Sinfully Yours

by Cara Elliott

  “Bon,” went on Josette, after circling around Anna for a final look. “Simplicity lets your delicate beauty shine. As do the richer hues.” She pinched the slate blue watered silk between her capable fingers. “Pastel shades are too in…in…”

  “Insipid?” suggested Anna.

  “Oui, that is the word! Too many of the young ladies here in London look as though they have had all the color scrubbed out of them.”

  A very perceptive comment, thought Anna. But then, her maid was an émigré from Paris who had lost her parents during the last tumultuous days of the Terror. Despite her young age, she had few illusions about human nature.

  Josette made a face. “Pffaugh. What man wants to flirt with a piece of pasteboard? He wants to be intrigued, entranced.”

  “I’m afraid that here in London, a lady is meant to be seen and not heard,” pointed out Anna. “She is not supposed to intrigue or entrance a man. She’s supposed to smile and simper—and get him to the altar as soon as possible.”

  “Pffaugh. What fun is that?”

  “It’s not meant to be fun,” replied Anna. “It’s serious business.”

  Josette blew out a low snort. “Oui, oui, I know. For you English, marriage is all about money, power, and prestige, eh? It is not so different in France.” The maid paused to take a needle and thread from a pincushion on the dressing table, and quickly stitched a small tuck into the sarcenet overskirt. “But we also understand that life is far more fun when there is a spark of romance to it.”

  Finished with the sewing, she raised a hand to her lips and kissed the tips of her fingers. “Put a man and woman together, it is inevitable that passions will flame.”

  “And likely one of them will get burned,” remarked Anna dryly.

  “Don’t be a pess…a pessimist, mademoiselle.”

  “I’m not. I’m simply being a pragmatist.”

  Josette shook her head. “Fire can burn, but it can also be a source of warmth and light.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” Caro pushed open the bedchamber door, interrupting the exchange. “You look…like a completely different person in that gown.”

  Josette set a hand on her hip. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Most definitely good,” said Caro. “Marvelous, in fact. That shade of smoky blue suits you perfectly, though I can’t explain why.”

  Anna felt a shiver skate across her skin. Strangely enough, it felt as if a layer of herself had been peeled off, leaving her naked.

  Ye gods, my thoughts are in such a tangle that nothing is making any sense.

  “You look,” mused Caro, tilting her head to one side and then to the other, “not only beautiful but a little…I dunno…”

  “Dangerous?” suggested Josette. “Even better than good. A lady should be little dangerous.”

  Anna cast a last sidelong look at her reflection before turning for the dressing table. Come-hither shadows seemed to ripple within the folds of silk as she moved, whispering softly, softly.

  Siren songs, luring unsuspecting men…

  Jerking her eyes away from the glass, Anna gave herself a mental scold. Far more dangerous than a lady in the flesh were the wild fancies that could spring to life inside her head.

  “We had better go downstairs,” she murmured, taking up her shawl and reticule. “You know how cross Mama gets if we keep her waiting.”

  Slouching a shoulder to the faux marble column, Devlin quaffed a swallow of his champagne and watched the dancing couples caper through the figures of a country gavotte.

  “What brings you out into the gilded glitter of Mayfair, Davenport?” Lord Osborne, a rake with nearly as dreadful a reputation as his own, strolled into the recessed alcove. “I thought that you, like a toadstool, much prefer dank, dark spots that never see a sliver of light.”

  “I am surprised that you are so conversant with the habits of primitive plant life like Lepista nuda. I thought your specialty was the female species of Homo sapiens,” replied Devlin.

  “Ha, ha, ha.” Osborne smiled. “I did attend Oxford, you know.”

  “For less than a term. As I recall, you were sent down for seducing the Provost’s wife.”

  “Actually, it was the other way around,” corrected Osborne. “But nonetheless, I had already decided that a scholar’s life was not for me.”

  “Neither is that of a monk,” quipped Devlin.

  “I don’t pretend to be a saint.” Osborne regarded a group of young ladies fresh from the schoolroom who were waiting their turn at dancing. “Nor do you.” He flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “Though I daresay there isn’t much here to tempt a man to sin. Innocence is so terribly boring, don’t you think?”

  Devlin didn’t answer right away. His gaze was on the arched entryway at the far end of the ballroom, where a quicksilver flutter of blonde and blue had just disappeared into one of the side salons.

  “What a pity that a plump purse is so rarely attached to aught but a dewy-eyed virgin.”

  “I wasn’t aware that you had to marry for money,” said Devlin absently. He shifted his stance, trying to find a better vantage point. Quite likely it was just a quirk of the swaying candlelight that had him imagining things.

  “I don’t. Which is why I have no intention of riveting on a legshackle any time soon. Word is that you, however, are sinking fast in the River Tick and need a rich heiress to bail you out of your debts.”

  “Perhaps,” said Devlin softly, “you have been listening in the wrong places.”

  “I keep my ears open wherever I go,” replied Osborne. “And I find it curious…” He paused to watch a new set of dancers take their places for a cotillion. “Speaking of dewy-eyed virgins, the only one who has a glimmer of interest to her is Miss Anna Sloane.”

  Damnation, swore Devlin to himself, as the lady in question turned to face her partner, setting off a soft swirl of smoke-dark silk around her ankles—and sin-dark thoughts inside his head.

  “And now that Wrexham has married her older sister, I imagine he will do the pretty and provide a handsome dowry.” Osborne’s mouth curled to a scimitar smile. “If so, I might reconsider my objections to matrimony to get her into my bed. My hunch is that beneath all the delicious beauty and demure smiles, there’s a tantalizing streak of wildness just waiting to be unleashed.”

  A sudden surge of fury, all the more powerful for being so unexpected, welled up in Devlin’s chest. For an instant, the music and the rhythmic scuff of shoes on the polished parquet was overwhelmed by the thrumming rush of boiling blood reverberating in his ears.

  If his newly purchased pocket pistol had been in his pocket, another hellfire scandal would likely have been branded on his name.

  Gritting his teeth, he waited for the pounding of his pulse to subside before he looked around. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

  “Oh? Have designs on the chit yourself?” A laugh. “I doubt the Perfect Hero would let either of us near her. Pistols at dawn, without a doubt. And no woman, however well dowered, is worth the trouble.”

  Devlin repressed the urge to shove the supercilious sneer—and several pearly teeth—down the other man’s throat. “A wise philosophy. Especially when one is a notoriously lousy shot.”

  Osborne arched a brow. “You seem to have swallowed your usual sense of humor tonight, along with the last of your wine.”

  “Bilious stomach,” muttered Devlin. A strangely sour taste had left his throat feeling dry as dust.

  “Drinking to excess tends to do that.”

  “For a fellow who makes no claim to sainthood, you are doing a bloody awful lot of moralizing this evening.”

  “Ye gods, you are in a touchy mood. My comments on excess have to do with curiosity, not morality.”

  Devlin scowled a warning.

  “I can’t help but wonder something,” went on Osborne. “As I said, I listen carefully when people talk, and from what I have gathered, your losses and winnings at the gaming hells are deceptively even. In fact, the winnings
may hold a slight edge. Yet your debts are quite large. So it raises the question—on what are you spending your money?”

  “If you’ll excuse me, my glass is empty.” Turning on his heel, Devlin walked off, ignoring the last murmured question that trailed in his wake.

  “What secrets are you hiding, Davenport?”

  Chapter Four

  Hands lightly touching, Anna followed Lord Andover’s lead through the figures of the country dance. Step-turn, step-turn. She knew the movements by heart so there was little danger in letting her mind wander to more personal concerns.

  Had it been a wise decision to agree to the journey north? She was having second thoughts…

  “So sorry—how clumsy of me,” murmured Andover as he steadied her stumble.

  Anna jerked her gaze away from the figure moving in and out of the shadows cast by the decorative colonnade. “I appreciate your gallantry, sir, but the fault is all mine—as you well know,” she replied.

  “You seem…distracted this evening,” he said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, no,” assured Anna, essaying a smile as the music came to an end. “I think I am just a trifle fatigued, is all.”

  “The social swirl can be tiring,” agreed Andover, as he escorted her off the dance floor. “Miss Caro mentioned that you will soon be journeying to Scotland, and I have to confess that I’m rather jealous. An interlude of peace and quiet in the country sounds very inviting after the rigors of the Season.”

  “The castle is surrounded by wild moors and rugged cliffs overlooking the North Sea, so unless you enjoy shooting birds or watching rain squalls darken the horizon, I daresay you might be bored to flinders.”

  “And you? How will you keep yourself occupied in such a remote spot?” asked Andover.

  “Books,” said Anna. “One can never be bored with books as company.”

  The comment drew a chuckle in response. “I’ve never known a lady so passionate about reading.”

  “Yes, well, there are those who love music or watercolors. I happen to find the printed word endlessly inspiring.” Anna fanned her face, using the cover of her kidskin-clad fingers to take another peek at the far end of the room.

  The shadows showed no sign of life. Perhaps the Underworld specter was only a figment of her own overwrought imagination.

  “I shall have to try to find you a novel that you haven’t read for the trip north,” said Andover lightly. “A daunting task.”

  “You need not trouble yourself. I’ve plenty of reading material to keep me occupied,” Anna assured him.

  “Miss Caro also tells me that a bevy of German nobles, including a prince, will be among the guests. So perhaps you will find romance outside the pages of a book,” he replied.

  “Real-life romance is the last thing I am looking to find in Scotland,” said Anna. “Prince Charming will have to look elsewhere for a bride.” Spotting her sister conversing with a childhood friend behind a large decorative urn filled with tuber roses, she quickly added, “If you don’t mind, sir, I think I shall beg off from this next set and join my sister.”

  Ever the gentleman, Andover was far too well mannered to protest. Taking his leave with a polite bow, he strolled off in the direction of the card room. A moment later, Caro’s friend was quickly claimed by her next partner, leaving the two sisters alone.

  “Christabel thinks your new gown is shockingly lovely,” said Caro. “All the girls do. They are yearning to cast off their pale hues and wear more daring colors.”

  “Perhaps, like Beau Brummel, you will become the arbiter of fashion,” added a masculine voice from somewhere close by. “The Sovereign of sarcenet and satin.”

  Anna didn’t need to turn around to know who was standing just behind her left shoulder. She could swear a faint whiff of brimstone suddenly sharpened the sweet fragrance of the flowers.

  “It’s rude to eavesdrop, Lord Davenport,” she said.

  “So it is,” he murmured, moving in a half circle to face her. “Which is why I shall step in and join the conversation.” His eyes locked with hers for just a moment, before sliding down to make a long, leisurely inspection of her gown. “Unless, of course, you have any objection.”

  Damnation. She felt herself growing uncomfortably warm. Damn, damn, damn. Her rebellious body seemed intent on responding to the man, despite all orders to the contrary.

  “Not at all,” answered Caro quickly. To Anna’s consternation, her sister had decided on their first encounter several months ago that the dark, disreputable marquess was “Exceedingly Interesting,” an accolade she bestowed on precious few gentlemen of the ton.

  Poets, thought Anna wryly, were Exceeding Hard To Please.

  “What do you think of Anna’s new gown, Lord Davenport?” added her sister.

  “It is indeed daring,” he replied, after a prolonged pause. “That particular shade of blue makes an intriguing contrast to her fair coloring. One can’t help but notice the striking contrast between dark and light.”

  A shiver of ice now joined the heat prickling over her flesh.

  “I think it makes her look slightly dangerous, and so does our new French maid,” confided Caro. “Josette says a lady should be dangerous. Do you agree, sir?”

  “That depends,” said Devlin.

  “Caro…” began Anna, anxious to turn the talk to a safer subject.

  “On what?” challenged her sister.

  “On the lady.” His eyes were on her again, and Anna felt her body clench in response to the low laugh that rumbled in his throat. “That smoke-dark hue conjures up thoughts of midnight and all the many sins that are hidden by darkness…”

  Anna did not want to think of sin, not when the word stirred vivid memories of how good his body had felt pressed up against hers.

  “…So yes, I would agree with you that your sister looks slightly dangerous.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” she quickly pointed out.

  “So can words be deceiving,” responded Devlin.

  She felt her pulse start to skitter, and suddenly it was hard to breath. Surely he couldn’t suspect the truth. Could he? Lucifer and his legions were said to possess dark powers.

  “So can gestures be deceiving,” he added. “So can kisses be deceiving.”

  “Are you always so cynical about life, Lord Davenport?” asked Caro, sounding far more intrigued than a young lady should be by a thoroughly disreputable rogue.

  “The answer is yes,” replied Anna. “Always.”

  His lips quirked, and the memory of his wicked, wanton mouth on hers made her skin begin to tingle all over.

  “Your sister knows me too well, Miss Caro.”

  “On the contrary,” protested Anna. “I know you not at all, sir.”

  “A more accurate statement would be that you know me better than you think.”

  A frightening thought.

  “However, in the spirit of furthering the acquaintance, might I request the next dance?” asked Devlin abruptly.

  Taken by surprise, Anna stammered, “I—I am fatigued, sir.”

  A glint of unholy amusement seemed to light in his eyes. “I promise to move very slowly. As you know, I am loath to exert myself any more than necessary.”

  Caro stifled an unladylike chortle. “That’s not what is whispered in all the drawing rooms, sir.”

  “It’s dangerous to listen to idle speculation, Miss Caro.” Devlin held out his hand to Anna. “Well?

  “But you never dance at these parties,” she said.

  “Aren’t you just a little curious as to why I wish to do so now?”

  “No,” lied Anna. Against all reason, the desire to feel his touch again impelled her to add, “But to avoid drawing unwanted attention, I shall accede to your request. People are already staring.”

  “Let them,” drawled Devlin, as he led her to the far corner of the ballroom floor. “Do you really give a fig for what bumbleheaded idiots think of your actions?”

  “Ladies are not as fre
e as you gentlemen are to thumb their noses at Society,” she answered obliquely. “The rules are far stricter.”

  “Don’t the rules ever chafe, like the whalebone stays of a corset that’s been laced too tightly?”

  Anna avoided the uncomfortable question by snapping back with a tart retort. “Somehow I doubt you have much experience with too-tight corsets, Lord Davenport. Unlike the Prince Regent, you have no need yet to wear such an intimate garment to enhance your manly figure.”

  A silent laugh, warm and wicked, teased against her cheek. “True. But I have unlaced enough wasp-waisted women to know that they must be deucedly uncomfortable.”

  Drat the rapscallion rogue—he was impossibly awful. Anna looked away to a distant spot over his left shoulder, hoping a telltale flush of color was not betraying the terrible tickle of heat that suddenly flared inside her. And impossibly intriguing. The thought of his long tapered fingers unknotting her undergarment stirred a strange shiver. What a pity she could not ask him for a detailed description of the process. It would be quite useful in writing Count Alessandro’s next seduction scene.

  “Forgive me, am I boring you?” inquired Devlin, as the musicians struck up the first lilting notes of the new dance.

  It was a waltz, Anna realized belatedly.

  “Your thoughts seem to be wandering,” he added.

  “I…” His palm pressed lightly on the small of her back, drawing her close, and all of a sudden, the rest of her words seemed to trip away.

  Strangely enough, the floor was behaving oddly as well. The parquet took on a tiny tilt, pitching her off-balance.

  “Too much champagne, Miss Sloane?” Devlin’s voice held a hint of amusement.

  “As I said, I’m tired, sir, and not much in the mood for dancing.” The first twirling steps left her feeling even more lightheaded. “So perhaps you could stop spinning in circles and simply get to the point of why you have dragged me out here.”

  “Ah, and here I thought my technique was not quite so clumsy.”