Surrender To Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “Not long at all.” She put her hand around the base of his cock. “Except here. Here, you are quite long.”

  “Yes. Love. Yes, please, just so.” He forced his eyes open, and his stomach tightened with anticipation when he saw her arch smile. As he lifted into her grip of him, he said, “Two months, Em. This almost every night. No interruptions other than those few days at the beginning of this adventure. God, Em.”

  She tightened her hand around him. She had long ago proved a quick student; she was enthusiastic about his big body, his strength, and his predilection for crude fucking, to the point where he wondered, not without some irony, whether her appreciation of him was physical alone.

  A few moments later, she put her mouth where her hand had been, and there wasn’t another woman who compared to what she did to him. He concentrated on holding out, on drawing out his pleasure. He swept her hair to one side and fisted a handful. He’d taught her how to take him like this, and she now mastered him utterly. What she did with her tongue destroyed him.

  It happened that he did not want to finish in her mouth, and when he was uncomfortably close, he drew away. She braced her hands on his shoulders and gave him a look that burned. He still had his hand tangled in her hair. He let out a coarse grunt as he cupped her bottom with his free hand and brought her to him.

  “Now,” he said. “Now, but slow. Take me in slowly.” He let go of her hair and threw his hands back to grip the top of the carved bedstead that had been in the Margaret Street house for two hundred years.

  She smiled in a way that sent him hurtling toward climax, but she knew his body well and held back. He hadn’t precisely taught her that, but she’d learned the benefit of a moment’s denial. They froze, teetering on separate peaks of bliss. He drew a slow breath and concentrated on not losing control. Yes. Yes. Done.

  He hitched himself up enough to flex the muscles of his arms and upper body, and she seated herself on him. Controlled, except for her sigh of contentment. He was near out of his mind with lust by now. She rocked her hips on him, and every so often, he angled himself so the head of his cock went deeper in her. So close. Killingly close. Fucking her was like nothing else. Nothing.

  He, Devon, Lord Bracebridge, had what every other man in London wanted: the most beautiful woman in England in his bed. The Divine Sinclair was his, unreservedly and wholeheartedly.

  The coal in the fireplace shifted, and there were several long moments when the light changed and flickered through the room and there was silence between them; his heart expanded in his chest in a peculiar manner that had begun with his walking out of Aldreth’s house with her hand still in his. But by God, she was his wife, and no matter the difficulties of their past, she was his. His and only his.

  “Emily.”

  She leaned forward and put her hands over his. Her hair fell past her shoulders, unfastened because he’d grown to like her hair free when they were like this. He watched her face; her eyes were closed, and she was breathing harder, harder. Secret Emily, unknowable. His.

  He pushed up, and she cried out.

  “Tell me,” he said. “Tell me.”

  Her eyes opened. There simply wasn’t a name for that pure, intense, lust-laced blue. He released one hand from his grip on the headboard, wrapped it around the back of her neck and brought her closer.

  “Say it,” he said. There weren’t going to be more words for him. He was so close to the peak he might not last another five seconds. “Say what’s in your head.”

  His body broke, and he whirled away to her whispered confession.

  “I wish I didn’t love you.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Maggie answered the tap on the door to Emily’s room and admitted Mrs. Elliot. “Milady,” the housekeeper said with a quick curtsy.

  “Yes?” Emily slid a piece of paper into her book to mark her place. At home—that is, at the Cooperage—she’d had a lovely ivory bookmark that had been a gift from Anne last year. Gone forever now, since Papa had surely sold it. She constantly encountered the need or longing for items she no longer had. A bookmark. A fan. Paintings she’d done and was rather proud of.

  “His lordship begs me to inform you that he is downstairs with guests and hopes you will join him.”

  “How many guests?” Behind her, Maggie headed for her dressing room. That day at Portman Square, she and Bracebridge had reached peace, if one defined peace as an acknowledgment of the lack of mutual sentiment. I wish I didn’t love you, she’d said, to which he had said nothing. But they understood each other now, and that made it possible for them to get on with whatever sort of marriage they were going to have.

  “Four, milady.”

  “Please tell him I shall be down shortly.” She’d spent most of the afternoon home rereading Waverly. She wasn’t dressed for dinner since she’d expected to dine alone in her room. There was no reason for the flutter of her heart, but with their respective positions out in the open, she could acknowledge the reaction and not have it tear her apart. “Do you know who he’s brought here?”

  “No, milady.”

  Maggie approached with an armful of gowns. “The grey, the burgundy, or the dark blue?”

  “The dark blue.”

  Her maid hurried away to fetch the rest of the ensemble. By now, Emily trusted Maggie implicitly, and thank goodness for her unerring taste and attention to detail.

  Between the two women, Emily was quickly dressed and outfitted in matching slippers. Maggie had the lint brush in hand and was brushing the blue velvet overdress.

  The maid stepped back, brush aloft in one hand, then walked a circle around her. “Perfect, if I do say so myself.”

  Emily straightened her skirt and the silver lace shawl Maggie handed her, and was on her way. She found Pond first, though, for more information on the meal being prepared and the guests Bracebridge had brought home. She relaxed when she heard Mr. Rachagorla’s name. There would be at least one person she knew and liked.

  According to Pond, Mr. Simmons was an actor who managed a theater in partnership with Bracebridge and Mr. Rachagorla. His companion and very dear friend was Mrs. Quinn, a noted actress. The fourth name sent a thrill of recognition through her, for this guest was none other than the diva Signora Ciolini. Mrs. Simmons, Mrs. Quinn, and Signora Ciolini had made her husband’s acquaintance in his days as a prizefighter and operator of Two Fives.

  Emily was well acquainted with the rumor that Ciolini and Bracebridge had once been lovers. In the early days of that relationship, gossip had reached as far as Bartley Green.

  Outside the anteroom where Bracebridge and his guests were gathered, she took a deep breath, smoothed her skirts once, and walked in. She knew how to entertain and enthrall. No matter what anyone thought of her, in this regard she was entirely competent.

  Mr. Rachagorla was nearest to the door and already standing when she came in. If his suit was not from Weston himself, then it had been made by someone equally skilled. His waistcoat was exquisite, too. She’d never seen anything as lovely as that crimson and saffron silk. Wouldn’t Bracebridge look handsome in colors like that?

  Across the room with Bracebridge, another man stood; he must be the theater owner, Mr. Simmons. The woman next to him, a blonde whom she did not recognize, must therefore be Mrs. Quinn. The woman on the sofa was none other than the infamous, gloriously talented, Ciolini.

  At first glance, Signora Ciolini was smaller and much more ordinary than she appeared on stage. Except there was nothing ordinary about her.

  The singer rose with languid ease, then crossed toward Emily as if she were entering stage right. She took Emily’s hand in hers and pressed it tenderly. Her eyes were large, a dark brown both expressive and liquid. Her nose was hooked, her eyebrows thick and black, and her chin was too strong. She spoke in heavily accented but exceedingly charming English.

  “What a beautiful young woman you are.”

  “Thank you.” Ciolini was exactly the sort of woman Bracebridge would ad
mire: talented, interesting, and fascinating.

  “My delightful young beauty, tell me, what is your name?” Ciolini stepped back and looked Emily up and down, then glanced over her shoulder at Bracebridge. “Caro mio, you did not tell us you had another guest.”

  Oh dear. The woman had no intention of making herself agreeable. Emily withdrew her hand with just enough force to make her point. She waited until she had the woman’s full attention before she said, far too sweetly, “Lady Bracebridge, at your service.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. Indeed. Signora Ciolini, how delightful to meet you.”

  Ciolini whirled without much grace and arranged herself on the sofa to great advantage. She gestured with one hand. “Everyone is delighted to meet me.”

  Bracebridge had by then realized he had social duties to perform. He came to Emily’s side and introduced her to Mr. Simmons and Mrs. Quinn. At last came her official introduction to Signora Ciolini.

  Emily maintained her smile. “I heard you sing when I was a girl. I’m sure you don’t remember, but you came to Bartley Green at the invitation of a neighbor of ours. My sisters and I were permitted to attend, and your singing was—” She put a hand over her heart. She had no difficulty at all being genuine. “—the most astonishing, captivating thing I have ever heard in all my life. Ever since that day, I have been mad about opera.”

  Ciolini shot a glance at Bracebridge. “Do you go to the opera often?”

  “As often as possible.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Ciolini’s lip curl. “Last season, Signora, I attended the most astonishing performances. My sisters and I have heard you sing several times, to our great delight and honor.”

  “Have you many sisters?” the Italian asked.

  “Three,” she said.

  “So many?”

  Mr. Rachagorla broke the tension that followed. “Bracebridge has always spoken highly of the Sinclair sisters. Ciolini, I am astonished that you do not recall this.”

  Emily waved a hand. “If he spoke of me at all, the word ‘brat’ figured prominently in his complaint. I thank you for omitting that, Mr. Rachagorla.”

  “I am sure he never complained of you.” Despite his warm smile, Mr. Rachagorla had the same hardness she so often saw in Bracebridge. She had no more idea how to bridge that gap with him than she did with her husband. “His praise most certainly encompassed all the Sinclair sisters.”

  “Say no more, sir. I wish to hold that thought dear.”

  “You doubt me?” he asked with a smile.

  She seated herself midway between the fireplace and the sofa where Ciolini reigned. “How fortunate for me, Mr. Rachagorla, that your memory is faulty.”

  That reply earned her a more genuine smile. “I am glad to have met all the Sinclair sisters. Bracebridge is entirely correct. You are all charming, delightful, and accomplished women.”

  Mr. Simmons had retaken the chair he’d vacated upon her entrance and now tipped his head to one side, one hand dangling off the end of the chair arm. “One thing I know, my lady, is that your husband did not exaggerate your beauty.”

  With feline grace, Ciolini rose from the sofa and walked to Bracebridge. She opened the fan hanging from her wrist and held it so that only her liquid brown eyes showed. “My lord, I congratulate you on your marriage to this perfect little woman.”

  He took Ciolini’s hand and kissed her knuckles. The woman swept into a graceful, only slightly too respectful, curtsey. He raised her hand higher, and she took a step back. But their gazes locked, and he was smiling at the woman with genuine affection. “Devastating as always.”

  Emily’s heart sank. Ciolini was fascinating, and gifted, and interesting. She was everything Bracebridge preferred in a woman and that Emily could never be. The diva’s self-possession was reason enough for a man to find himself besotted. Emily believed absolutely the rumors that the woman’s lovers had included men from the highest reaches of fashionable London. The very highest.

  At last Bracebridge released Ciolini’s hand. Emily sat on her chair and felt useless and dull while her husband escorted Ciolini back to the sofa. Once again, she arranged herself in regal fashion. It was impossible not to stare at her.

  “Now that we are all here, tell us, Moll,” Bracebridge said to Mrs. Quinn, “what role has your admirers enthralled now?”

  “Desdemona, darling man.” She gave an overdone sigh intended to amuse, which it did. Like Ciolini, she left her seat to approach Bracebridge, wrapping her arm around his and leaning close. She, too, was a woman who was much more than her appearance. Mrs. Quinn might not have Ciolini’s penchant for the dramatic—odd in an actress—but she was not without the ability to move one to emotion. “You have not been to see me in the part. Everyone says I’m brilliant. Isn’t that so, Mr. Simmons?”

  “It is.” Mr. Simmons brought together the tips of his fingers, kissed them, and released that kiss to the air.

  “I do not doubt for a moment that you are brilliant in the role,” Bracebridge replied.

  Emily had never seen him with friends other than Mr. Rachagorla from his disreputable days, but this was what she had imagined: compellingß, talented men and women whom she would not have been permitted to meet under any other circumstances but these, Mr. Rachagorla excepted, since he was often invited to the very best parties and gatherings.

  “I must remedy this most deplorable lack.”

  “When you do, I hope you will bring Lady Bracebridge.” Mrs. Quinn released Bracebridge’s arm. “You said you enjoy the opera, Lady Bracebridge. Do you also enjoy the theater?”

  Emily could easily answer with a genuine smile. She very much liked Mrs. Quinn. “Othello is a favorite play of mine.”

  Mrs. Quinn gave her an encouraging look. “One of the great tragedies.”

  “As children, my sisters and I performed the play several times.” She let her gaze slide to Bracebridge, but he was watching Mrs. Quinn. “We were perfectly awful, but it was great fun.”

  “You were cast as Desdemona, I presume?” Mrs. Quinn asked. “You would be, with your astonishing beauty.”

  “You played Desdemona?” Bracebridge swung around to her. “Why was I not invited to such a spectacle as that?”

  Emily waved him off. “We were actresses long before you had ever heard of Bartley Green. And no, Mrs. Quinn. My sister Anne had the role of Desdemona.” She counted off on her fingers. “I played the Duke of Venice, Iago, Roderigo, and various others whenever there was a need for soldiers.”

  “You are a versatile actress, then.”

  “Out of pure necessity. I fear no one but we Sinclair sisters enjoyed our productions. But I promise you, we had our moments with such material as Shakespeare gives us. I sobbed most horribly whenever Anne died.”

  “Who played Othello?” Mr. Rachagorla asked.

  “My sister, Lady Aldreth.”

  “Indeed?” Bracebridge said.

  “Yes. I’m surprised you did not guess that.”

  “My lord,” Mr. Simmons said. “You must bring her to our production. I insist. Come any night you like. I’ll reserve a box for you.”

  Emily did not dare stop smiling. “Mr. Simmons, how very kind of you. However, it’s more likely I shall attend with one of my sisters. I have three times the opportunity to persuade someone to accompany me. Since we have all acted the play before, we have a singular affection for the work. It won’t be difficult at all to convince one of my sisters to attend with me.”

  “The duchess, perhaps?” Mr. Simmons looked dazzled by the thought of the Duchess of Cynssyr in attendance at his theater.

  “Oh, very possibly.” She would do him a good turn if she could persuade Anne. She was more than willing to try.

  “Lady Bracebridge, you are as charming as you are beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You said you have heard Ciolini sing?” Mr. Simmons asked.

  “Yes, several times, but as I said, the first was when I was a girl.”


  “Bartley Green, did you say?” Ciolini tapped her chin.

  “Yes. It would have been for the Glynns. They live at Withercomb in Bartley Green.”

  Ciolini glanced at Bracebridge. “Yes, yes, I remember. A private performance. For intimates only. There was a terrace. You were not there, caro mio.”

  “I was not,” Bracebridge said.

  Indeed, not. At the time, he would have been merely Mr. Devon Carlisle and, though he was not yet officially unwelcome at Withercomb, Emily could not imagine Mrs. Glynn allowing a prizefighter at her home.

  Emily’s life then seemed so uncomplicated. None of the Sinclairs had yet met Bracebridge, Aldreth’s father had still been alive, and her own father hadn’t succumbed yet to the daily call of spirits.

  “My dear child,” Ciolini said. “How old were you? No more than five or six, no?”

  “Twelve or thirteen, I think.”

  Ciolini looked at Bracebridge with one eyebrow arched as she murmured, “So young.”

  “Alas,” Bracebridge said, “I missed Othello at the Cooperage and Ciolini at Withercomb.”

  Emily smiled at Ciolini as if she hadn’t heard her husband’s murmurs. “You were in such fine voice, I came away in tears.”

  Pond rescued her by calling them to dinner, for which Emily was quite grateful. There was no reason she could see for Ciolini to behave as she was. Mrs. Quinn, who had an equally long and likely intimate past with Bracebridge, was perfectly pleasant and agreeable.

  The meal was a masterpiece and the service flawless. Conversation among the six of them was easy and intimate. Everyone but her shared wonderful, amusing stories about their lives or referred to stories of events from the days of Mr. Devon Carlisle. Plainly, they were fond and close acquaintances, with a shared past she knew very little about.

  Other than stories of the plays she and her sisters had staged, quite dreadfully, or the many times she’d been in trouble with one of her sisters for one reason or another, she had little of interest to say. She could, however, give her opinion of recent events, of politics, or of the novels and poetry she’d read. She had Mr. Rachagorla to thank for bringing up subjects such as that.