by Sharon Page
She gripped him and slid her hand along him. This was different, seeing the act that had become so warped to him as it actually should be—a sharing of love. Something sweet and erotic.
“What’s wrong? You just got the saddest look on your face.” Concern furrowed her brow.
“Nothing. Keep touching me.”
She did, squeezing harder. He’d done so much, but this—this was perfect. He had to let his head drop forward as pleasure and agony hit him.
She jerked him faster. He was getting tighter, tenser—
God, yes. His hips jerked as the spasms sent his semen rushing through his cock. He spurted out into his trousers. On Portia’s hand.
She squealed and he laughed softly at the innocent sound.
“That’s your seed.”
“You made me come, Portia. Now I want to do that for you.”
He cleaned her hand with his handkerchief, led her to the sofa. Begged her to trust him as he settled her down on its soft cushions.
Muslin fell over his arms as he lifted her skirts. He glanced up. She nodded. “I want to share this with you—I am ready.” She adopted a brave look.
Grinning wickedly, he drew down her drawers. Simple white muslin with a little trim of lace. Red-gold curls made a vee between her silky thighs. He couldn’t hang on any longer. Diving down, he slipped his hands under her rump and lifted her pussy as he lowered his mouth.
Her scent washed over him. Her nether lips glistened. Planting his mouth over her, he tasted her, teased her with his tongue.
“What are you—? Oh, oh . . . oh!”
She tried to slide back. Saucer-wide eyes stared at him.
“I love you, Portia. I want to show you how much. There’s nothing wrong with this. Nothing wrong with pleasuring each other sexually. You won’t lose your virginity. But you will have fun.” He bent back to her fiery curls and licked.
She squirmed. “It is good. And I want . . . I want more.”
He suckled her clit, flicked with his tongue. Slowly at first, then more demanding. He built up the pleasure. As much as his cock throbbed, he was patient. He would do this until he made her come.
And he thought, pride swelling, he was getting her close.
Suddenly her hands flailed out and hit the top of her head. She arched up, cried out. Her hips rose up, smacking him. He had to back off and watch her climax. She was so sweet, trying to smother her squeals as it happened. Surprise showed on her face, warring with the sultry look of erotic pleasure. It made him grin.
She clutched at the sofa as her body pulsed. Then she relaxed. She wriggled like a contented kitten. “I didn’t know it was possible to feel like that. You made me feel . . . oh, it was lovely.”
He laughed. Kissed her.
“Ooh, your lips taste all earthy.”
“They taste of you, Portia. You’re mine. All mine now.”
He’d said that. And he’d meant it.
It was the next day, when he announced the engagement to their families and his friends, that everything went to hell.
Serenity Island
June 1821
“ ’Ere we are, Yer Grace.”
Jerked out of his memories, Sin looked up. The cliffs of the island loomed over their craft, sheer and gray.
“Where do we land?” Sin shouted.
“There’s a cove—hidden from view until ye’re right upon it.” Sweat rolled down the oarsman’s face.
Restless and worried about Portia, Sin shifted forward, taking hold of one of the oars. The men protested, but he insisted.
Adding his muscle, the three of them pulled hard on the oars and brought the small boat into a notch in the rock. This was the cove—rounded in shape, with steep cliffs on both sides. At the end, steps had been cut into the rock. The oarsmen lashed the boat to metal rings. Sin agilely leapt out onto the dock and took the steps two at a time. The men followed him up the steps, at a slower pace, carrying his half-filled trunk. He’d been so concerned about Portia he’d interrupted his valet to start his journey before the man had finished packing.
At the top, the stairs opened out onto a terrace that faced east, toward the open sea. The terrace was formed from the natural rock of the island, dotted with chaises and benches, and beyond that stood the house. But his attention was instantly drawn elsewhere.
Right in front of him, two men sat on a bench with a woman sandwiched between them. The woman pushed down her bodice, giggling madly. Sin knew her. A young courtesan who had magnificently large breasts. Sadie was her name, Sadie something. Bold as brass, full of fun, and on the hunt for a very rich protector. She had been trying to seduce him for a year. Not to get into his bed—to get into his pocketbook.
It hadn’t worked.
Sadie lifted her tits. “This is all you can have right now. Not until after dinner, you naughty boys!”
The men leaned over and licked Sadie’s thick pink nipples. One was the Earl of Blute, a man of thirty-five, who enjoyed any sporting competition and considered an orgy to be that kind of event. The other man had raven-black hair and was loved by courtesans across London for his handsome looks and his almost freakishly enormous prick. He was the Earl of Rutledge.
The oarsmen stopped to stare at the threesome. Their jaws dropped and they sniggered like schoolboys. Until one groaned, and said, “If word gets back that we were lollygagging and watching those sweet tits, we’d lose our jobs.”
“Aye, though it might be worth it.” But even as the man said that, wistfully, he started off toward the house. “Some blokes have all the luck,” he muttered.
Sin presumed these men would include him in that group of blokes. Funny, he didn’t feel lucky.
Sadie moaned loudly. Sin realized the two men were sucking her tits, but she was staring at him. She watched him boldly as she opened the trousers of both men at the same time and reached in to fondle. She pursed her lips at him and blew him a kiss.
Sin shook his head. One quick, curt shake. Then he looked away and walked toward the house, a sprawling edifice with gabled roofs and gray stone walls. It was wide and long, with terrace doors that ran the length of the house, giving a view of the cliff edge and the sea beyond.
Where was Portia? Somewhere in the house? In danger?
Every man here better pray he hadn’t touched Portia. Sin would kill any who had.
His boot soles pounded across the marble tiles. He was in a kind of gallery. The room had French doors that led to the interior of the house.
Someone cleared his throat and Sin whipped around.
A butler had materialized. Tall, cadaverous, with only a few strands of black hair combed over a bald pate. “I hope you had a smooth trip out to Serenity Island, sir. If I might show you your room—?”
“Never mind about the room. I’m looking for a young woman with red hair.”
“I was informed, sir, that such events would not begin until after the first dinner. However, I do believe that several guests have . . . er . . . jumped the gun.”
The butler spoke like a well-trained servant, but he was blushing. Apparently not used to waiting on people who’d come for an orgy.
“I’m not looking for her for those purposes,” Sin said. “She doesn’t belong here.”
The butler didn’t show any surprise at the statement. Merely said, “I have not seen any young lady with red hair, sir.”
“It’s Your Grace. I’m the Duke of Sinclair.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I am Humphries, the butler of Cliffside House. Allow me to show you to your apartments.”
Frustrated, Sin followed. The house was harsh gray stone on the outside, but a tribute to Adams on the inside. Pastel colors and intricate white mouldings were everywhere. The furniture was all white and gilt and covered in pastel blue cushions. Partway up the wide stairs, Sin asked abruptly, “Who is the host of this party? My invitation didn’t specify.”
“My employer is Lord Genvere. An earl. He will be joining the part
y tomorrow.”
“He’s arriving late for his own orgy?” Sin had to admit that surprised him.
“That is what he indicated to me, Your Grace.”
“I’ve never met him,” Sin said. He thought back over all the peers of England he knew. No Genvere.
“I have not yet had the privilege of meeting him either, Your Grace.”
“You can’t have been here long, then.” The skin along the back of Sin’s neck prickled. Something was wrong. Years of abuse had honed his instincts.
“I have been on the island several days, Your Grace. The house was shut up before that. I did not arrive until the house had been rented, aired out, and put in readiness for occupation.”
Only several days. He’d assumed the butler would be a fixture of the house. Very few gentlemen would hire new staff for a bacchanalia. They would want to ensure the staff was loyal, discreet, trustworthy.
The man stopped in front of a white door. “Your rooms, Your Grace. I hope you will find it satisfactory. I have been instructed to not enter the guests’ bedchambers. And most particularly not your bedchamber. Your trunk will be brought up to your rooms shortly.”
With that, the butler bowed, then moved soundlessly down the hall.
Specifically not his bedchamber? What in hell did the servant mean?
Sin pushed open his door. A huge bed stood in the center of the room.
And a woman lay on that bed.
A slender figure of a woman, dressed in a drab gray gown. He moved closer and saw the bands of scarlet around her wrists at the same moment he recognized her.
The scarlet was rope that bound her spread-eagled on his bed. She was wriggling her wrists desperately and muttering curses, trying to work herself free.
He’d found Portia.
3
10 years earlier
London, 1811
Sin’s cousin, the current Duchess of Sinclair, pushed herself up from her chair in the austere drawing room—one of six such drawing rooms—in Sinclair House on Park Lane. Tall, thin, with pure white hair piled on her head, the duchess leaned on her cane and glared at Sin with ice-cold fury in her pale blue eyes. “You are not going to marry this person,” she snapped. “This girl has no breeding, dowry, or bloodlines. She is a nobody.”
“That doesn’t matter to me,” Sin said. He was a duke—he didn’t need to marry women for their money, as his father had done. A vast fortune was his to command. “I’m in love with her, Duchess.”
“No doubt,” she snapped. “However, that has nothing to do with marriage. When a duke marries, it is a carefully orchestrated social maneuver. You marry to increase wealth and social prestige. If you don’t object to bedding the girl, it is icing on the cake.”
The duchess waved her walking stick at him and continued. “My God, it is bad enough that my son was killed so stupidly—racing a dratted carriage—and I have had to see you become duke. The only vindication for that is that you use your handsome looks to bring about a superb marriage. You will pick the richest duke’s daughter in the offing, you fool.”
The duchess had told him from the moment he arrived in London that she despised him, that he was not worthy of being a duke. He came from a branch of the family that had been disowned by his great-grandfather, and his father had usually, when drunk, told him the ducal side of the family would rather split them with swords, then spit on their entrails, than speak to them.
The duchess pursed her lips. “I will not allow this marriage to take place.”
That startled him. For a moment, Sin felt a jolt of panic. “You can’t stop it.”
“I will ensure that you see sense,” she barked. “You are nineteen years of age. You have not even begun to sow your wild oats. If you’re lusty, there are places you can go.”
This was a conversation he refused to have. “I am engaged to Portia Lamb and I will not break off the engagement. Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“We will see about that,” his cousin snapped.
There was nothing to see about. He didn’t care what she thought. What the ton thought. He wanted to marry for love. He knew what happened when people married and despised each other. He knew what happened when people married for money and social prestige—it led to hatred. Sometimes it led to death.
He turned and walked out of the room.
As he reached the threshold, the duchess shouted, “You will not marry this nobody and make her a duchess. You will marry as I wish. You know nothing about being a duke. And you have the inferior blood of your parents in you!”
Sin kept walking, her words ringing in his ears. She knew how to wound, his cousin. But his past didn’t matter. He was going to start again with Portia. She was his promise of a good future.
Dejected, angry, he stalked out of the house. He summoned his carriage and called out to the driver, “Take me to White’s.”
Willoughby and the rest of his friends had planned to go to the staid old club tonight. He joined them at a table and ordered a bottle of the best port. One for each of them.
“Damn generous of you,” said the Earl of Wintermere. “Luck at hazard?”
“No.” Sin couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Tonight we celebrate my engagement.”
Willoughby’s cheroot fell out of his mouth. He caught it before it hit the table. “Your what?”
“My engagement. To the most beautiful and sweet girl in England, Portia Lamb.”
“The girl who works at the foundling home?” Will frowned. “Our sort don’t marry girls like that. Seduce her if you really want her, then pay her off with a settlement.”
“What the hell are you saying, Will?”
“She’s a nobody.”
He was damn tired of titled people saying that. “She’s the woman I love.”
“So make her your mistress. That’s what peers do. Fuck all the angels and whores you want, but you marry a woman who has two sterling qualities: bloodlines and money. If you find a pretty young debutant who’s also deliciously fuckable, that’s all to the good. But you don’t love your wife. Marry Miss Lamb and you’ll make a hell of a mistake.”
Sin got up from the chair, a heavy weight on his heart. “I thought you’d be happy for me, Will. I don’t understand why everyone is against this marriage. I’m going through with it, no matter what anyone says.”
With that, he strode out of White’s. He stalked down the steps and turned up St. James Street. For once in his life, he was happy. He wanted love. He didn’t want to marry for duty and keep a mistress.
He and Portia would prove them all wrong. He would never let her find out the truth about him, so they would always be happy.
The next night, his butler announced that the Viscount Willoughby had arrived.
Will walked in. “Forgive me for last night, Sin. I’m delighted to see you happy. Let me make up for what I said. Let me take you out on the town, so you can savor your last few days as a free man.”
“So you approve of my marriage?”
A wicked grin flashed on Will’s face. “I do. But you need to experience the wild sex on offer in London before you settle down.”
“No, Will. I consider myself already married.”
“Then we’ll hit the gaming hells. Deep play at cards before you put on the leg shackles of marriage.”
“All right. Gambling is fine. But nothing involving brothels or sex.”
His friend clapped him on the shoulder. “Of course.”
But after six hours of gaming and drinking, Willoughby threw his cards on the table of the gaming hell and got to his feet, stumbling. He fell back on his chair, laughing uproariously.
Sin got to his feet. The room tilted, the furniture appeared to slide.
He and Willoughby held each other up, stumbling outside. Sin summoned his carriage with a whistle—it took him three attempts to do it. He fell into it. Willoughby gave an address to the coachman and they were off. Willoughby pulled a flask out of a pocket in his greatcoat and they shared it
between them.
“The carriage has stopped.” Willoughby got up, lost his balance, and fell against the door. “Why’d this thing jump up and hit me?” he complained.
That seemed like the funniest thing on earth, setting Sin off laughing as he struggled to push open the door. His laughter set Willoughby off. But as the door flew wide, Sin had to grab his friend so he didn’t fall on his ass. Will pointed wildly out at a building. “Here it is—the House of Discipline.”
“The Who of What?”
It was a town house with a bright scarlet door. A beefy, thick-necked doorman bade them admittance and Will dragged him past statues of naked women—no wait, they were naked women. When they walked inside, the first thing Sin saw was a young blond woman on her hands and knees on a table. Actually, he saw two blondes, both blurry, but he knew there was only one. Behind the pretty blonde, a raven-haired woman with a fake cock strapped to her hips fucked her in the arse. He knew it was going up the blonde’s ass, because the blonde was thrusting a thick dildo into her pink glistening pussy from the front.
Blearily, he stared at the scene, his brain taking far too long to focus on what he was seeing.
“I have to leave.” He stumbled backward, and fell heavily against the doorframe as his body moved but his boots didn’t.
Willoughby laughed. “If you’re only here to watch and drink, what’s the harm?”
“I can drink somewhere else.”
“It’s one of your last nights of freedom, man. Enjoy yourself.”
Willoughby grabbed his shoulder and propelled him past the women putting on the display, toward a set of double doors painted white. Out of the shadows near the door stepped a young woman.
Sin blinked.
Big tits brimmed over the top of a corset that was dyed black. A leather strap was wrapped around her neck and glittering jewels dangled from it. She wore tall leather boots and a man’s beaver top hat. The woman carried a riding crop. And she wore nothing else, so her blond nether curls and pussy were on display, the lips plump, pink, slick, and shining as if wet.
