his senses. The thought of that monstrous sack of shit near any woman made him want to vomit, but for some reason the feeling in regard to Grace was doubled. Carrington hadn’t quite smothered the spirit from his trophy spouse—some very intriguing glimpses of minx and unawakened desire had shone through yesterday—but Baxter would be the death of her.
As he’d been the death of Sara.
The fucking useless authorities had ruled it accidental, saying Baxter’s poor, unlucky fiancé had been running to greet him, tumbled down some steps, and suffered a fatal head knock. As if steps left faded cane welts across backs and legs. As if smitten young ladies delirious with happiness often sent tear-stained notes to their childhood playmate, begging for help to stop the wedding. He’d been hours too late to rescue Sara. But that would never happen again.
Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
Flexing his fingers, Sin sat down at his treasured pianoforte. This particular instrument had belonged to his mother, and even now, he could hear her groan as he deliberately butchered one masterpiece after another in the hope she might excuse him to go fishing. It never worked. She would give him that reproving look, and say “Seb, my baby, the good Lord gave you a gift that cannot be wasted, so the sooner you master the tune, the sooner you can escape.” Then he’d play the entire stack of music sheets without a single error and she would clasp her hands and sway in time, that sunshine smile on her face…
“What a beautiful piece. And you know it by heart, too.”
His head shot up to see Grace standing awkwardly on the other side of the room, her reticule clutched tightly in her fingers. Fuck, she was beautiful. Not even the slate-gray gown of half-mourning she wore hid her curves, or dulled the golden curls piled atop her head and the sapphire blue of her eyes. If he had any say in the matter, Baxter would call Grace his wife when hell froze over.
“Good morning, sweetheart. Welcome to my parlor.”
“Your butler let me in and escorted me here. I hope that is all right, I wasn’t going to argue with someone the size of a cathedral and the look of an executioner.”
Sin laughed, his fingers continuing to caress the keys of their own accord. “Diaz is a kitten until the moment of threat, at which point he turns into a starving tiger. Quite remarkable to watch. But unlike tigers, I promise not to bite if you come over here and join me.”
She ambled forward. “What if I asked nicely?”
“Well, well, I was right. My lady does have some minx about her.”
“You know next to nothing about me, my lord, except my uncle’s title, my father’s occupation, and the name of my late husband.”
“Touché,” he said mock-contritely, the pertness of her tone causing his cock to stir. “But you still aren’t seated.”
Grace eventually perched on the wide, cushioned bench beside him. “There. Happy now?”
Time to discover the true mettle of the lady. “Of course. Although my joy would be exponentially greater if you were spread naked across the lid. With a muse such as you, I’m sure I could do more than play music.”
She gasped, but a spark of something remarkably like curiosity in her eyes said it was a habitual response rather than true outrage. “Do you think about nakedness all the time?” she said eventually, sternly.
“The governess tone from the lady who spoke of Mayfair nudity and saddle fucking yesterday? I’m disappointed. And in answer to the question, not all the time. When I am in meetings with bankers, lawyers, and Fallen’s co-owners, or any time I speak to the Prince Regent, nakedness is about the last thing on my mind.”
Grace bit her lip. Hard. “Well. Um…”
Hell, but her lower lip was plump and pink. Her nipples and clit would probably be the same color. Had she ever orgasmed? He got the feeling she wasn’t a lady who indulged in self-pleasure, so possibly not. God. Would her first climax be with a sigh? A prolonged moan? A scream of delight?
Shaking his head to clear his mind before his erection became too blatant, Sin gave her a thoughtful look. “Why did you maul that beautiful lower lip rather than laugh? You wanted to.”
“Oh, did I?”
He nudged her with his shoulder. “You know you did. And it’s all right, I am amusing. People tell me all the time. Often in the guise of ‘one more word and I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the chickens,’ but I know what they mean.”
Grace quivered, a sound escaping before she pressed her knuckles to her mouth. “N-not funny.”
“You’re right. And we really do need a new topic of conversation before I start imagining a naked Prinny rooster flapping around Mayfair and squawking at the shortage of truly high class tongues.”
She laughed. Not a delicate snort or ladylike titter, but a full-blooded laugh that made her eyes glow like night stars, and her ample breasts bob. He wanted her spread across a bed, a desk, a chaise, anything really, just so he could feast on her swollen nipples and wet cunt, bury his cock inside her, and hear that delight as ecstasy instead. For she would be a screamer, once that criminally repressed passion was unleashed, that couldn’t be more goddamned obvious.
Fuck.
Not for you. Mild scandal. Baxter.
With those sobering thoughts in mind, he got up from the pianoforte so fast he nearly tipped the bench over.
“Sin? Is something wrong?”
“Not at all, pet,” he replied, wanting to kick himself for the less than smooth maneuver. Even now he could see uncertainty replacing the laughter on her exquisite face as she withdrew back into herself. “Damned bench was starting to give me splinters, that’s all. Why don’t we retreat to the chaise over there and talk further about this mild scandal? Much more comfortable. I should know, since I’ve fallen asleep on the thing a few times.”
“Very well,” Grace said slowly, rising from the bench. She didn’t touch him as she strolled by, not even with an inch of gown fabric, but the scent of rose soap, light and clean rather than a heavy, cloying cloud of perfume most ladies wore, teased his nose. All at once he wanted to unfasten her chignon and run his fingers through her blond curls to release more of the fragrance, lick every inch of her creamy skin to see how it tasted in different places.
What the fuck was wrong with him?
Sure, she was beautiful, but he knew hundreds of beautiful women, all infinitely more experienced and available.
He needed to pull himself together.
Fast.
…
She’d never felt s
o off-balance.
Forcing herself to move as though she was cool and calm, Grace made her way over to the chaise and sat down.
The more they had spoken on the pianoforte bench, the more comfortable she’d felt with Sin. When he started teasing her, her long-suppressed sense of the absurd positively twirled with glee. That the truly delicious man of countless daydreams was also able to make her laugh, well, she’d been about ready to climb onto his lap and beg him to let her stay. And for a moment he’d looked at her with such hunger, too, like he wanted to tear off her gown and do unspeakably good things to her body.
Then he’d backed away. No, not backed away, the third most infamous rake in London had practically flung himself across the room.
“So,” said Sin, dropping onto the other end of the chaise and resting his arm along the back, ensuring several feet remained between them. “Let us speak of mild scandals.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Am I truly that odious?”
“Excuse me?” he replied, shooting her an arrested glance.
“Any farther away and you’d be perched on the armrest. Although I imagine Lord Baxter would approve.”
Sin tilted his head, eyes glinting. “A mild scandal, you told me. I am merely practicing.”
“Ha!”
“Such a tone, Lady Carrington. One might begin to think you were reconsidering the mild part. Now. To the task at hand. How should you like it to play out?”
“A kiss,” she said, irritable at her own transparency when she’d been able to mask herself so well in the past. “In public. Like in a phaeton, or while strolling in a park or perhaps in a box at the theater.”
“All right. What kind of kiss?”
An incredulous laugh escaped. “You are asking me about kissing?”
He didn’t smile. “Yes. There are many types, pet. Chaste kisses. Ones of friendship. Relief. A teasing kiss, nothing more than a vague promise. Then new desire, clumsy and hungry but still with the edge of non-consummation. And finally the raw carnality of lovers. What do you want Baxter to believe?”
Grace stared at Sin, mouth dry and heart pounding. Nell had been right. This was a man who knew every nuance of pleasure, utterly at ease with his knowledge and expertise. “I…I’m not sure.”
Surrender to Sin (Fallen) Page 2
