Sin (15 page)

His hand jerked and she flinched, expecting a slap. But it lowered, clenched in a fist. “You witch. I loved her.”

“But you beat her.”

“As a husband should. And she submitted the way a proper wife should.
She
knew her place.”

His indignation rang out into the still, silent room.

“The man, the one tried for the crime, he was young, wasn’t he? Twenty-two?”

“Blasted gypsies. Should’ve run them off.” He dropped the leads of the dogs. The beasts stirred, growled, but another command had them lowering hackles and muzzles. “There’s another group of them camped outside the estate now.”

His threat was obvious.
Her
body could be found in the woods,
her
brutal death attributed to the gypsies.

A clumsy threat. But then Chartrand was a big brute of a man, lacking finesse. Still, his large hands filled her with apprehension. He massaged his fisted hand with the other and she heard the crack of his knuckles. Then the beefy hand swung up and she reeled back.

Wearing a triumphant smirk at her cowed position, he slowly put his hands to his coat, drew a slip of white paper from his inside pocket. “A bank draft.”

She reached for it but he lifted it high. She would not demean herself by stretching. She arched a brow. “Then give it to me.”

“Down on your knees first, Lydia, love. I want more than your promises for my money.”

How many men had she performed fellatio on? Dozens. With eyes shut, thoughts elsewhere, the bobbing and sucking a mechanical act. With some—those men she desired—she’d enjoyed the act and enjoyed dazzling them. Desire made the slurping sounds erotic rather than coarse, desire made the taste sublime, desire turned the ripe scents of a man’s cock, sweaty ballocks and arse into a tempting fragrance.

She didn’t desire Chartrand. When he had been her lover, he’d been generous, exceedingly so, but only because his demands were high. She knew what he was. She would not sink to her knees before him now and place herself in such a vulnerable position. Chatrand might kick her in the head. She’d been kicked before, almost been kicked to death.

“You’ll do it, witch, or you’ll watch this burn.”

“Give me that paper, my lord, and I will consider your request.”

His mouth worked. Spittle flecked his thick lips in his frustration. Then he tossed her bank draft—a veritable fortune—into the air and grabbed her by the throat.

His beefy hands closed on her neck with enough pressure to frighten. Meeting his round, gray eyes, she tried to stare him down, tried not to show her fear. But he took a step and she had no choice but to stumble backward in response, and to keep doing so, until her back hit the wall. The corner of a frame gouged her shoulder blade. She winced. The picture rattled.

“Blunt won’t shut you up, will it, Lydia? There’s only one way. One way.” Relentlessly, his hands tightened. There was no rage in his eyes. They were empty. Terrifying.

She clawed at his hands. Damn the gloves, they covered her fingernails. She was helpless. Trapped. She was going to die.

God. Oh God.

She couldn’t die like this. This was a fool’s death.

He’d take her, just as he’d done to his young wife, and carry her out to the woods. He’d arrange her prettily, tear her clothes, her skirts…point his villainous finger at the gypsies…

His ballocks.

She couldn’t force her legs to move. Her fingers clung to his hands, digging, gouging, but she had no strength.

Please move!

Her knee jerked up.

His howl echoed, his body jumped back, but his hands tightened—

S
he no longer had the strength to claw at him.

Lydia fought the fall into blackness, clinging to Chartrand’s hands. Die like this? No! She wouldn’t…couldn’t. But any moment, she’d tumble into the dark and then—

Fear and strength flooded and she kicked out, kicked wild. Her knee jerked up, hitting softness, then the solidity of his pelvis.

“Bitch!” His hands instinctively clenched tighter.

Her last chance…she must fight. His eyes! She struck his eyes with her hands, half-blind, that spurt of strength fading. Fingers curled like talons and she gouged. He screamed, high-pitched, but his hands never left her throat. Her arms became both heavy and weightless, and a red-tinged blackness beckoned.

She felt herself falling.

“Milord—milord!” A man’s shocked cry pierced the enveloping dark.

Abruptly the hands yanked from her throat. Fierce pain shot from her neck as it expanded. She slumped against the wall. Sliding down it—

“Get out!” Chartrand roared to the servant, her savior.

No, no, please…but what would the footman do but obey…

“Her ladyship sent me, milord. Urgent matter, she instructed.”

Lydia caught hold of the paneled molding as she slid lower on the wall. She pushed up with aching, dead legs, trying not to fall. That cocky voice—

Tom! She forced her eyes to open.

Chartrand barked a command—but not to her or to Tom, to his dogs. They bounded up on splayed, rigid legs, then loped off in pursuit of their master. He stooped, snatched up the bank draft. The bastard. Then left…without a word, a backward glance, as though she didn’t exist…

Lydia stared after Chartrand, slowly taking in air, her throat so sore it hurt to breathe. How could even he be so bold as to almost a strangle a woman in front of a servant and then leave without even an attempt at a lie?

“What sort o’ sick games are ye playing, Lyd?”

She rubbed her throat. The skin burned and she winced at the tenderness where his fingers had dug in. She imagined bright redness and bruising…

There were those who enjoyed sex while having their breathing cut off, who claimed that being near death enhanced the pleasure.

They must be mad.

Still stroking her neck, Lydia met Tom’s dark, inquisitive gaze. She couldn’t let him know the truth. “The man is a brute and bully who enjoys disgusting pleasures.”

Suspicion burned in his narrowed eyes. “What the ’ell is it you want ’ere?”

“His lordship pays well.” She gave a jaded shrug, but worry gripped. Tom might be a village butcher and he’d been sharped at cards in London’s hells, but he wasn’t a complete fool.

She needed that bank draft! She’d promised to pay Tom’s debts, and the amount he needed had staggered her. Even if she could free him now, what of the future? And the past…she couldn’t forget the past. The fireplace shovel. One determined swing.

There’d been so much blood from the gash in the head. She, of all people, should have known that. They were always coated in it, her father and Tom, their leather aprons slick with it, stinking of it.

When did you ever stop repaying the man who’d bludgeoned his own da to save your life?

“Ye don’t fool me for a minute, lass. This is over yer blackmailing. Did he pay ye?”

“No. He wouldn’t pay me and then strangle me, would he? But don’t worry. His lordship will give me what I want. And then I can leave here.
Venezia
.” Softly, she reminded him of Venice, of escape. But if she gave him Chartrand’s money, what would be left for her? She needed more. If Montberry would pay…or Trent…

Tom’s hand snaked out and gripped her arm. He shook her, wrenching her arm in the socket, bringing tears to her stinging eyes. “I’m a dead man if me debts aren’t paid, sister.”

She needed his protection, needed him on her side. “You have saved my life twice. Trust me.”

Blast men and their stupid wagering, Venetia fumed. Her entire life had been continually twisted about in knots by ridiculous bets and male boredom. “Well,” she decided, “They can wager away but they will not discover my identity!”

Marcus’ big, naked arms were wrapped around her waist. In the safety of his embrace, on his rumpled bed, it was easy to make vows.

Was that why he laughed? “Bravo, Vixen. You have my word that they won’t.”

He sounded impressed. But she had the strength of her own vow and that was what she would put her faith in. She held no doubt Marcus would move heaven and earth to protect her—a certainty that melted her heart, but she refused to surrender responsibility for her own fate.

“So you aren’t too horrified by all this? You can endure a few more days?”

What other choice did she have? She heard worry in his words. But she wasn’t a simpering twit who swooned at scandal. “It isn’t so…horrifying.”

He chuckled. “You enjoyed Kate, Sukey, and Lizzie?”

“Yes.” Venetia thought of her orgy picture set in a temple amongst the clouds,
Zeus Summons
, in which Marcus played Zeus, and couldn’t help but giggle. Silly to laugh amidst disaster, but it helped. “But it most certainly isn’t…it isn’t what I expected. Though you did warn me.”

His hands slid up her back, leaving a trail of tingling nerves. Big hands cupped her shoulders, deeply massaged. She sighed, ecstatic, and let her head loll.

“And not that way—the way you’re thinking. It isn’t the sex.” She tried to explain, even as pleasure engulfed. “There’s a tension to all this, an undercurrent of…of anger.”

“No surprise, there. Almost every gentleman here is expected to pay to keep himself out of Lydia’s bloody book.”

Icy disdain coated his words. A flame of fury ignited in her soul. “Well, they shouldn’t be angry with her,” she protested. “They should have watched their tongues. What else did they think she would do?” She half-turned her head. He looked puzzled.

His lips parted but a rap at the door interrupted and his words never came out. Marcus shared her look of surprise. A feminine voice with coarse accents announced the arrival of breakfast—the food he’d summoned.

“Hide your face, love.”

She flopped down, flung the sheets over her head. Her body would be an obvious lump in the bed, but here, no one would care. It was expected! Scents made her tummy rumble. The rich chicory smell of coffee. Warm, sweet fresh bread. Heavy, spicy aromas—the meats—ham, sausage, kidneys…At the click of the door, she drew down the sheets.

“All clear.” He grinned and lifted a plate. Two trays groaned with their magnificent breakfast. “Care for chocolate, Vixen? Or coffee?”

The sheets spilled over her belly as she sat up. “Chocolate.”

He poured a brimming cup. “Aren’t you angry with Lydia?”

He was blaming the woman for the follies of the men. “No. I’m most angry with my father for not watching his tongue. Confiding in tarts while my mother is in anguish! Why couldn’t he have visited her and not Lydia?” Tears stung her eyes. She tasted one on her lip.

He sat on the edge of the bed, by her side, and handed her the cup without spilling a drop. “Who is your mother, sweet? You’ve never told me and Rodesson wouldn’t. Why didn’t they marry?”

A fine actor—he sounded as though he cared. He must only want her to stop blubbering like a silly child. She took a deep breath. In her anxiety, her cup tipped, hot chocolate splashed to the saucer. “My mother is—was—a lady. An earl’s daughter. The Earl of Warren, though he’d never admit it. As for why they didn’t marry—I don’t truly know. How they ever came to be lovers, I can’t imagine. She loves country life and he—well, you know what he is.”

Marcus bent, slid his hands down to her hips, down to tickle her nether curls. The fire crackled, rain drummed in the stretch of silence. Finally, he kissed her, at the top of her spine. Heat flowed over her, luxuriant heat over her skin, wet heat between her thighs.

“Tell me, sweeting.”

Oh, she didn’t want to talk…she wanted to kiss…to do more carnal things…

“Tell me what you think your father is.”

She didn’t completely understand. “He’s an artist.” Surely that explained it all.

“Couldn’t he be satisfied painting the countryside?”

His fingers brushed her nether lips, stealing her breath. She struggled to speak. “No. He’s a bohemian who loves his brothels and tarts, his drink and cards. He revels in male excess.”

“I see. Of course, you are an artist and you aren’t satisfied with country life either.”

That startled. No, she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been unhappy, though, just restless.

To her dismay, he stopped touching her. Instead he stood and sauntered back to the breakfast trays. He lifted lids. “So how did two such unlikely people meet?”

Because you came to end my career.
But he was speaking of her parents, not of her and him. “Rodesson came to paint the portraits of my mother and her sisters.”

“And passion ensued.” Selecting a plate, he piled it with sausages. From a steaming dish, he ladled kidneys beside those. Added eggs from the platter.

“I suppose. I expect she fell in love with him.”

He paused, cutting a slice of ham. “I expect he fell in love with her.”

Venetia hadn’t expected romantic sentiment from a jaded rake. She shook her head. “He was never faithful.”

“Which doesn’t mean he didn’t love her.”

“He certainly didn’t respect her, then,” she snapped. Though she knew in Marcus’ elevated world where titles and bloodlines and wealth dictated marriage, women ignored their husbands’ infidelities. Most ignored their husbands.

“My mother became pregnant, of course, and they fled to Gretna Green in a flurry of passion to marry, but they never quite got there. I suppose he thought he’d make her a bad husband, and there was still chance she could marry well. I believe they stopped along the way, took a room as husband and wife, and the next morning she was sick, so she guessed she was pregnant. But she discovered Rodesson hadn’t been faithful and she made a decision. She set herself up in a house, with the help of friends, and created a new identity. A friend posed as her husband, so the village believed there was one. The story was that he was a sea captain who had decided to travel to India to make his fortune. There were doubts and gossip, of course, so she, and then all of us, had to live above suspicion.”

Cathartic to spill the entire story. But her face burned. Surely he didn’t really care.

He returned to the bed, handed her the plate, a knife and fork lying across the impossible mound of food. She’d thought that mountain was to be his.

“Eat what you can,” he advised, eyes twinkling.

She took it, mumbling thanks as he returned once more to the trays. He glanced up from his plate. “So despite the child—you—your father didn’t marry your mother or live with her?”

“She chose not to force him and she decided to make her own life.”

“A brave choice for a lady with little experience of the world,” he mused.

“A romantic notion for a woman who thought the way to impress a bohemian artist was to be as wild as he.” Her mother had been hopelessly, foolishly in love.

“But she wasn’t wild.”

“She was willing to be anything—for love.” The tremble in her voice angered. This was a logical discussion—she refused to cry. “Her friends dissuaded her from being truly scandalous for the sake of her babe—me. There was still hope that her future could be salvaged, and her true nature won out. She lived quietly and devoted herself to noble work in the village.”

Marcus selected a bun, sliced it, then buttered it completely, right up to the edges. He looked up—caught her staring. “Is this how you like it?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Venetia sighed. “Only you, my lord Trent, could seduce a woman by the way you butter her bread.”

“I’ve never seduced a woman that way before—in fact, I don’t believe I’ve ever buttered a woman’s bun.”

She giggled helplessly at that, her cup rattling perilously on the saucer. He brought his plate and her lavishly spread bun to the bed. “Your mother had noble friends, to stay by her. Yet Rodesson visited her obviously—you have younger sisters.”

She set down her chocolate. “My mother traveled to him. She pretended to be meeting my father on his arrival at Plymouth, but she would visit him in London.”

“Did she? A forgiving woman, your mother.”

“A besotted woman. Every time she seemed free of him, she fell under his spell once more.”

“And this way your sisters were explained? What of the friend posing as her husband?”

“He truly did leave to seek his fortune in India. He sent letters and gifts, which made the tale look true. Then he died, and she claimed she was a widow.”

“Interesting. Then there could be no more children.”

By that, of course, he meant that her mother and father could no longer be lovers. Was that true? Her mother had visited Rodesson after that, yet her mother never quickened again.

“Well, there would be no more letters or packages sent and she had to explain that. I expect if anyone’s curiosity was truly piqued, they could have found the truth, but my mother flung herself into village life with all her heart, ever proper in her speech, her dress, her behavior. And all the while she lived a secret life.”

“Like her daughter.” Sprawled on the bed, with his plate laid precariously on the covers, he smiled between devouring his slices of ham.

She had her plate safely on the bedside table and she nibbled off it. “You see, I don’t even really exist. Hamilton was a name my mother invented for herself. My certificate of birth is a lie. She didn’t want to return home in disgrace—there was a marriage waiting for her. A man willing to overlook lost virginity. But she wanted to be free.”

“A romantic tale. Didn’t her parents search?”

“Yes. But then they found her and were shocked. They were happy to wash their hands of her. I’m sure that if you asked any matrons of the ton about the scandalous youngest daughter of the Earl of Warren, you’d hear the tale of her supposed elopement with a sea captain as fresh as though it happened this Season. She gave up everything for love. And all she received was heartbreak. In the night, if I crept down, I would see her alone, drinking the sherry we saved for company, and staring into the darkness. Love is a very frightening thing.”