The Den of Iniquity

by Anabelle Bryant

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’ His words came out gruffer than he intended and he sought to explain. ‘It’s dangerous.’

  Vivienne looked him over with one narrow brow arched high as if to throw the words back at him. ‘Will you escort me then?’

  He expected her to challenge him, defend her perceived ability to maintain personal safety, yet she’d surprised him again and he gladly agreed.

  They walked in silence for a length, arriving near the end of the pier where a woman sat on the ground, several handfuls of wildflowers bundled in discarded daily sheets near her side. Sin chose one of the limp bouquets and signalled to Vivienne when she reached for coin in her reticule. ‘Allow me.’ He dropped a generous amount into the woman’s palm and with flowers in hand, they continued their stroll.

  ‘I enjoyed your visit to the Underworld.’ He slid his eyes to catch her reaction, her profile partially hidden from him by long wavy lengths of her hair. His first thought, that she didn’t belong in these surroundings, jarred his attention to observe who lurked nearby. His second thought, that she belonged beside him, displaced the first and he didn’t argue the silent conclusion.

  ‘I was fascinated and interested. I must confess I didn’t have the chance to take it all in.’ Her tone lamented the admission.

  The unsaid portion of the implication, that they’d spent their time kissing instead of observing the hell, stretched like a taut rope that anchored them together.

  ‘Let me take you there now.’

  She immediately turned, her eyes wide with a glint of private excitement.

  ‘The hell is closed and quiet, so you’ll be able to walk the floor and view the tables without the concern of societal censure or unsolicited groping.’

  She hesitated and he perceived her indecisive struggle.

  ‘I offer the best of both worlds. You can satisfy your curiosity with no worry of being criticized or, worse, providing fodder for the rags come morning.’

  Vivienne’s heartbeat pounded in her ears, her pulse in a mad race. The struggle to appear unaffected by Max’s companionship, attentive gallantry along the docks, and now his invitation for a private visit to the club, challenged her composure in every way imaginable. He was a man of unexpected contradictions, tall and powerful despite clenching a wilted bouquet of buttercups in his fist.

  He looked magnificent, his fine-cut suit stretched tight across broad shoulders, a charming gleam in his eyes. Shallow sunlight outlined his build, setting him apart from the poverty and hardship engulfing the area. In a long list she could catalogue every reason it would be wrong to accept his improper invitation. She knew better by way of her mother’s tutelage. Her stepfather would be appalled. But none of it mattered. Max flashed her a smile and revealed a grin of white even teeth. Wasn’t the cleft in his chin ammunition enough against her better sense?

  ‘Yes, I would like that.’ Her heart applauded the decision in a wild panic. She drew a shuddering breath and followed his lead as they pivoted on the walkway. With a sharp whistle he summoned a hackney, barked an address at the driver and before she could temper her invigoration, they disembarked the hired coach aside an elegant carriage, panelled in glossy black veneer and brass. The wheels stole the light as if newly painted and her reflection caught in the bold lantern fixed to the side.

  ‘Oh my.’ She didn’t say more. Max offered his hand, and she fitted her fingers into his, both ungloved, his skin warm, strong and rough. A shiver of anticipation winnowed through her, all at once reminding her of the sensual rub of his tongue against hers. When he’d touched her elbow earlier, she’d experienced a heated jolt of awareness, but this, skin to skin, was a world of difference.

  She settled on the velvet-covered bench and sought to gather her emotions. The fine carriage took to wheel, the crack of the driver’s whip cutting through the silence as he manoeuvred through the congested thoroughfare. Max remained on the opposite bench though his size, broad posture and muscled physique seemed to claim more than his given area.

  A sharp right turn caused her slipper to slide across the floor where it bumped against the tip of his boot. He viewed her from beneath half-lidded eyes, darker than the night, full of secrets, temptations and questions. Still, together they said nothing and the silence became another occupant, thick with prodding expectation and perhaps the lingering wonder of whether they both considered that incredible soul-searing kiss.

  Breaking the hold of his stare, she glanced to her hands folded neatly on her skirt. There was nothing wrong with her green day gown, modest and well suited for charity work. The celadon fabric was fashionable and cut in a flattering design, yet she wished she wore something more elegant to match the lush interior of Max’s carriage and, too, to complement his dashing good looks. Would that he saw her at her best in formal attire.

  She moved her perusal from his highly polished boots to his breeches stretched taut in definition of muscular thighs. His hands rested on his lap and as she followed the edge of his coat upward, she stalled at his neck where the collar of his white linen shirt lay open, exposing a vee of smooth skin. She licked her lips for want of what else to do with her impatience. He wore no cravat, absent of the white cloth that announced him a member of better society. She stifled an amused smile. She rather liked his arrogant confidence. It seemed fitting he wore his bastard birth with pride.

  And that itself deserved consideration. She possessed refined lineage, the stepdaughter of an earl, yet she’d never ridden in a conveyance as comfortable. The velvet benches were thickly padded, soft and roomy, and everywhere she flitted her eyes there existed brass detail or elaborate leather accessory, which marked the carriage as the most expensive quality. The inside of the door bore a small brass rectangle engraved with Sinclair’s initials just below the edge of the silk curtain where a wooden pocket held a silver flask. Yet for all her awe, the finest sight existed in the owner.

  He leaned against the upholstery now in a pose of casual masculinity, his legs stretched to the side, crossed at the ankles where his boot remained against the toe of her slipper. Somehow, while she epitomized propriety, he commanded respect by breathing, simply by being.

  ‘Your carriage is very fine.’ She stroked her fingers over the buffeted velvet on the bench and begged her nerves to calm.

  ‘One should always have the best whenever possible.’

  They hadn’t spoken for a time and his voice rumbled out, deep and lovely, sliding over her skin with evocative caress to cause a prickle of delightful gooseflesh. He reclined and she leaned, drawn forward ever slightly. She reminded herself daily to manage control, strive for a better collection of emotion, yet this man in front of her, confident and devilishly handsome, seemingly treated the world as his playground.

  However, it was the contradiction of these qualities that made the man an enigma. For all these observations, something vastly improper existed within Maxwell Sinclair. Not the jagged cut healing over his eye. Nor the too-long hair at his collar. Especially not the fact he was a bastard. More that he knew his place in the order of life, owned it and didn’t care a whit. That ownership allowed him a joyous freedom.

  He unfolded his legs, his knees even with hers and as if he’d expected the happening, the carriage bowed to the left and the rumble of wooden slats as they rolled over Westminster Bridge caused their bodies to tap in a trilogy of distinct touches. Her gaze transfixed to their knees. How large he was. She raised her eyes to his and discovered he watched with dark intensity.

  Wanting to break the strength of whatever it was that ricocheted between them, she opened her mouth to speak, but with no idea what to say, his lips curled into a cunning grin that told her indeed, he remembered their kiss and perhaps, invited her for another.

  ‘You visited my hell.’ He hooked a finger to move the privacy curtain and view the street outside. ‘You mentioned you had a concern and yet you left before sharing your request.’

  She recalled her words. You sai
d if I ever needed something. A tangle of questions fought to be heard, her emotions an internal upheaval. She was curious of the man, his gaming hell and in want of something she couldn’t name. Distraction? Empowerment? The ability to make her own choices and move beyond the past? Her visit had provided a palpable rush of invigoration and with that, she reclaimed a shred of happiness…experienced the sinful lure of his kiss.

  Lord, she could still feel the heat of his mouth when his tongue swept in to rub against hers. She shifted her position on the bench. ‘I don’t remember,’ she lied, her voice as fluttery as her emotions.

  Rescued by the jarring stop of the coach, he caught the latch and opened the door, quick to hop out and extend the steps for her convenience. Again his hand clasped hers, tight, the quick release once she’d managed the steps a disappointment.

  It may have approached noon but this section of Bond Street stood deserted and she hardly darted a glance left or right before he ushered her up the front steps to the very same place she’d left that foolish bouquet of daisies. He must have discarded the wildflowers during their journey though she hadn’t noticed, too distracted by her inner thoughts and his outer provocation.

  He retrieved a silver key from his breast pocket and with a gentle hand at the small of her back guided her through the threshold.

  A menacing growl met their entry.

  ‘Stay.’

  An affectionate rub behind the ears followed and the wolfhound settled with a single sharp bark beside the closed door.

  ‘Guard.’

  Max didn’t say more.

  With a slant of his head, he indicated a dimly lit area ahead. She had no time to admire the interior of rooms and angled hallways as they passed through the corridor and reached a stairwell, straight down to the hell. Again he unlocked the door and ushered her inside, the silence a companion as much as motivation to her eagerness. Once inside he walked the perimeter, tending a few lanterns as he passed, wall scones and the like, to lend light to the otherwise obscure lower level. She stood in wonder, her heart pounding an excited frantic beat. How alive she felt after being dormant, nearly dead alongside her mother, for so very long.

  The hell looked different now, absent of anxious gentlemen crowded around tables and bawdy women passing drinks and favours between hands of cards, the noise of the crowd and games almost an echo in the room. Like many things in life, how circumstances differed in the light of day.

  She glanced to her left, the weight of Max’s attention a force not to be ignored. Conscious of his observation she walked to the first table and ran her fingers over the worn felt. Stacks of chips lined one side of the gaming area, identical walls in colour and size, an army diligently in wait of play. This place offered a whole other world from everything she knew.

  ‘Whist.’ He spoke from behind, his voice meeting her ear and bringing with it a subtle shiver.

  ‘Thirteen tricks from a fifty-two card deck involving four players. Beware the ace, king, or other beguiling faces of the trump suit. While pretty, they will lead you to your demise.’ His tenor rumbled through her, alive beneath her skin. She wanted to capture it, keep it in a secret jar so she could hear whenever she wished, over and over again.

  ‘It sounds complicated.’ She turned, leaning on the edge of the table and offering him a half-smile where he stood several strides away. A taut silence settled and out of depth she moved on, this time stopping aside a round table with four padded stools. She waited. A glance over her shoulder caused her hair to fall forward against her cheek and she didn’t move it away despite it partially marring her view.

  ‘Faro. One deck of cards and limitless participants. The odds are generous for those who play smart.’

  She flipped the first card from the deck. A two of hearts stared back. ‘I doubt I’d be very good.’ She didn’t add why. Trusting her intuition was not a skill she’d mastered in twenty-three years. Similar tables cluttered the area and she moved across the floor until she reached the largest table in the corner. A pair of ivory dice lay on the felt and, unable to resist the temptation, she collected them in her palm. A rumble of laughter behind her assured he approved.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘Hazard.’ Yes, she was. Dammit, he needed to kiss her, taste those heart-shaped lips. His cock throbbed with the suggestion, hard since he handed her into the carriage an hour before. The force of his desire scrambled any logical thought. ‘One wrong roll and you’ll be worse off than a clock that tolls thirteen. A few lucky tosses and you’ll find your fortune.’

  ‘I shall try anyway.’

  Her voice dropped considerably. She didn’t turn and he didn’t mind. The act of shaking the dice and tossing them against the felt offered a perfect view of her hips outlined in soft skirts as she leaned over the table. His blood heated. Sitting across from her fetching body during the ride from Southwark proved torture. He’d memorized her every move, breathed her perfume and hardly stopped from scrounging the smallest touch like a green lad fresh out of the schoolroom.

  He couldn’t remember a time when he felt so compelled.

  He couldn’t remember a time when he harboured anything other than rage.

  ‘Seven.’ She sounded inordinately delighted, the dice motionless near a wall of stacked chips. ‘What have I won?’

  What do you want, Vivi?

  She hadn’t turned, enamoured with her clever roll of the dice, and he indulged in every nuance without her knowledge. Long obsidian ringlets fell forward to reveal the lithe line of her back, curve of waist and sweet round backside, all covered by that godawful restrictive gown. He intended to taste what lie beneath. She sensed the same carnal pull. He knew it without hesitation. Otherwise she wouldn’t be here now, alone, in his hell.

  The intense image of Vivienne bent over one of the tables, bared to him, skin to skin, as he drove hard into her heat, had him clenching his jaw so tight his teeth ached. He drew a controlled breath.

  Wisps of hair clung to the nape of her neck and his eyes settled there, refusing to move on. In a stride, he was behind her. His shadow on the table announced his approach but she didn’t move away and so they stood, the sensual pull of their closeness near overwhelming, his exhalation stirring the tendrils against her ear.

  She startled with the first touch of his mouth. Her tremble coursed through him, settling in his groin where the heated ache of desire throbbed with insistence. He slid her sleeve to the side, exposing the tender hollows of her collarbone, the lovely slope of her shoulder. Vivienne represented all he wasn’t. Purity, freshness, optimism. Bloody hell, she was the antithesis of everything he embodied; yet he couldn’t force his longing to abide.

  He shouldn’t ruin her.

  He would never hurt her.

  But he wanted her with a reckless yearning he didn’t recognize as his own. He controlled all things, not the other way around.

  She gave a shuddering breath as his mouth moved to the arch of her shoulder, and in turn he breathed her in, light florals and delicate skin. He needed more and slid his palms on either side of her ribs, his fingertips brushing the underside of her breasts. Again her breath caught, restricted by too many layers and not enough time. He could solve that problem.

  He spun her with swift purpose until they faced each other, adjusting his posture by spreading his legs to fit her between. Her bottom buffeted the table’s edge and steadied. The vibration toppled a stack of chips, which slid to rest at the top of the felt. They waited for several beats, his eyes fixed to her crystal green gaze, their foreheads nearly touching, their mouths all but matched.

  ‘Do it.’

  She whispered the ambivalent request, fraught with defiance and timid confidence but he needed no other encouragement, his body driven by a recklessness he could not command despite his honed authority. He slid his hands upward, coasted his thumbs over her nipples, hard and pebbled beneath layers of silk and muslin, and he groaned as she pressed into his caress. He passed over her
shoulders, framed her face and pulled her to his mouth, crashing down to taste and nip, their kiss all at once powered by unleashed desire. She opened for him and he thrust inside, the hollow of her mouth wet and delicious. He imagined the sweetness that waited were he to plunder another part of her, taste her there, his cock so hard now he feared he’d spill too quickly.

  He angled his hips against her and she stilled in his arms. Somehow he’d forgotten she possessed delicate propriety, his craving overbearing and blind to logic, but with the next breath she softened, fitted her pliant body to his and allowing the hard press of his groin to crush against her skirts in blatant invitation.

  Their tongues warred in a game of longing. Each flick and rub, every hot slide challenged and enticed. He hooked his hands beneath her arms and lifted her to the table, the unexpected jolt causing another tower of chips to tumble, the crisp sound a contrast to the heated breathing and husky murmur of their love play.

  He wanted her, needed to feel himself inside her. In some way. Any way. His tongue was not enough.

  He pulled away though he held tight on her waist. Bloody hell, was he losing his mind? He’d ramped desire to its highest peak. He couldn’t take her like this on a gaming table. Vivienne deserved courtship and wooing, flowers and a lush bed. She wasn’t some bawdy tart who worked on the floor of the hell, jaded by years of hard living and long hours. He watched her wide-eyed interest search his face for answers, her skin flushed pink, her glorious black hair tangled about her shoulders. She waited, wanted. But what did she truly want?

  ‘Are you all right?’ He didn’t sound like himself, wouldn’t apologize. He’d do it again given the chance.

  ‘Yes.’ She drew a deep breath and he was reminded how constrictive her gown must be, how smooth the skin beneath. His cock twitched, hard and anxious.

  She shot her eyes to his as if she knew the battle he fought and then she encircled his neck, pulling his mouth to hers, offering what he needed so badly his heart near exploded with demand.