by Sharon Page
5
Sin drew the counterpane over Portia. Bending over her, he brushed back her hair, damp from when he’d bathed her with water from his ewer. Admittedly he’d poured her a generous glass of brandy. It had never occurred to him it would be enough to knock her senseless.
“Sorry, love.”
She didn’t protest the endearment. She couldn’t—she was unconscious. Carefully, he tucked the cover around her. That meant leaning over her. With his lips mere inches from hers. She had rinsed her mouth and had kept her hand over it, before she’d passed out.
He wanted to kiss her anyway. On her lips. Her soft cheeks. Her cute nose. Her fluttering lashes.
And he had no right.
At least she was in no fit shape to go questioning people at the orgy. He suspected it wasn’t just the brandy. She must be exhausted from the fear and shock of her ordeal. By the time she woke up, he intended to have found out what in hell was going on.
Heading to the door, Sin jumped when he found the butler standing on the other side. What was the man’s name? Humphries.
Humphries held a silver salver on which was a thick, folded note, sealed with scarlet wax. The butler bowed. “These messages were instructed to be delivered to each guest at precisely six o’clock, Your Grace.”
Sin grabbed the message but didn’t open it. He’d been preoccupied with Portia and hadn’t thought about the mystery of this party. Now that he’d heard her story, he was damned interested in their host. “It’s not just that I haven’t met the host, Humphries. I’ve never heard of a Lord Genvere.”
Why would Genvere sign a letter with a W? If it was the man’s Christian name, the familiarity was lost on him, because he didn’t know the man.
The butler took on a worried look. “Nor had I, Your Grace, before I was offered employment. His lordship’s secretary contacted me while I was still with the Marquis of Barrow-Ffinch. Lord Genvere made a most astoundingly generous offer for my services, one I could not refuse. My first action was to peruse DeBrett’s for further information on his lordship. According to that revered tome, Genvere was a line that had died out. When I was hired, I was told that the new Lord Genvere had resided in the West Indies and had only lately been discovered as the heir to the earldom. I believe he owned several lucrative plantations on the islands.”
“And he’s supposed to arrive tomorrow?”
“Yes, Your Grace. In the morning, via the dory from the mainland. I was given precise written instructions on how to proceed this evening, in the absence of Lord Genvere. At exactly this time, I was to deliver these messages.”
“Lord Genvere tends to be eccentric?”
“I really could not say, Your Grace. Though this arrangement is not the sort to which I am accustomed. I find it quite odd.”
Sin was surprised the butler had revealed so much. Humphries had dropped the perfect servant expression and looked uneasy. But then, as if he’d remembered his place, he became expressionless once more and bowed with stiff correctness. “I must deliver the remaining missives, Your Grace.” He moved down the corridor, on to the next room.
Sin wanted to talk to the other guests. Doing that without Portia made the most sense.
He had to admit Portia’s strength and courage impressed him. Those attributes had drawn him to her ten years ago. She hadn’t changed at all.
And hell . . . ten years had only made her more beautiful. She’d matured from a pretty girl with large eyes and flame-colored curls into a voluptuous woman. Her hair was still rich and red. Her large, uptilted eyes, full lips, and spray of freckles gave her a startling beauty—a combination of sweet and sensual.
Which definitely meant an orgy was no place for her.
As he went down the stairs, Sin tore open his letter. A second sealed note fell out and landed on the step. He bent and picked it up.
Miss Portia Lamb was written on it.
What the hell—? Their host knew she would be here. Genvere had to be responsible for her kidnapping.
Bastard.
Whoever the hell this man was, he’d have hell to pay when he arrived.
Sin looked down at the first sheet, the one addressed to him. Three sentences were written across the page.
I know all your sins. They will soon be revealed. And you will pay for your crime.
What in hell was this?
Sin had reached the first floor and he stood, staring at the blasted letter. He had a boatload of sins to his name. But no one could know about the crime. That wasn’t possible—
A hand grabbed his arse and squeezed hard.
“What the blazing hell—?” he snapped, and spun around.
A woman had her hand on his buttock. She tittered behind her ruby-encrusted fan. Her long lashes fluttered at him. Harriet Barker was one of London’s most successful brothel owners. She had started as a prostitute in the House of Discipline, took it over when the former madam died, and had taken control of dozens of brothels in London. She ruled her empire like Bloody Mary had ruled England.
She had come to many of his orgies, though he’d never been intimate with her.
She was too old for him. Too ruthless.
She reminded him of—no, hell, he wasn’t going to think of his brother’s wife.
Harriet folded her fan, but still had hold of his ass.
Usually, when he went to an orgy, he did not object to being fondled. Touched. Admired. Right now, it made him want to grit his teeth.
He moved her hand away.
Harriet laughed. “Your Grace, how delightful to see you here. There are several charming young gentlemen here, but none as handsome and delicious as you.”
Could this woman be involved in Portia’s kidnapping? Harriet Barker was not adverse to hauling innocent women off the streets of London and forcing them to work in her brothels. She had a private army of thugs and criminals.
So how did he handle this? Ask her bluntly? She wouldn’t admit kidnapping Portia and it would put her on guard.
He bowed over her hand, kissing it lightly. “And you are ravishing as always, Mrs. Barker.” He was very practiced at meaningless compliments.
“Do call me Harriet, my dear Sin.”
“I found an unusual gift in my room, Harriet. But no calling card, so I don’t know who to thank for its delivery.”
She was waiting for him to offer his arm, so they could stroll together. But he played obtuse.
“A gift?” she squawked. “I didn’t receive anything.” She actually pouted. “Our host must have wanted to reward a duke.”
“I wondered if it was from you,” he said, though from her reaction he doubted it. He didn’t think Harriet was smart enough to display such genuine acting.
She frowned. Lines puckered her forehead. “I am afraid not, my darling duke. But I should be happy to give you a gift later. A very special gift. I am aware of how generously endowed you are. I could swallow it all for you. Every inch.”
“Er, yes. I imagine you’re skilled enough to do it.”
“Shall I show you now? A little aperitif before dinner is served?”
No, he really couldn’t see Harriet Barkder being responsible for Portia’s kidnapping. Portia would be competition.
He managed to get away from Harriet, telling her he had to speak to the butler. He found Humphries as the man emerged from the servants’ stairs, carrying a tray with a decanter of sherry.
Sin cornered the man, who swallowed and said nervously, “May I help you, Your Grace?”
“What do you know of the woman in my room? You gave me a note with her name on it.” In fury, he loomed over the butler. “Do you know how she was brought here? Unconscious and against her will? She was kidnapped.”
The man’s jaw dropped. His face went pale. “I don’t understand, Your Grace. How can that be possible? I had no idea—no idea. In my instructions, I was told that you would have a Miss Portia Lamb joining you. I was told to give you a box when you informed me of her arrival, and to tell you that it
is specifically requested that she come to dinner tonight. All guests are to attend, I was told. An important announcement is to be made.”
“Then he did arrive. Genvere. Where is the bast—man?”
“He has not arrived, Your Grace. I have a sealed letter, and I am to read it in his stead. Please excuse me one moment, Your Grace, while I fetch the box. All the guests are to enjoy sherry in the drawing room, as they arrive, before dinner.”
Sin barely heard the last bit. Too many thoughts were racing through his head. He was expected to bring Portia downstairs? What the hell? Why was someone doing this? Who?
The object appeared to be to ruin Portia, but he couldn’t see who would engineer all this for that end. And what would be the point—Portia was a spinster. She’d said she would not likely marry. It had taken money to hire men to kidnap her and bring her here. As well, this party had required a great deal of money. This had to be the work of a gentleman. What gentleman would want to destroy Portia’s reputation? Or see her ravished at an orgy?
Was she right—was all this over a wager?
Sin followed the butler to the drawing room. Seething. He barely noticed the décor of the house around him. Modern, with delicate plasterwork and pale white-painted mouldings, all light colors. White marble statues of well-endowed naked gods sat in niches.
The butler opened white double doors, revealing a large drawing room. A glossy-painted white piano sat off to the side. The room was blindingly white. Sin was the first guest to arrive in the drawing room, a room lined with arched windows that looked out to the sea, away from shore. Dark clouds massed on the horizon, high, gray, imposing. A storm was coming.
He waited, pacing in front of the windows. If a storm hit, he wouldn’t be able to get Portia off the island.
High-pitched giggling told him a woman was coming. And he was right. Two courtesans strolled through the door, arm in arm, whispering to each other.
“Your Grace!” At the sight of him, they both dropped into deep curtsies.
He knew them. They were London’s darlings of the courtesan world at the moment. One was Sadie. With pure golden blond hair, she looked like an angel, but she could be coarse and blunt. Men liked the contrast between her sweet-as-pie appearance and her brazen, wanton behavior. She wore a tight scarlet dress, with her large cleavage jiggling over the low neckline. When she curtsied she dropped low, so he could see down it. He took one glance, remembered Portia in his room, and looked away. Sadie stuck out her lower lip, playfully wounded, he was sure.
She’d been to his parties and he’d seen it all before. And given Portia needed a protector, he had to put other things on his mind than sex.
For him, an unusual undertaking.
The other woman held out her hand to him with more elegance and aplomb than a royal princess. “Your Grace. How delightful,” she crooned, in her posh, throaty accents.
She was Clarissa Carrington, London’s most sought-after Incognita. Dark haired with large green eyes, she was elegant and lovely. She dressed exactly like a young lady of the ton. And looked like the sort of blue-blooded heiress a peer was supposed to marry, except she had bedroom talents no girl of the ton would ever learn. Men adored her. Clarissa claimed she’d received marriage proposals from every eligible peer and had turned them all down. It was a lie—Sin had never proposed to her.
They were the sort of courtesans invited to any and every orgy held in London. But at no other bacchanalia that he’d attended had one guest been kidnapped.
Clarissa sidled up to him, her green eyes glowing at him. “I had no idea you were to be a guest. What do you think of the island setting? It’s rather isolated.” She gave an exaggerated shudder. “I find it rather frightening. But perhaps you shall protect me?”
“From what?” Frowning, he looked down at her. He’d thought her fear was just a ruse to snare his attentions for the party, but she looked pale. Did she know something?
“Did you receive a note?” he asked abruptly.
She blinked her huge green eyes. “A note? What kind of note?”
“One from our mysterious host.”
“Is he mysterious? I was told he was delayed and will arrive tomorrow. I have never met him. Of course, you must know him well. Given this is to be the grandest orgy ever held in England, I assume he must attend your famous parties all the time.”
“I’ve never met him either,” Sin said. He watched her eyes. “Did he send you a note in which he threatened to reveal your sins?” He gambled and revealed, “I received one also.”
“If he wished to list your wicked sins, it would take him weeks to do so.” She laughed a silvery laugh. “I have nothing to hide. I don’t think I am a sinner in any way. I’m a survivor.”
Sin glanced to the other courtesan. “Do you know if Sadie received a note?”
Clarissa narrowed her eyes, looking instantly much tougher. “Darling Sadie Bradshaw got something all right. She says it was a request from the host that she join him tomorrow night when he arrives. But I think she’s lying.”
“Our host appears to be playing some kind of a game,” he said darkly.
“Yes.” She slipped her arm through his, taking him by surprise. “It all seems rather silly. Perhaps he means to tease us, then have our ‘sins’ be particular carnal games we are to play. I took part in an erotic scavenger hunt once. All over London there were clues, and we were dared to do erotic things to get them. Very naughty fun.”
It made sense. But why include Portia?
He was trying to ease his arm free of Clarissa when Sadie sashayed up to him and grabbed hold of his arm on the other side.
“Are you monopolizing our steamy duke, Clarrie?” Sadie demanded as she plastered herself right up against him, squishing her bosom to his biceps.
He tried to peel her off, but it was likely extracting a small boat from a large squid. So he questioned Sadie while he tried to get free of her, and her hand drifted closer and closer to his ballocks.
Sadie hadn’t met the host, Genvere, either. She couldn’t even remember hearing of him in London.
Sin finally growled in Sadie’s ear. “Let go of me now, love, and I’ll reward you later.”
“Coo, all right.” She released him and fluffed her blond curls. She shot a smug look at Clarissa. Then she widened her eyes. “Perhaps Lord Genvere is a deformed recluse,” she said breathlessly. “He is so hideous he cannot go to London’s parties. Even brothels would turn him away.
Clarissa laughed. “You should write Minerva Press novels, darling. How debauched. Do you think he will also chain us up in the dungeon?”
“Perhaps. And perhaps he’ll use his whip and crop.” Sadie ran her tongue around her lips and Sin saw she was looking right at him. “I do love to be punished by a big, strapping gentleman with a huge cock, Your Grace.”
“Good for you,” he muttered. Normally he’d play along. Tonight he was too worried, too frustrated. “Even though neither of you know Genvere, do you know what kind of entertainment he planned here? Anything involving virgins?”
“Virgins?” Clarissa echoed. “Here?”
“Virgins are dead boring,” Sadie declared. “I hope there aren’t virgins here. Men are so fascinated with them. Possibly because men know a girl with her cherry unpopped will have no frame of reference.”
Before Sin could answer, a masculine voice asked, “Sin, what are you doing here?”
The last time he’d heard that voice, he’d been staring down the muzzle of a dueling pistol.
Sin turned and faced Willoughby, his former good friend. The man who had introduced him to London’s vices. Who had ruined his engagement to Portia.
Though that was ultimately his own damn fault.
But still he saw red. Maybe the reason Portia was here was due to a wager amongst his drunken friends—his former drunken friends.
He was about to stalk over to Willoughby to find out if the man had arranged Portia’s kidnapping, when he just about choked.
; Portia stood in the doorway. She wore a cloak, with the hood up, so her face was slightly hidden at least, but not much. If Willoughby turned around, damn it, he would see her. Willoughby would remember her.
But what in hell was she thinking?
He stalked past Willoughby, felt his former friend’s stare on him as he did. He moved fast to block Will’s line of sight. Portia’s lips parted as he reached her, but he shook his head, warning her not to speak. He grasped her arm as she started to protest and hauled her away from the drawing room door, out into the corridor.
Several squawks of protest came, but he ignored them. He dragged her into a darkened room he assumed was empty.
When he saw his good friend, the Duke of Saxonby, thrusting into the beautiful widow, Lady Linley, from behind, he knew his assumption had been wrong.
* * *
The most beautiful woman Portia had ever seen leaned over the arm of a sofa, braced on her hands. Her pale gold hair was pinned up in curls, decorated with diamonds, and one loose tendril dangled and bounced by her face. The woman’s face, in profile, was as lovely as an angel’s, even as she cried out, “Oh yes, Sax. Harder!”
Then Portia stopped looking at the woman’s face and realized what the woman was doing.
Her gown of white silk with gauzy gold lace was open at the back and spilling down her arms. Her skirts were thrown up, revealing a naked, heart-shaped bottom. Her bosom was naked too, except a man’s hands were in there, cupping the woman’s breasts from behind....
While he thrust into her from behind with long, powerful strokes. Powerful enough to make the sofa shake and a painting rattle on the wall beside them.
The man had pale blond hair—no, it was silvery blond on top, but black below, where it fell against the nape of his neck. His lashes were long and pure black, his brows dark, which looked striking against his pale and dark hair. He whispered gruffly, “Play with yourself, my angel. Stroke your clit and come for me again.”
He hadn’t removed a stitch of his clothing and there was something about the contrast of a softly curved, naked woman and a fully dressed, powerful-looking male that made Portia’s breath catch in her throat.
