Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  Both of which said repeatedly that these were her father’s forgeries.

  Thoroughly disheartened, wondering how she could entice Lyndale to reveal where he found this series, she turned another page.

  “That one is among the best of the series, in terms of artistry. I discovered that the physical reality of duplicating the composition in life was very clumsy, however.”

  She jumped with shock and slammed the volume closed.

  She turned her head. Lord Lyndale stood behind the sofa, setting a tiny glass on the table beside her. His expression bore a touch of humor. It also possessed a tightness that had her thinking she had better leave.

  “Is that sherry?” she asked, gesturing to the glass. “I have never had it, so I must decline.”

  “If you have never tried it, why must you decline? Think of it as a new experience. A little adventure of the senses.” He half turned, drawing her attention to the print cabinet and the folios on the floor. “You appear to have been at it for some time.”

  “I am sorry. I will put them away now. I am sure it is very late. I really must retire.”

  “It would please me if you stayed. There are some matters I would like to talk about.”

  “Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “I would prefer tonight.” He walked around the sofa. Every movement said he assumed she would stay because he demanded it. His invisible force of will all but pinned her in place.

  He knelt on one knee and built a fire in the fireplace facing them. Then he lounged on the sofa, stretched out his legs, stripped off his cravat, and sipped his sherry.

  His casual demeanor spoke of a man settling in for a chat with an old friend. She might have even been a sister. There wasn’t the slightest thing threatening about his behavior.

  His aura told a different story. It projected magnetism and danger. Her instincts thrummed. She became acutely conscious of how far, and how near, he sat. His masculinity loomed, dominating her.

  He gestured to the volume still cradled on her lap. “You appeared captivated by the series.”

  She felt her face warming. “I do not think captivated is the correct word.”

  “Enthralled? Mesmerized? You were so taken with the images that you did not hear me enter and walk about the chamber.”

  “I was neither enthralled nor mesmerized. I was shocked.”

  “You were not at all shocked. I have seen courtesans view those engravings and none showed the equanimity that you displayed.”

  “Well, I have experience in such images. The Caraglio engravings, for example.”

  “There is no comparison. There are no allusions or illusions with these. No gods and goddesses doing a little groping. ‘I Modi’ is a sexual manual, for all intents and purposes.”

  She sought a way to turn the conversation away from her lack of astonishment at the prints. “What shocked me was their presence in this house. I wonder why you own such things.” She gestured to the paintings and statues, to the Roman relief and the ribald herm of Priapus.

  “I own them to be defiant. I am making a point to the ignorant social leaders who presume to dictate behavior by claiming a moral basis for historical developments.”

  “Goodness, how high-minded. I never guessed you bought erotic art out of a sense of civic duty.”

  “Smirk if you like. Ever since I was a boy, this country has increasingly become critical of pleasure. There is an idea being preached that the future of Britain depends upon the populace ignoring their human appetites. The greatest civilizations acknowledged the joy of carnal pleasure, and my collection proves it. Now, here we are, creating another great civilization, but treating passion as essentially sinful. It is dishonest, and it is unhealthy.”

  “So this collection is your broadside announcing that you refuse to conform and bow.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I had no idea your intentions were so noble. Stupid me, I thought that you collected them to provide inspiration and excitement.”

  He took another sip of his sherry. “Well, there is that, too. You are not alone in being aroused by them.”

  “I was not a— I was not looking at the images at all. I was examining the technique, for goodness’ sake. I am an engraver.”

  “So, you did not even notice that the pages showed nude people coupling with athletic abandon and amazing invention?”

  “I noticed, and fully intended to immediately put them aside. I only studied them when the technique caught my attention.”

  “Taste the sherry. You will like it. Why did the technique catch your attention?”

  Her disadvantage had led to an indiscretion that he had spotted with an eagle’s precision. To hide her vexation at her carelessness, she filled the long pause by giving the sherry a sip.

  Its sultry scent clouded her head. Its thick, layered flavor caressed her mouth. Its warmth glowed down her body when she swallowed. The taste stunned her.

  “It is one of the best,” Lyndale said, watching her reaction to the amber liquid. “Mature, and only fit for discerning palettes. Having experienced it, you will never be satisfied by a lesser choice again.”

  His quiet tone carried no insinuation, but she knew he was not speaking of sherry. Her pulse sped while she quickly assessed their isolation.

  He had not moved, yet he felt closer. It was his expression. A subtle alertness had entered his eyes.

  Masculine power flowed with his attention, making her breathless and flustered. Her heart beat so loud she was sure that he could hear it in the silence that had descended on them.

  A delicious silence, as if she waited tensely for some glorious, wonderful news.

  Worried now, appalled by the flutters in her chest and the tingling in her breasts, she desperately tried to distract him. “I was attracted to the technique because it looked wrong to me. I do not think Raimondi’s hand engraved those. I think they are later.”

  She expected the connoisseur to immediately shift all his fervor to a long interrogation, thus saving her from the thrilling fear he inflamed.

  Lyndale reached for the volume. His fingers brushed her thigh as he lifted it from her lap. She felt the subtle touch despite her layers of garments. Her body responded with a shiver that roused her most womanly parts.

  “They are good, trust me.” He set the volume to his other side, out of sight and, the action connoted, out of discussion.

  She made motions to rise. “I will retire now, with your leave.”

  “You do not have it. I would like your company for a while longer. As I said, we have things to discuss.”

  “I cannot imagine what.”

  His gaze drifted over her again. “That is a new dress. It is very pretty on you. It complements your handsome form.”

  He did not actually look at her breasts, but they began swelling anyway, straining the garments that complemented them all too well.

  “Will the other dresses arrive soon?” he asked.

  “They will be delivered during the next week.”

  “When the evening dress comes, I would like you to attend the theater with me.”

  She took another sip of sherry while she considered a good response. Its languid warmth slid through her.

  “Surely you have other friends who could attend with you.”

  “I would like you to accompany me.”

  It was not clear if he was inviting her, or creating an obligation. “My dress may be by the finest modiste, but I will hardly be fashionable enough to be seen with an earl at the theater.” Her hand instinctively sought the mound of hair on her crown.

  Lyndale’s gaze followed the gesture. “Is your hair criticized? I think it is lovely.”

  “Fishwives have more style. I am sure I must cut it, but am loath to do so.”

  He turned slightly, and his hand also sought the pile. “I would not want you to cut it, either.” His fingers probed for a comb. “Let us see. Perhaps you could cut it some without doing much harm.”

  “I do not think
. . .” She was too late. Huge locks and hanks of hair began falling. His fingertips poked and caressed her scalp as he searched out every pin. Those discreet touches did sinful things to her. Delectable tiny tremors spread from the contact. She wanted to close her eyes and purr.

  The curls poured around her. Lyndale lifted one long strand. He assessed how the others covered her shoulders and ended on her lap.

  “You can cut it, but only to here.” He lowered the strand he held, with his fingers indicating the length. His hand came to rest just at her breast.

  He was not quick to move his hand away. It rested there as if by accident, but she felt it as though he caressed her. Devastating sensations slid and swam, reminding her once again of the glorious pleasure a man could give.

  She swallowed hard. The rich warmth of the sherry returned, now provoked by her body as much as the final sip she took. She gazed at her empty glass.

  She knew what he was thinking. It was all there in his gaze, and in the power that he cast during the pulsing silence. Those prints had convinced him that she was indeed “fair game” as Lady Mardenford had said. His expression all but dared her to try and stop him.

  “You will cut it to here, no more.” He pressed again. “We will find a woman to dress it most fashionably, not because I care, but because you seem to. Then you will accompany me to the theater.”

  She found her voice. “If I do, it will be misunderstood.”

  “Nothing will be misunderstood.”

  “If I live in this house and you buy me gowns and maids and take me to the theater—”

  “Nothing will be misunderstood, Bride.”

  He was closer now, she was very sure. His scent and attention engulfed her. His gaze, warm and masculine, reflected firm decision.

  “Are you saying my situation would not be misunderstood because I, in fact, would be your mistress?”

  His answer was in his eyes. And in his touch. His hand gently brushed her tresses back from her face, as if he gazed upon something he had the right to care for.

  She forced her heart out of her throat. “I must go—”

  “You will not run away, Bride. Not before I plead my case. If you had truly wanted to leave, you would have done so at once. If you did not want me, you would have never come to London and to this house, no matter what your situation.”

  She had no good response for that. How could she explain that excitement and loneliness had kept her here, even while common sense urged movement? How could she describe her desperate need to find those forgers and save her sisters and maybe a man she once held in love?

  And how could she explain that she feared what Lyndale evoked in her, even if her body thrilled to it?

  His hand continued its gentle touch, playing with her hair. It brushed her ear and neck as it moved. It created seductive, alluring tingles.

  “You should not have pretended with me,” he said. “You should not have played the shocked lass when you showed me the Caraglio addendum. If I had known you were fascinated, or even curious, it would have been different. I would not have been so careful with you.”

  “I was not . . . I am not fascinated. I told you, it is the technique of these prints that I study.”

  “Of course it is.” He leaned across the small space separating them. His lips barely brushed her cheek. She had to grit her teeth to keep a tremble from shaking her whole body. “You were not at all curious about the content, however? Not even a little?”

  His soft, subtle kisses moved down her neck, then up to her ear. It felt so good. She wanted to drown in the sensuality lapping through her. She had to grope for the rational words to answer, but only half her mind cooperated.

  “A little,” she heard herself admitting. “However, they all looked too . . . ambitious to me. Novelty for its own sake.”

  His finger crooked under her chin. He turned her face toward him. “Do you fear I will expect too much? Having had my fill of novelty, I do not require it.”

  He kissed her lips. A lifetime of practice went into that kiss. Every press and nip, each invasive stroke, was intended to conquer indecision.

  It produced exactly the effect he intended. A euphoria built in her with each artful lure.

  She did not entirely miss the implications of what he had said, however. He had spoken as if they had an understanding.

  She broke the kiss. “I have not agreed to your designs. A kiss is one thing, but you should not expect ambitions on my part for anything more.”

  “Certainly. Forgive me. I assumed too much.” His words sounded sincere, but she saw something else in his expression. A vague amusement, as if he found her protests charming.

  He slid his arm behind her and turned to embrace her more fully. “As I said, it is for me to plead my case.” His other hand traced down her chin and neck. Its light touch lowered to the swell of her breast. “It is only fair for you to allow me to do so. I promise to neither take nor request any liberty not freely granted by you on your own.”

  Even through her garments, his caress aroused her. Her breasts craved more. Memories of the delicious pleasure in Scotland threatened to leave her helpless.

  She tried to summon guilt because of Walter, to create a shield. Her heart would not heed her. You are lying to yourself about him. He was not harmed while protecting you, because he never followed those thieves.

  “You are already taking a liberty not granted.” Her breath only produced a whisper.

  His hand smoothed over her breast more deliberately. “It was granted in Scotland. As I recall, you demanded it.”

  What was left of her mind knew she should stop him right now. It was too wonderful, however. Unearthly and perfect and sweet. The pleasure made her beautiful and happy, with no worries or cares. There was no past with its hurts and no future with its consequences and no doubts about loyalties.

  As if he read her mind, his head dipped and he kissed her breast. “This is the best of what I offer, Bride. The sanctuary of pure sensation, where the world does not exist. No obligations. No time and no infirmity. This pleasure is nature’s gift to us, so that the tedium and duties of life and time do not grind us down.”

  “But the world returns eventually, and extracts its price.”

  He kissed the other breast. His hand moved on her back. She startled when she felt her dress loosen. “The cost to you will be small. I have the fortune and the station to ensure that. I will take care of you while we are together, and see to your security afterward.”

  Afterward. She had lost sight of what was happening, but that word cleared her vision.

  It did not diminish the pleasure. It did not return her strength of will. It merely dimmed the giddy confusion. Most of her essence embraced the intoxicating excitement and floated in a sensual wind, but one foot returned to the ground.

  “I am not going to be your mistress, Lord Lyndale.”

  “Your stubborn independence restricts my attempts to deal with you fairly. Fine, if you insist on it, we will merely have an affair.”

  “We are not even going to have an affair.”

  “You were willing in Scotland.” His hand still moved, urging her to be willing again.

  “You were not. You should have taken advantage of me when you could. I was caught off guard then.”

  “And now your guard is awake at its post?”

  “Awake and well armed. Lady Mardenford told me all about you. Any dalliance would be pure folly on my part, not that I had considered such a thing.”

  He began lowering her dress’s bodice. As he did so, he kissed along the top edge of her bare shoulder. She gasped and half rose off the cushion.

  She felt his smile against her skin. “I look forward to discovering the other places where you are so sensitive.”

  He plucked at the ribbon atop her chemise. Through lowered lids she watched his hand undress her, unable to conquer the breathless anticipation that stifled the last vestiges of her dissent.

  He plucked at her stays’ lacing e
nough to loosen the top. He slipped the chemise off her shoulders, peeling the fabric down. He pushed the stays until her breasts were bare.

  He looked down and glossed his fingertips over her breasts. They swelled more at his touch, aching with fullness.

  “I remember you just like this, Bride, with your beautiful breasts waiting and your face transformed and inviting. The image intrudes daily. As does the way you abandoned yourself to me. I hear your cries in my head. Your passion was astonishing.”

  “I was caught unawares, as I explained.”

  “You think that is why? I do not believe it. I think you feel this pleasure more than most people. Maybe as much as I do.”

  He caressed her breast more purposefully. Her whole body flexed as she tried to contain the exquisite titillation.

  “I already know you enjoy this touch more than most women do. It is probably the same with your whole body.” He bent and flicked his tongue over her nipple, and she had to stifle a moan. “Then again, maybe you are only like this when you are with me. If so, it would be a crime not to discover how good it might be.”

  Her body was unnerved and her frustration building. She could think of little else except the pleasure he kept promising. The anticipation was excruciating.

  “Do not claim special power over my passions. I have known great pleasure before, and with a man who was quicker to use his mouth for more than talking.”

  It was out before she knew it. As the last word left her lips, she knew it was a blunder.

  He reacted with neither anger nor insult. Instead he looked into her eyes with a gaze that was dangerously confident and darkly amused.

  “I will have to teach you how to enjoy the waiting. That is for another day, however. Considering what you have offered, I would be a fool to risk losing the special liberty by delaying.”

  Liberty?

  Her confusion over the point was brief, as Lyndale began using his mouth for other than speech. Most effectively.

  His kiss claimed her possessively. His arm restrained as much as embraced. His palm brushed her nipples again and again. The teasing arousal increased their sensitivity and produced a pleasure so luscious she kissed him back so he would know how much she liked it.