Engaged in Sin (14 page)

He gave a gentle kick and they coasted back. She squealed on top of him. They swung forward, and his cock followed the arc, sliding deep inside her. Hell, the sheer heavenly joy of it shot through his brain. But she was still stiff.
Relax, Cerise. Come on, angel. Enjoy it
. Dimly, he realized he was begging out loud for her to do so.

Then she moaned. A moan as dark as chocolate, as deep as his thrusts felt, as hoarse as he knew his voice sounded. With each pass of the swing, she cried, “Oh!
Oooh!”

But now he could hear it: the forced quality in her voice. She groaned, and her voice dropped to a sultry purr guaranteed to drive a man mad as she gasped, “I’m coming! Oh, Your
Grace.”
But even though she was wailing through a climax, she was still like a board on top of him. She was screaming with pleasure—but was she feeling any of it? He felt his arousal slipping away. He focused on Cerise, on every throaty wail and breathy gasp. He slid his hands between them and touched her quim. She wasn’t wet. Not lushly slick, the way she would be if she came. Had she made all that noise even
though she hadn’t liked it? Had she been giving him a performance?

He asked, wondering if he really wanted the answer, “Angel, did you like it?”

Then he knew—no matter what she said, he had to know. Making love should not be only about him getting serviced. He wanted her to enjoy it too. It wouldn’t be pleasure for him if he thought she was going through the motions, unhappy, uncomfortable, scared. “Is it good, Cerise? Am I good?” Hell, was she too afraid of him?

“Your Grace, you are wonderful. Of course it is good. You make me come so many times.”

He heard the fear in her tone. “No, I don’t, angel, do I?” Was it because he was blind? Or had he lost some of his technique? It had been a long time since he’d made love. He hadn’t done it since he lost Rosalind and went to war.

“You
do,
” she insisted, and she sounded almost desperate. “Let me prove it, Your Grace.”

“You don’t have to prove anything, Cerise. I just want to give you pleasure.”

How had he known? What had she done wrong?

Anne froze on the duke’s lap. The women in the brothel had insisted every man loved a good performance. Men, they claimed, always wanted to think they were superb lovers—so they readily believed a woman’s screams and moans. But the duke had guessed hers weren’t real. He’d said he felt her tension. Heavens, had he been
that
perceptive of her during sex?

It was so ironic. She
had
enjoyed it. She was
not
afraid of him. She had been so very close to pleasure, but an orgasm would not happen for her. And now he feared she hadn’t liked it at all. “You do give me pleasure,” she
insisted. How could she convince him? He sounded … hurt. The whole point of being his mistress was to keep him content in bed.

“Is it because I’m blind?”

The question confused her so much, she muttered, “Is what—” before she stopped herself. “You are so very good. Everything you do to me is wonderful. It is
perfect
.” If her performances had not been enough, what could she do now? Why should it matter whether she came or not? “You are the most perfect lover ever, Your Grace. And all I want to do is give you pleasure.”

In the silence, her heart thundered. She had told him the truth—he was wonderful at lovemaking and she truly did want to delight him. Finally he groaned. “All right, my dear. Then let us share pleasure together. Perhaps this time on the bed?”

Anne snuggled sleepily against the duke’s chest.

Goodness, had they really spent two whole days making love? That night, after he questioned her about her orgasms, they’d indulged in three more sexual bouts. She was certain the duke now believed she was climaxing. She suspected he
wanted
to believe it, as the other women at Madame’s had said. The frustrating thing: She simply could not come. Perhaps it was the way she was. Or it was because of her past. She loved to make love with the duke, but she could not find the ultimate pleasure from it. And she must keep that a secret.

They’d stopped lovemaking only long enough for the meals that were served to them in the bedroom. She’d quickly learned why the duke had not wanted anyone to witness him dine. He was still learning how to cope with eating food he could not see.

Using a trick from her grandfather, she had shown him how to arrange his plate in a pattern that suited
him: his meat at three o’clock, his potato at nine, his vegetables at twelve. Quietly, she instructed Treadwell to teach the footman to serve His Grace this way. They must arrange his food in the same way at each meal and discreetly explain each dish they served onto his plate.

“Angel, I think we’re going to have to get out of bed.” Grinning, the duke stroked her loose, disheveled hair. It was a delightful caress.

“Mmm. Do we have to?”

He laughed. “It is time to change the bedding, love. Crisp, clean sheets will be a treat.”

“That would be lovely.” Then, daringly, she asked, “Perhaps you would share them with me all night?”

She knew he didn’t sleep in the bed with her. He waited until he thought she was asleep, then he went to an adjoining bedroom. He would close the door, likely so she would not hear him cry out with nightmares or know he paced for most of the night.

But she had heard all those things, and each time she heard him shout, she’d gone to him. No matter how much he thrashed, she would sit at his bedside and soothe him. He must have been exhausted from their lovemaking, because he didn’t wake when she touched him. Each time, she was able to coax him back to sleep.

She knew Beckett had not listened to her: He brought brandy to that room. For two days she had watered it down when the duke slept. Little by little, so no one would notice.

He didn’t answer her, so she asked again, “Would you try sleeping with me, Your Grace?”

He sighed. “Angel, why would you want to take the risk? There’s no need for us to sleep together. We can have sex and then I’ll leave you to your rest.” He wrapped one of her tangled locks around his finger. “It works perfectly. Even my mother and father, who were devoted to each other, didn’t share a bed. My father always
insisted part of the continuing excitement was to go to my mother’s room and rap on the door and hope she was equally randy.”

She had to giggle at that. It was true: Married couples did not share beds. Why was she so determined to coerce him to sleep with her? It would prove to him he was healing, and she was certain he was. But she feared if he had a nightmare and hit her, he would take that as proof he was going mad.

He wasn’t mad. After the past couple of days with him, Anne was equally certain of that.

He patted her bottom and lifted her off him, gently letting her sprawl on the tousled sheets beside him. “I’ve ordered the carriage to take you into the village. There’s a dressmaker and a milliner’s. Choose as many clothes as you wish. The seamstress is to complete them immediately. Write a note with those instructions and I’ll sign it.”

“You wish me to buy clothing?”

“It occurred to me you have nothing but that robe of mine and the dress you came in. I can’t keep you here and force you to stay in the same dress day after day.”

“For two days you have kept me out of it.”

“Remember our contract. I’m failing in my duties as protector.” He spoke lightly, but his mouth was grim. “If we were in London, you would have rushed out to the most fashionable modiste in Town first thing in the morning after I made my offer.”

Would she have? The truth: She would not have done so. She wouldn’t have thought of it so quickly. For years, she hadn’t been able to dream of buying a gown. But as his mistress, she would shame him if she was not fashionable. Ironically, she would embarrass him if she did not lavishly spend his money. She was relieved, though, that he seemed to have forgotten her tension.

“Would you wish to accompany me on my excursion?”
she asked. “Your Grace, Treadwell told me that the afternoon we walked in the rain was the only time you’d left the house in two weeks.” Surely it would help him to not be indoors all the time.

“Apparently I ran out into the woods one night, when I dreamed I was in battle. I ended up in the stream and almost drowned. Since that foray onto my grounds went so well, I decided to defer another attempt.”

Heavens, no wonder he wouldn’t leave the house. “Come with me now. It would be lovely to walk together.”

“No, angel. Go yourself and take some of my servants. Buy anything you wish. I won’t be able to see it, but I want you to be pleased.”

The ducal carriage rattled down the high street of the village of Welby, which lay four miles from the duke’s house. Anne peered out the window. Sunlight darted from behind gray clouds, dappling the row of narrow shops. Children stopped in the street, then raced behind the carriage. Tradesmen came to their doorsteps. Ladies hurriedly adjusted their daughters’ apparel.

This village was so like Banbury, near her home of Longsworth, and Anne struggled to forget the reminders of a life she’d lived long ago. She’d vowed she would think only of selective things of that time—things she could use to help the duke.

But the smell of the bakeshop made her think of walking in to the one in her village, with a penny in her hand. The stretch of green commons reminded her of village fêtes, and Maypoles, and scampering over the grass despite the fact she was usually wearing a pristine white muslin dress. Then Father had died suddenly of an attack of the heart, and before she had recovered from the shock of losing her father, Sebastian had come. He was
the viscount. And he still had wanted her. He wanted to marry her.

Ever since Anne was eight years of age, Sebastian had shown a great interest in her when he visited Longsworth. He began to kiss her—not cousinlike pecks but horribly wet kisses on her lips. Whenever he found her alone, he would touch her on her chest or her bottom, or he would slip his hand beneath her skirts and stroke her legs. Even now, thinking about it made her shudder. It made her feel so bad, so wrong and guilty and sick in her stomach.

She and her mother had been in Sebastian’s power. Mama had agreed she was not to marry Sebastian. She was only
fifteen
. But one night he’d come into her bedroom. He said if he took her innocence, she would have to marry him. She’d frozen at first as he climbed on top of her. Then she’d been so horrified at the thought of marrying him, she managed to slither out from under him while he fumbled with his clothing. Desperately, she grabbed for a weapon. Her fingers closed on the lip of her chamber pot. When he leapt at her to haul her back onto the bed, she threw it at him.

Her mother had come, along with servants—the housekeeper, maids, footmen. All summoned by her shriek, which had been more in anger than terror. Then she had seen her cousin’s face and she had truly gone ice cold with fear. Red-faced, with bulging eyes, he had looked as if he wanted to kill her. That very night, Mama gathered a few of their things, loyal servants prepared a carriage, and they ran away. They had nowhere to go. Her mother’s family was estranged from them, because her grandpapa—her mother’s father—had married an unsuitable woman. Her grandmother had been a former opera dancer who once performed on the stage. Her mother had said they could not go to any of her family—
none of her mother’s relatives would help them. So they had gone to London. Despite their poverty, despite the long, arduous hours her mother worked, Mama had tried to make Anne feel as surrounded by love as she had been when growing up at Longsworth.…

By the time she reached the narrow shop front with fabrics displayed in the window, which stood right beside the milliner’s, Anne has discovered that a heart could feel unbearably small and tight yet full to bursting at the same time.

A footman helped her down from the carriage. She pushed open the door to the dressmaker’s, and a tiny bell gave a melodic tinkle.

The modiste hurried forward, a tape draped around her neck. The woman had gray-streaked brown hair swept up in a chignon and wore a well-made, tasteful day dress. Anne had brushed and pinned up her hair and wore her cloak over her gown, but it was a scandalous gown for the middle of the day, and it looked worse for wear. There were two women in the shop. Anne’s heart sank. Respectable ladies, of course. Members of the country gentry.

She explained her purpose—and the fact that the Duke of March would pay for her purchases.

The dressmaker’s brows rose sharply. “I see. I am grateful for His Grace’s condescension, but …” Her voice was awkward, brittle. The woman glanced toward the two ladies, one thin and dark, the other stout and fair. Lowering her tones, she murmured, “This is a respectable establishment, miss. I dare not offend the sensibilities of the gentlewomen of this village.”

The ladies gazed coldly at Anne. The thin one whispered to the stout one behind her gloved hand. The blonde’s mouth opened in a large O. No doubt the thin one had said the word that scandalized all respectable
ladies.
Whore
. Anne would be less despised if she carried the plague.

She knew she could tip up her nose and use the duke’s name to demand service. But courage fled. She turned on her heel and raced out of the shop. The bell gave a tinkle, the door snapped shut behind her, and the impassive footman promptly opened the carriage door as though it was customary for the duke’s mistresses to run from shops.

Stupidly, Anne buried her face in her hands as the carriage rumbled off. What did it matter if she wasn’t respectable? What did it matter if Bow Street wanted to hang her? She
wasn’t
bad. She had saved those three innocent girls from the brothel. And she might just survive. Survival was all that mattered.

It seemed the carriage reached the duke’s home far more quickly than it had taken to get to the village. A groom was leading a horse away from the front steps. Anne’s heart dropped. Could it be a Bow Street Runner? She must stop
panicking
. It could just be a friend of the duke’s.…

It could be Lord Ashton! After Kat had refused his offer to service the duke, he would have continued to search for another woman. What if he’d come to tell the duke he’d found someone? The duke would know her story was a lie.