Engaged in Sin (23 page)

“After Devon went to war, our mother barely ate or slept. She became perilously thin. Your letter cheered her so much, my sisters were able to coerce her to eat, and she stopped staying in her rooms. She had spent hours alone, writing letter after letter to Devon. Most she simply crumpled up or tore to pieces and burned. What you did was a wonderful thing.”

“Th-thank you.” Anne’s heart lurched. Suddenly she knew she had to make him go home. He
must
go to his family—

But if he did, would he allow her to stay here? Would he let her go? It didn’t matter. Reuniting him with his family, easing his pain, his mother’s pain—that was the most important thing.

“What is it?” Lady Cavendish stared. “You look as if you are arguing with yourself.”

“It’s nothing.”

The genuine kindness of Lady Cavendish stunned her. A lady of the
ton
should be either horrified by her or utterly condescending. Lady Cavendish made her think of her mother, who had always been gracious, generous, kind.

“Would you be willing to help me with my husband? Or is there nothing I can do, since I’m the size of a carriage and not pretty at all anymore—”

“Rubbish!” Anne spat the word impetuously. The countess reeled back. Fumbling over her words, Anne went on, “You—you are stunningly beautiful. What
gentleman could not see the sheer loveliness in a woman who is carrying his child? You absolutely glow.”

The countess smiled wryly. “You must know what men are like. My husband may be pleased that he is going to have a child, and he is hoping for a son, of course. But he has desires, and he feels he can’t come to my bed anymore, so he … I think he has gone to someone else’s.”

A blush washed over Lady Cavendish’s face. “There’s no one else I can speak to about this. Devon is the only other person who knows. And he became so angry he wanted to
fight
with my husband! I want to win my husband back—away from the clutches of that horrible widow who has snared him.”

Anne tried to follow the countess’s impulsive words. “A widow?”

Devon’s sister nodded, her curls bouncing. Then she suddenly tensed and put her hand to her belly. Pain racked her face.

Anne got to her feet. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

“This … keeps … happening,” Lady Cavendish gasped. “My belly tightens. It goes so … hard.” She stared ahead, looking dumbfounded and a little fearful.

Anne stroked her arm. “When I was younger”—she must not forget and accidentally say “in the slums”—“I saw several births.” Her mother had even helped in some labors in the lodging houses in which they had been forced to stay. “I do remember that a woman’s belly goes hard as her time comes near. One of the midwives called it ‘practice.’ Try to relax and breathe through it.”

“Relax!” Lady Cavendish cried, smiling ruefully.

Anne had no idea how to broach this without causing worry or saying something unseemly to a countess. And she knew, from being close to births, that the “practice”
was much gentler than the real thing. “You must be very near your time,” she said carefully. She did remember that some women had spoken of the practice pains very soon before the birth happened. “One thing I learned is that no one can ever guess when a birth will happen. It can be much sooner than one suspects—”

“But I cannot go home!” Breathing hard, Lady Cavendish launched to her feet. “When I’m there, all I can do is wonder where my husband is and whether he is with that woman—”

“Please. You shouldn’t work yourself up.” Anne put a quelling hand on her arm. “So you want to seduce him,” she began. Her cheeks must be scarlet already. But she hoped this discussion would distract Lady Cavendish.

“Yes. After I’ve had the baby, of course. I want to know all the tricks a courtesan would know. I must know what things I can do to please him. To keep him from straying.”

It was on the tip of Anne’s tongue to point out that the countess was a lady. Well-bred ladies were not supposed to know a courtesan’s tricks. Perhaps this was the very reason proper ladies were supposed to avoid courtesans and fallen women—in case they were tempted to ask questions and learn about seduction. She remembered some of the naughty things the prostitutes at Madame’s had taught her.
Take a man’s cockstand between your lips and he’s yours. Or let him have you from behind, and you’ll thrill him no end. They don’t get that from the fine ladies
.

She had tried everything she could think of to entice Devon into keeping her, but how did she explain this to a lady? But, really, why should ladies not know about sex? Why should women be proper and lonely while men went to brothels for carnal things they couldn’t get elsewhere?

Lady Cavendish began to breathe hard and look frightened.

“All right,” Anne whispered. She must be mad, but Lady Cavendish instantly stopped rubbing her belly and paid attention. “We will begin with the one your husband will love the most. You must …” Her courage almost failed as she faced the eager, inquisitive gaze. “You must take him into your mouth.”

“Kiss him? We used to kiss passionately. Since our marriage, he seems to have lost interest in such frivolities.”

“That is not … uncommon for men. I—I think kissing for men is a part of seduction. Once the lady becomes willing to bed them without kisses or other preliminary play, men dispense with it.” Though she remembered the wonderful kiss she’d shared with Devon in the rain. The times he’d kissed her when he didn’t expect sex at the end of it.

“Well, that is terribly discouraging,” the countess said with a frank, gusty sigh. “Then how am I to convince him to do it?”

There was nothing for it but the truth. “I meant that men like women to kiss their private parts.”

“
That
part?” The countess gaped at her, then frowned. “You are trying to frighten me away.”

“No, Your Ladyship, I am not. You wished to know what courtesans do, and that truly is one of the things. It’s something men enjoy a great deal, but they would never ask it of a gently bred wife.”

A blush swept ivory cheeks. “You mean, I simply open my mouth and let him put it inside?”

Heavens. “Well, um … yes. Gentlemen like a lady to … suck on it. The friction and pressure pleases them. They like a woman to … move her head up and down.” She could
not
do this.

There was a sudden rap upon the door—thank heaven
for an interruption. Anne could imagine any number of Madame’s whores who would relish explaining a few things to a naïve lady, proud to display their abundant experience. She was not one. She swiftly called, “Come in.”

It was a young maid, Hattie. She bobbed a curtsy and began to announce, “His Grace—” But the duke passed her, lightly sweeping his walking stick.

“Not necessary, my dear,” he said in his cool, controlled way that warned of a storm inside. “Both of these ladies know who I am.”

His sister had come to Cerise for instruction in carnal arts.

Devon could not quite believe it. It was a good thing he had his walking stick to rest on, or he would have been knocked to the ground by Caro’s astounding and grudging admission. He spun on his heel toward his sister—he knew exactly where she was, because her soprano voice was protesting loudly about interfering brothers.

“What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You cannot come here and speak with Cerise. It is not acceptable. It is not done. Do you realize there were a gaggle of maids in the corridor, straining to hear every word passing between you two?”

His mistress did not say a word—wisely, he thought, even in his exasperation—but he had to guess his sister would not be cowed. “I had no other choice!” Caro cried, and he could picture her the way she used to be before she had married. A wild hoyden who liked to ride and fish and shoot with the men. He should have known the supposed change to demure and happy bride wasn’t real. The memory of what she used to look like, her eyes snapping, braids bouncing as she argued with him over
something—usually his refusal to take her along with him and his friends—gave his heart a severe punch.

Cerise had helped him cope with his blindness, but nothing would make it easier to accept. Not when he knew he would probably never see his sister again or see his little niece or nephew at all. Until he’d fallen in love with Rosalind, babies had been something he hoped to avoid. Now the knowledge that he’d never see an infant’s smile, not even his own baby’s toothless giggle, if he had a baby—hell, it leveled him.

“Are you listening, Devon?” Caro said. “I said the person to blame for all of this is Phillip! If my husband had not fallen in love with someone else, I would not be here, trying to learn how to win him back. If he did not have a roving eye—”

“You loved him,” he pointed out.

“I still do. But one-sided love is not enough. It’s even
worse
.”

Cerise’s voice, lush, lovely, infused with gentle firmness, fell into his blue-gray void. “You must calm yourself, Lady Cavendish. It is true the fault is your husband’s, but it would be best if you were to go home with your brother.”

“I’m not going anywhere with my annoying brother. Even if I do, I will come back—”

“You will not!” he barked. “Do you have any idea of the shock to find that you had left my house and no one knew exactly where you were? In your condition? I managed to trace you to here, no easy task when I’m blind. Then I discover you are learning things you have no right to know, from my mistress, and the entire
taproom
is discussing it.”

“Well, then, stop
shouting
,” Caroline snapped. “Every taproom in England must be able to hear you. I don’t see that I’ve done anything so very shocking. I am a married woman. I was expected to go to balls and watch
that ferret of a woman, Lady Pomroy, throw herself all over my husband. And the worst I was allowed to do, according to Society, was give her the cut direct, when
she
is the most awful little whore—”

“Caroline!” Hades, his temple throbbed.

“Your Grace.” The cool voice belonged to Cerise. She sounded oddly distant and icy. And rather condescending, though she and Caroline were the ones at fault here. Cerise had told
him
she should not be anywhere near his sister. Hades, because of
propriety
, his mistress had been forced to leave his house, condemning him to sleepless nights filled with nightmares. And thanks to propriety, he had been left missing her intensely, aching for the sound of her voice, wanting her touch, hungering for her.

“I do not think it is very wise to shout at Lady Cavendish,” Cerise went on, making him feel like a disobedient schoolboy. “The person to blame in this is me.”

He turned to her. Or at least to where he thought she was. She did not sound contrite. She sounded … furious. “That’s not true,” he groaned. “But you should have sent her home at once.”

“Perhaps. Though was it really so wrong to offer some help and advice? While there may be rumors that I am your mistress, everyone at this inn was supposed to believe I am a widow and friend of your family. Unfortunately, your visits, and your reaction now, will have caused the gossip.”

“So
I’m
in the wrong?” He could not believe this. How did his sister and his
mistress
manage to make him feel like the villain? “You were the one to insist on leaving my house to avoid gossip and protect my sister. You should have considered that today.” He did sound like an idiot. She was correct: His visits, his need to be with her, had done the damage to his story. He had best keep his mouth shut and just get his sister home.

But Caro cried, “She did! Of course she did, you great lummox!
I
insisted on staying. I—”

His sister stopped shouting. A weak, girlish voice whispered, “Oh, dear.” Who in blazes was that? Had one of the maids come in? That little timid squeak sounded like neither of the two women he was now arguing with.

“What is wrong, Your Ladyship?” Cerise was the one to speak, her beautiful voice filled with concern. Footsteps hastened past him, and he heard a low feminine cry of distress. What had happened? Damn the blindness. He tried to follow the frantic female voices.

“I’m all … wet. What—what does it mean? Could it be … blood?”

“I’m sure it is not,” Cerise said, but he was stunned by the word.
Blood
.

“I haven’t had any pain since before, yet now my skirts are soaked.…” The horror in Caro’s voice pierced his heart. “Have I done something wrong? Am I going to lose my baby?”

“Shh,” Cerise soothed, while his heart slammed against his chest with the force of a cannon blast. “Come, stand up with me. That should stop the flow—does it?”

“What is it?” he said into the void. “What’s wrong?”

“You are right.” Caro sounded relieved. “It did stop.”

His heart was so tight with fear it was amazing it could still pump blood. “
What
stopped?”

“What I suspect has happened, Your Ladyship,” Cerise said to his sister, as though he wasn’t even in the room, “is that your water has broken.”

Christ. No wonder she was ignoring him. Devon knew almost nothing about the business of birth, but he’d been at war, and there had been babies born in the camps, among the camp followers and officers’ wives. Water breaking meant a child was on the way. What
exactly had to be done? Should he get Caro home? Get a midwife? He felt like his head was going to blow off.

Then Caro gave an anguished cry that rooted him to the floor. “Goodness! Oh!”

“What is it?” he barked, panicked. He had to help her, but he felt … damned helpless.

“It is all right, Your Grace. It’s simply a labor pain.” Cerise’s answer had him flushing scarlet and seeing red—a strange thing for a blind man. How could she be so blasted calm? Then he got over his frustration at feeling lost and useless. Thank heaven she was calm. Snapping back to his senses, he realized she was giving precise instructions to Caro. She briskly told his sister to bend over, hold the arm of the chair, and arch her back like a cat.

“Is this child coming now?” he asked.

“Oh, heavens,” Caro moaned.

“Normally a first child does not come quickly,” Cerise said. Then she urged, “Keep breathing in a rhythm.”