Soul of Sin (Scandalous Scions Book 2)

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Then she climbed the stairs to the first floor. There were three floors altogether, including the ground floor and not counting the attic floor where the servants were quartered. The main bedroom suites and guest rooms were on the first floor. The children’s dormitories were on the second floor.

  At the end of the wide passage on the first floor was the master suite, proclaimed by the twin doors with their gilt flourishes and white paint.

  Natasha opened the door and looked inside. The dresser by the window was wearing a white sheet. The massive four-poster bed with its Corinthian columns and curved canopy was too large for any yardage to cover. The mattress had been draped with a simple cover, one that could be washed.

  She had spent twenty years sleeping beside Seth in that bed. She had given birth to seven children here, too. The houses in London had changed over the years, but not this one. Even Harrow Hall in Ireland did not have the connection to Seth that this room did.

  Natasha gripped the door handle, until the filigree dug into her palm. Then, softly and slowly, she closed the door once more.

  Moving down the passage, crossing from side to side, she opened every bedroom door to look inside. Some of the rooms were spoken for. Cian and Neil and even Lilly had their rooms on this floor. They had graduated to the first floor from the dormitories when Natasha had considered them mature enough for their own rooms. This year, she would give one of the rooms to Daniel, too. He was fifteen and ready to become a man.

  Then there were the two suites that Annalies and Rhys, Elisa and Vaughn used when they stayed here. The remaining bedrooms were used by adult guests, including Elisa and Anna’s grown children. Natasha did not manage their assignments. Corcoran took care of that headache.

  At the far end of the passage, there was another small suite that was the last to be used for accommodations, because it had odd angles and strange nooks and crannies that made it difficult to fit useful furniture anywhere along the walls. Yet it had a view of the ocean and the southern sun played on the walls. Ivy grew up the outer wall and framed the windows.

  Natasha stepped inside, looking around. The bed was another antique, only the slender posts were white and it didn’t have a canopy. The walls of the room had also been painted white, which made the room bright and cheerful.

  There were three doors on the wall facing the bed. Two of them were storage rooms that could be used as wardrobes. The third door, the one closest to the window, had a lock and key. She turned the key and opened the door to reveal a narrow corridor. She passed through the corridor to an adjoining bedroom that was just as small and charming as the first.

  Natasha ran her hand over the carved footboard of the bed and looked out the west-facing window, down onto the orchard and pottager garden below. To the far left was the sea and the headland. Gulls circled over the headland, their white bodies almost shining in the afternoon sunlight. It was a highly domestic scene, that guests would consider inferior to the better view of the sea available in the other rooms. She liked it, though.

  Pleased, Natasha went out to the main passage once more and looked to her left. The door to the second bedroom was opposite this room’s door. Anyone who was not intimate with the layout of the house might not suspect they were connected.

  Polly, the oldest of Mr. Smith’s girls, climbed to the top of the stairs and looked around. “We’ve opened up the house, my lady. Should we take all the sheets and cloths off?”

  “No. Leave them for now.” Natasha indicated the room behind her. “I would like this suite dusted and cleaned and the bed made. Also, the adjoining room. That is all I need for now. The permanent staff will be here in a day or two and the whole house can be cleaned then. It is too large a task for just the three of you.”

  “Yes, my lady.” Polly dashed downstairs again, her boots clattering on the stairs.

  Natasha followed her down more slowly and went to find Mr. Smith to ask that he take her back to the train station to pick up her trunk and baggage. She glanced at the blue face of the ormolu clock on the buffet in the drawing room.

  As coincidence would have it, she would arrive at the station around the same time as the four o’clock train.

  * * * * *

  Natasha was checking to ensure the last of the baggage was squeezed onto Mr. Smith’s cart when the train clanked and hissed to a stop by the platform.

  Mr. Smith scratched his head as he looked at the pile in the little cart. “Perhaps we could leave one or two of them behind and arrange for them to be delivered later, my lady,” he suggested.

  “Why don’t you go ahead with all of them?” Natasha replied. “I will find one of the local hackneys and follow. When you have delivered the trunks, you and your family should go home for supper. Thanks to your wife’s sandwiches, I will be quite content by myself for the evening.”

  “As you will, my lady. A plank is no seat for a gentlewoman, anyway.” He climbed up onto the bench, picked up the reins and clicked his tongue to get the pony moving. It plodded off, the wheels of the cart groaning under the weight of the trunks.

  Natasha turned to survey the platform. The train would not return to London, for this was the last run for the day. It hissed steadily.

  There were few passengers left, who were clearly waiting for rides. One of them was tall, dark haired and broad-shouldered. He was holding a single bag.

  Natasha went up to him. “Lord Marblethorpe.”

  He turned, his gaze moving from her hems to her hair. Heat flickered in his eyes, then vanished. “Lady Innesford,” he said formally, for there were others nearby.

  “I was about to hire a hackney to return to the house. Would you care to share my ride?”

  “I have a room at the Rising Sun. I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

  “It is only a little out of the way and I would like to hear how your mother fares.”

  “Very well then.” He stepped aside and she moved past him and down the steps to the station road. There were two hacks standing by, anticipating possible fares. She moved up to the first. Raymond flipped a coin to the driver and passed up his bag. Then he opened the door for her.

  “Please tell him to take us directly to Innesford House,” she told Raymond and climbed into the coach.

  She heard Raymond murmur to the driver, then he stepped up inside and shut the door. He settled on the opposite seat and rested his gloved hands on his knees. His dark gaze met hers. “Well, I am here, as requested.”

  “Yes.”

  “The house, Natasha?” he asked softly. “Isn’t it still closed up?”

  “Yes.” She looked back at him steadily and saw his chest rise as he drew in a deep breath and let it out.

  “There are sandwiches and whatever we can scavenge from Cook’s pantry,” she continued. “I imagine there is brandy in the library, too, although it won’t be in a decanter.”

  “Bottles pour as readily as decanters.” He shrugged. “Can you manage without a maid? How long until Corcoran and the staff return?”

  “Corcoran will be here tomorrow afternoon, along with the rest of the staff.” She kept her gaze on his face. “You will have to help me with my things.”

  His eyes narrowed into the sleepy, heated expression she had seen most often just after he had kissed her. Her heart leapt.

  “Natasha…” He leaned forward.

  “No.” She shook her head and looked up at the roof of the coach, to where the driver would be sitting. If they spoke quietly enough, the driver could not hear them over the clack of the horse’s shoes on the cobbles and the jingle of the harness, A sudden shift of weight inside the coach would be noticed.

  He sat back with a tiny hiss of frustration and looked out the window at the rows of cottages as they passed by. His hand curled into a fist on his knee and stayed there.

  It was a silent journey back to the house, which lay five miles beyond Truro. As the miles rolled on, Natasha’s heart beat faster and faster. Even though she had laid awake at night plannin
g out this day and thought she had weighed up the risks, she still trembled at her own daring.

  Then she would look at Raymond. He watched her without cease, his eyes narrowed speculatively. Her heart and her belly would flutter. She would gauge the width of his shoulders under the jacket and imagine what lay beneath and her whole body would throb.

  It took forever to reach the house.

  Raymond handed her out of the carriage. Mr. Smith’s cart had gone. Natasha unlocked the house with the old iron key and held the door open. “Come in,” she told Raymond.

  He took off his hat. “This seems very strange,” he murmured. “I don’t think I have seen this house anything other than completely stuffed full of people.”

  Natasha’s trunks and baggage were sitting on the front hall tiles. Raymond gave them a startled glance, then dropped his own bag next to them. He walked through the hall into the big drawing room on the other side of the arch, with its magnificent view of the sea.

  Natasha took the two steps up to the drawing room. “We are completely alone here,” she told him.

  Raymond met her eyes.

  Natasha picked up her skirt once more. “I’ll show you where your room is.”

  He glanced out through the big French doors.

  Natasha knew what he was thinking. “The carriage house is not for you anymore,” she told him.

  He considered her. “Then perhaps you had better show me the way. It has been so long since I was upstairs here, I cannot recall where everything is.”

  They climbed up the stairs, Raymond keeping pace with her. At the top, he glanced to the left, along the corridor toward the white and gold doors. Natasha turned to the right and moved down the passage to the doors at the other end. She pointed to the one on the right. “This will be your room while you are here.”

  Raymond reached for the door.

  Natasha turned away and crossed the hall runner to the other door and opened it. She turned back to face Raymond. “This is my room,” she added.

  Raymond didn’t move. She knew he was waiting for her, waiting for a sign.

  She held out her hand.

  It had been her intention to take his hand and draw him into her room, only Raymond did not give her the opportunity to do that. He gripped her hand and pulled her up against him, his strong arm around her back. Her feet left the floor as his lips met hers. He carried her into the room. The door slammed behind him.

  Natasha ceased to care about externalities after that. Raymond was kissing her and she did not have to worry about who might see, who might hear, none of it. She could just enjoy his kiss and how it made her feel.

  He put her back on the floor but didn’t move away from her. Instead, he brushed a loose curl from her forehead then held her face in both hands. His gaze roved over her, as if he was memorizing the image.

  Then, with a groan, he kissed her again.

  Natasha could tell that Raymond had removed the brakes on his control. He was driving forward with all the pent up energy from weeks of kisses and careful circling. Now, all that was behind him.

  It felt as though he was trying to consume her. His arms were vises, crushing her to him.

  Natasha didn’t mind. If he had not been holding her, she wasn’t sure she would be able to stand properly. Her legs were trembling. All of her was shaking. For her, too, the brakes were off. There was only one end to this moment and she ached to reach it.

  With Raymond’s mouth on hers, his tongue teasing her lips and teeth, she reached up and pushed his coat off his shoulders. It fell with a muffled thump to the ground. Then the cravat. She worked it loose and threw it behind her. Her fingers felt clumsy and thick as she tried to undo the buttons on his waistcoat.

  He finally broke the kiss. “Let me,” he said. He worked the buttons swiftly, easing them undone, then shrugged out of the waistcoat. The shirt billowed around his waist and the weight of the collar pulled the opening apart, revealing his strong neck and a glimpse of his chest. There was no undershirt beneath and her heart thudded unevenly.

  Raymond turned away, pulling the cufflinks from the cuffs and dropping them on the window sill. Then, while still standing at the window, he pulled the shirt over his head and dropped it on the chair in the corner.

  His back was as broad as Natasha had suspected it to be. It arrowed down to a tight waist, under the trousers. His rear…it was high and hard beneath the wool. She swallowed.

  He turned to face her. Natasha took a breath as her gaze skittered over his chest. The low rise of the muscle at the top, the two flat brown nipples, which were as hard and tight as her own. His stomach wasn’t flat as she had thought a fit man’s stomach would be. It was ridged by muscles beneath the flesh, that moved as he did, making his stomach ripple… Natasha swallowed. The power and vitality those ridges implied made her heart flutter.

  She couldn’t help but drop her gaze down lower. The front of his trousers was tented, the fabric strained.

  Her heart leapt, ramming itself against her chest. Lust curled at the bottom of her belly, making her aware of the saddle of flesh between her legs.

  The reality of Raymond was far better than anything she had imagined. She had not suspected a man could look so…primal.

  He lifted a hand and pointed to her head. “Let down your hair for me.” His voice was harsh. Stressed.

  Natasha had fixed her hair earlier in the afternoon, on the train. She had learned from Annalies how to coil her hair on the back of her head in a way that required only two clips to hold it. She removed the clips now and shook her hair, letting the weight of her hair fall down her back.

  Raymond drew in a heavy, startled breath. His eyes closed. Then he opened them again.

  “What is wrong?” she asked, alarmed.

  “Not a thing,” he said. “In my imagination, I have seen you do that many times.” He smiled. “With your hair down, you look barely sixteen and ripe for plucking.”

  Natasha smiled, feeling a sense of wickedness slide over her. “I am not sixteen. I know far more than any sixteen-year-old girl possibly could and all of it will benefit you.”

  His jaw rippled. “Your jacket. Take it off.”

  She lifted her hands to the buttons. The overwhelming rush of pleasure had subsided a little and now she could manipulate the buttons quickly, as it was something she did every day. The jacket fell open, the heavy embellishments pulling it aside, revealing her corset cover and the top edge of her camisole.

  For a moment, she hesitated. She had never been undressed in front of any man but Seth. Only, the heated look in Raymond’s eyes encouraged her to continue. She would do anything to keep that look in his eyes. It was making her feel weak and feminine and desired.

  She pulled the jacket off and handed it to him. Raymond dropped it onto the chair next to him without looking. His gaze stayed on her.

  Natasha continued. She unbuttoned the camisole cover and gave him that, too. If anything, the heat and lust in his eyes intensified and she realized that disrobing in this way was arousing him. He was enjoying watching her take off her clothes.

  She reached behind her and unbuttoned the skirt. The gabardine loosened around her waist, but did not fall because the hoops and petticoats were holding it up. She tugged at the drawstrings and the bow unraveled. The petticoat and hoop dropped to the floor about her feet, the skirt on top of them.

  That left her in her corset and camisole, pantalets, stockings and shoes.

  Raymond drew in a breath. She could see he was fighting to stay still. There was a pulse beating at the base of his powerful neck, telling her he was not nearly as calm as he appeared.

  Natasha eased the hooks undone on the front of the corset, moving with practiced speed. She took it off and handed it over to Raymond, the stays hanging from it.

  He tossed it on to the chair. “The camisole buttons,” he said and his voice was so strained she barely recognized it.

  She raised her hands to the center of the camisole. Now her corset was r
emoved, the camisole was loose around her torso and the cotton rubbed against the sensitive tips of her breasts. The brush of the fabric was maddening. She ached for Raymond to touch them without the layer of camisole in the way.

  She untied the ribbon and slipped the tiny pearl buttons undone, moving down from the top.

  Raymond swallowed. She could see his throat work.

  She paused, with half the buttons loosened. “My turn,” she declared.

  He groaned. “No, I beg you. Continue.”

  She shook her head and stepped over the mound of skirt and petticoats and hoops, bent and swept them up, then carried them over to the chair and dumped them. She turned to Raymond. “Come here.”

  He took the small pace needed to bring him before her. The stiff congestion at the front of his trousers looked even more pronounced.

  Natasha could barely breathe with excitement. She eased the top button undone, then the next. Then a thought struck her and a little thrill of excitement speared her, making her nub throb with the promise of her idea. “You do it,” she told Raymond. “I want to watch.”

  “God help me,” he breathed. “This is torment.” He lifted his hands to the buttons and unfastened three of them, quickly. Then the next. The fabric separated and she could see soft flesh behind. Dark hair arrowed downwards. Natasha had not realized how exciting it was to glimpse something as simple as a man’s body hair in this way.

  He undid another button.

  Natasha licked her lips, wondering when the rest of him would appear and eager to see it.

  He groaned. “No. Enough,” he said, his voice ragged. He picked her up, startling her. His hands came under her bottom and he pulled her against him, forcing her knees to part around his hips. She could feel his thick, rigid shaft against the very center of her and a moan slipped from her lips. Dear God in heaven, he was hot and hard and felt wonderful against her. What would it feel like when his trousers were not in the way and her pantalets were gone? Except they were split in the center and with just a bit of wriggling, she could perhaps separate the edges…