by Sharon Page
“A child?”
“An urchin lad. He ran off as soon as a footman took the note.”
“Before he’d received any money?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I thought that was quite suspect myself.”
Sin didn’t say anything, but he agreed. He picked up the note and unfolded it with a snap of his wrist. He had to read it twice before the words fully penetrated his brain.
By the morning post, you received an invitation to an unusual house party to be held on an island off the coast, near Southend-on-Sea. To put it plainly, the event is a bacchanalia. Miss Portia Lamb is being lured to the party. It is intended as a joke—a surprise to entice you. A gentleman of your considerable experience would be aware she will literally be a lamb led to slaughter.
To protect her—and her reputation—you must attend.
A Concerned Friend
“What in hell—?” he muttered. Was this true? Who in blazes was “A Concerned Friend”?
Maybe it was a joke. A joke in poor taste.
Where was that damned invitation? He remembered glancing at it, barely reading it. Last night, he’d been thinking of Portia and he’d barely noticed the invitation.
He’d tossed it aside . . . where?
Sin stalked downstairs to his study, off limits during his parties. A stack of invitations sat on the edge of his oak desk. The towering pile contained entreaties for him to attend balls, musicales, card parties, picnics. He was an unmarried duke. Every matchmaking mama of the ton was trying to draw him out.
He sifted through the pile quickly, invitations sliding onto the floor.
Here it was—embossed in silver on thick card.
THE DUKE OF SINCLAIR IS CORDIALLY INVITED
TO AN ORGY
TO BE HELD 21ST JUNE
AT CLIFFSIDE HOUSE UPON SERENITY ISLAND
A letter was also enclosed. Sin scanned it swiftly.
It’s said you give the best orgies in England. I intend to steal your crown. This party will be more thrilling than any other carnal gathering you have ever attended. You will be astounded.
Proceed to Southend-on-Sea, where a small craft will be waiting to transport you to Serenity Island, one mile off the coast.
I defy you to refuse this invitation. I know you will not resist a challenge.
It was signed: W.
At first, he’d thought W stood for Willoughby, at one time his best mate, when he’d first come to London. Now he shook his head. Will wouldn’t invite him to an orgy. They’d avoided each other since their last face-to-face meeting—down the barrels of a pair of dueling pistols.
So who was W? And who would bring Portia to the event?
Now he had to go to this damn party. If Portia was being lured to an orgy for some nefarious purpose, he had to protect her. Given the way their brief engagement had ended, he expected she wasn’t going to appreciate his protection.
But she was going to get it.
2
The Coast, Southend-on-Sea
June 1821
“Have you seen a young lady? About so tall—” Shouting to be heard over the screeching gulls that swooped over the shore, Sin held his hand at the level of his chest.
“Auburn hair—unruly waves and curls,” he continued. “Usually keeps it pinned back and wears big bonnets. Large eyes. Looks sweet and innocent, but she’s a managing sort of female.”
The four old fishermen who sat along the quay looked at him blankly.
Gulls swooped around him, cawing as if laughing at him. Waves lapped at the sea wall, filling the air with the tang of brine and drying seaweed. A gust of ocean breeze almost took his beaver hat off his head and sent salty spray in his face.
“Her name is Portia Lamb,” he added. Praying inside. His gut clenched in fear, even if he looked cool, calm, and ducal on the outside.
“Aye, we’ve seen some young lasses this morn . . .” began one of the fishermen.
The other men all made grunting sounds of affirmation.
“Were she wearing a shocking red gown?” asked the fisherman.
Sin had no idea but couldn’t picture sensible Portia in one. “I doubt it.”
“Then I don’t think we saw the lass.”
The rest shook their heads, pulled at their pipes.
“Only people we saw were toffs, Yer Grace,” the fisherman said—the one who appeared to be the group’s spokesman. “And ladies in some shocking dresses. Necklines cut down to their wee nipples and their tits almost falling out.”
“Ladies? You daft old buggers don’t think they were ladies, do you?” An older woman sat a few feet beyond, on a rickety chair, sewing up fishing nets. She laughed, spat out some tobacco, and leveled a shrewd gaze on Sin. “Those were no ladies. Not in those garish dresses.”
She was wrong. Some would be courtesans, but some would be ladies of the ton—ladies looking for carnal fun. Portia would never wear a shocking dress, but he realized she could have been forced into one. “None of them had bright red hair and freckles?”
“One had red hair—henna-colored, out of a bottle. There weren’t any natural redheads.”
“Then the woman I’m looking for was not amongst them. Thank you for your help,” he said, though he hadn’t gotten any help. He tossed them all a few coins. “Have a pint on me.”
He’d asked every person at the quay if they had seen Portia. This was the last group. He’d had no luck.
Was this whole thing just a sick joke? Maybe Portia was still in London, safe and sound in her family’s foundling home....
But he couldn’t give up and walk away—not until he was sure she was safe.
He turned to face out over the sea.
A few hundred yards offshore, a sheer face of dark rock rose out of the water. It looked square, squat, flat topped. That was Serenity Island, though it looked ominous and stark instead of serene.
A dory was moored on the quay, waiting to take him to the island.
Portia might already be there. She could have been taken to the island at night, under cover of darkness. Or hell, even in a sack so no one would see her.
He had to find out.
Long strides took him to the stone steps that led to the small jetty where the dory was moored. Sin waved away help from one of the oarsman and climbed aboard. He settled in the rear of the craft, facing the island, and they cast off.
The two men pulled hard on the oars. A breakwater stretched out into the sea, calming the larger waves, allowing the dory to make headway over the water. But it was still a journey that took time.
Giving him time to think . . . and remember when he’d gotten engaged to Portia . . .
Ten years earlier
London, 1811
His carriage rattled along a wide cobblestone street past soaring mansions of glittering windows and crisp white stone. A huge park stretched out along the street. Earlier today, in the afternoon, he’d seen beautiful young women strolling along the park’s paths. Skirts of colored muslin and silk swished around their legs and they twirled dainty, lace-trimmed parasols.
It had been astounding to Sin to see so many elegantly dressed girls gathered in one place.
Now, he stared through the window at the darkness that shrouded the park. He was in London for the first time in his life as the new Duke of Sinclair, a title he’d never expected to inherit. He was the son of a cousin of a duke, a side of the family that had been exiled long ago over some son’s bad behavior. His name was Julian Markham, and he was just about to be given the nickname “Sin.”
When he’d first met the bucks of London at White’s Club—he inherited the membership at the exclusive gentleman’s club along with his title—they expected him to be a rural rube since he’d grown up in the country, even though his father had been a gentleman and Sin had gone to Eton with the sons of peers. He could have been offended, but he let them think he was innocent and naïve.
It was a way to hide the truth about his past. About all the perversions he’d taken
part in. A sordid, wicked past that he didn’t want anyone to know about.
On his first visit to White’s, Julian met Viscount Willoughby, a peer of twenty-four who held court in the bow window at White’s, making rapier-sharp jokes about the peers strolling past. “Come with us tonight, Sinclair,” he’d drawled, “for a night of deep play at a new gaming hell on Curzon Street. Have to initiate London’s newest duke properly.” A slow grin spread over Willoughby’s good-looking features.
“I’ll go,” Sin had agreed. That night Willoughby had jokingly decided to call him “Sin.”
That had been a fortnight ago. Tonight, he was meeting Willoughby and several other peers at a gaming hell.
His carriage traveled several more blocks, stopping in front of a townhouse with a dark-painted door. Within minutes he was inside, hunkered over his cards in a smoke-hazed room, gambling at whist with Willoughby and two other men. After a few hands of play, Sin realized the other men hoped to relieve him of some of the fortune that came with the dukedom. But one thing he knew was how to play cards—and so far, he and Will, who was his partner, were winning. After a few hours of play, Sin had downed a lot of port and was in a state that titled men called “disguised” and others called drunk, when some saucy, voluptuous women came flirting around them. Willoughby planted one on his lap and instructed one to do the same with Sin. He tried to get her to shoo. He lifted her off several times, but she kept climbing back on.
He gave up. Tried to ignore her. The girl was wriggling on his lap, squealing and giggling, when a sharp female voice demanded, “Unhand that young woman.”
Startled, Sin looked up.
That was when he saw her.
At first, he saw two of her; then the two images coalesced into one surprising one: a respectable young woman, storming into a gaming hell.
A sensible gown and dark blue pelisse covered her figure, but he could see she was slender, with a tiny waist, long legs. Her face was the most striking he’d ever seen. Dark gray eyes, long and narrow and seductively tilted upward at the ends. A tiny nose and a spray of freckles. Her mouth was the most ripe, full red mouth he’d ever seen.
She stalked toward them, stopping in front of him with her hands on her hips. “I am Portia Lamb and I demand that you unhand that woman at once. Please take her off your person.”
As he stared in surprise, she wagged her finger. “She has run away from my family’s foundling home to launch a career as a prostitute. And, of course, there are dissolute men to make that possible. She is but sixteen!”
As Miss Lamb glared at him, he handed the would-be courtesan back. “I had no intention of doing anything to the girl.” His words came out fairly slurred. “I wasn’t even the one to ask her to sit on my lap.”
Miss Lamb hadn’t listened to him.
But he’d fallen in love with Portia Lamb nonetheless that night, while she lectured him about evils, then dragged the young woman out of the gaming hell.
Miss Lamb was so good and noble. She cared about children and rescued them. And she was astoundingly pretty with huge gray eyes and thick, curling, flame-red hair.
After that, he’d pursued her like a besotted fool in a love sonnet. He started following her on her missions into the stews to protect her. Night after night, he spent in her company. Then it became days as well. Days where he visited the home because even minutes away from her felt like too damn long.
Finally, one day, he dropped to one knee in front of Portia and asked her to be his wife.
And she said yes.
“I’ll go and talk to your father,” he promised. “And I’ll introduce you to my grandmother and my cousins. They live in the ducal home in Mayfair.”
In the carriage, he kissed her. They shared hot and passionate kisses, dueling with tongues. He was hard as a brick, panting for her.
She drew back. “Julian, we can’t.” She used his Christian name—she didn’t know about the nickname Sin that Willoughby had given him. He hated his Christian name, but he didn’t want her to call him by the nickname. It was too damned close to the truth about him, a truth he wanted to hide from her.
He held back, trying to be good, be noble. Make her believe that’s what he was. He wanted her, but didn’t kiss her.
Then the carriage stopped. He handed her down.
“Good heavens.” She stared up at the mansion that was Sinclair House in Mayfair. Where he had been living for only a few weeks.
Tucking her hand in the crook of his arm, he showed her the house. They walked through the massive ballroom with its five chandeliers. The music room that boasted two gleaming pianofortes. The gallery filled with paintings. The four drawing rooms.
He watched her beautiful eyes and saw her astonishment. She must be thrilled to become a duchess, to become mistress of all this. Maybe that way she wouldn’t leave him, wouldn’t desert him, if she found out the truth about him.
“I knew your home would be grand, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” She gazed at him with concern on her face. “I . . . I don’t know anything of this world, Julian.”
“That doesn’t matter, Portia.” He walked up to her, drew her into his arms. He could spread the world at her feet because he was a duke. And Portia deserved the world.
She looked up at him, biting her lip, gleaming with innocence. Her lashes were long, flashing over gray eyes. Her hair was a mass of unruly curls. She smiled at him and his heart almost burst. No one had ever loved him before. That this precious woman did—it meant he might be worth loving.
He started taking off his clothes. They were in one of the drawing rooms and he’d locked the door. Breathing hard, he undid his cravat with a quick tug of his fingers. Pulled off his tailcoat, then his waistcoat. He stood in front of her in his linen shirt and trousers, his collar open. He was going to marry her. He could have everything he wanted—
“Julian, put your clothes back on! Nothing can happen until we’re married. I, of all people, can’t make such a mistake. If I let things happen, then you won’t love me anymore. Our foundling home is filled with children because of men who were filled with desire, then, after, wanted only to run.”
“That’s not me. I love you. I’m going to marry you. Spend my life with you.” He drew his fingers up her arm. He saw the little shiver she gave. Heard her soft, throaty moan.
He felt such a strong jolt of lusty agony, he almost stumbled.
“Then we can wait just a little longer,” she said. But it came out in a whimper.
“I’m not going to ruin you, Portia. I want to please you.”
“Please me? What do you mean?”
He wanted her to know how good he could be in bed. That way, if she found out the truth about his past, maybe she wouldn’t be as horrified if she knew how much pleasure he could give her.
Maybe...
He jerked off his shirt, baring his torso. His heart pounded so hard, he was surprised he didn’t see it push against his chest.
“Oh!” she gasped.
“Don’t be scared,” he said. What he wanted was her hands caressing him. Touching him.
She bit her lip. “But if I let myself be ruined before marriage, I would be breaking every vow I ever made to myself. I would feel so terrible, facing my parents who believe I am good.”
“I won’t do anything wrong, Portia. I promise.” He bent to her ear—pretty little ears—and touched the lobe gently with his lips. She gave a sharp, sweet gasp. It was hard to move slowly.
But taking it slow forced him to savor everything. The softness of her skin as he nuzzled her neck. The tickle of her hair against his cheek. She smelled lightly of lavender water.
“I won’t ask for more than you can give,” he said. “But I need you to touch me.”
“Touch you?”
He clasped her hands and laid her palms on his naked chest. Her fingers were long and slender and graceful. Feather-light, her fingertips skimmed over his bare skin. She traced his muscles.
“You’re beauti
ful,” she whispered. “I like touching you. I . . . I’ve never seen a male torso before. I mean, except on statues. Yours is completely perfect. Your muscles are so big and hard.”
The innocent shine in her eyes hurt his heart. He wished this was his first time. That he was innocent too.
Her fingers brushed his nipples. They were tight and hard. Tentatively, she stroked them. Strummed them.
He threw back his head and groaned.
“Have I hurt you?”
“No, I like it.” Then he did something hellish. “This is new to me too,” he lied.
“It is?” That seemed to make her braver. To save children, she sashayed into the stews, facing pimps and madams. But here, she was nervous.
She caressed his shoulders, laying her palms on them. She felt his biceps, his chest. And he guided her hands down lower, and finally coaxed her to slip her right hand in his trousers.
She squeaked. “You’re so hot.”
He nuzzled her neck. “I like that. Hold my cock, love.”
“What?”
Kissing behind her ear made her gasp. “Play with my cock,” he urged.
“Oh, er . . .” But she did it. Her fingers slid around his shaft.
He hadn’t been a virgin for a long, long time, but he almost exploded like one. He gritted his teeth, fighting for control. Did she like him? Was he good enough for her?
He knew she wouldn’t let him undress her. And he couldn’t take the risk that he would lose control. Since coming to London, he’d been working on developing control. That one night when he’d gotten drunk and Willoughby had sent the young prostitute to pursue him had been the only night he’d broken his vow to change. He’d given in to Will’s goading to drink and have fun.
“What do I do?” she asked. “How do I touch you?”
“Wrap your hand around it and move up and down,” he said softly.
