Sin (27 page)

Vee slumped back in her seat and turned her face to the window. They’d crested a hill, and the sun-kissed green of the English countryside stretched out beneath them. “Then—” Her voice shook. “Then it’s impossible.”

She lay on something firm and warm. Wriggling as she wakened, Venetia discovered a hard ridge pressing against her derriere. Her head jostled on the velvet seat. She shook herself awake to discover she was laid across Marcus, her bottom bouncing on his lap. Her cloak lay over her and his hand was on her hip to steady her.

She tried to push herself up. He caught her hand and helped her. Street flares lit the outskirts of Mayfair, balls of indistinct light in the nighttime fog.

“Would you like to see your father first, before going home?”

Sleepiness dropped away instantly. Her father! He’d had no word from her, so had no idea that Lydia Harcourt was dead and her secrets were ashes. But Venetia couldn’t speak through the tightness of her throat. She could only nod her head.

Impossible. Marcus wanted her, she wanted him, but it was all impossible.

Her father’s street, the fringe of the fashionable world, was crammed with carriages whisking hopeful upstarts to lavish balls. She pulled on her bonnet, dropped down the makeshift veil. “Thank you.” How inadequate that was. But what else could she do? Cry? Reveal the love she knew she shouldn’t have for him? To what end? “I can hire a hackney to take me home.”

The carriage stopped, she heard the thump of the groom’s boots on the street, and she stood, ready to go.

Marcus got up, too, bent in the low carriage. “You are not hiring a bloody hackney. I am coming in with you.”

Before she knew what she’d done, she pushed at him to make him sit. But he stood, unmoved, her hands pressed into his chest. “Do you intend to shout at him?” she gasped. “Over my career?”

“I think he needs to understand exactly what you endured to save the family he should be responsible for.”

As Marcus helped her down from the carriage, he brusquely waved aside her every plea. Even her tears didn’t move him. He wrapped his arm around her waist and firmly directed her to the house. She thought of what the physician had said.
He is on the mend, and if he takes care, should recover fully.

Would Marcus’ anger cause her father to have another attack? If Marcus hurt her father, could she nurse him, fix him, make everything well again?

Directed by the butler to her father’s bedchamber, where he was still resting, Venetia stopped on the threshold. Shocked. A woman sat on a stool by the bed. She wore a deep blue dress. White curls were piled atop her head. The woman held Rodesson’s hand. Venetia felt foolish anger rise—because Rodesson had a woman with him—until that woman turned.

“Mother?”

Olivia Hamilton’s hazel eyes widened. “Venetia? Where have you been? Charles told me he had no idea where you were.”

Venetia felt Marcus’ hands slide over her shoulders. He propelled her into the room, then stepped around her. “Mrs. Hamilton.” He bowed as her mother, open-mouthed, rose from the stool. He flicked a glance to her father—an autocratic glance. “Rodesson.”

Her father, propped up by pillows, had color in his cheeks, and his eyes glowed with energy and life.

Venetia summoned her courage. “Mother, may I make the Earl of Trent known to you.”

At Olivia’s stunned expression, Venetia feared her mother might have an attack of the heart.

“What is this about, Venetia? What are you doing with Trent?” her father barked.

Venetia drank in her father’s unusual costume. His nightshirt had ruffles and he had a bright kerchief tied around his neck, like a gypsy. “Please don’t trouble yourself, Father—”

“Pray take a seat, madam,” Marcus broke in, addressing her mother. “I believe it is time that both of you knew exactly what Venetia has done to protect you.”

“There’s no need—” Venetia cried, but her parents spoke as one.

Her mother gasped. “Protect us? Venetia—I don’t understand.”

“Ah, lass, what have you done now?” Pain and guilt lined her father’s face.

Venetia opened her mouth to protest—she’d been rescuing them, after all—when Marcus insisted, “They need to know.”

Suddenly Venetia decided she did want them to know. She was tired of secrets. Tired of taking care. She dropped onto a chair by her father’s fireplace. “Oh go ahead! Tell them!”

In his deep, magnetic voice, Marcus painted her to be a heroine—a woman who had gone to an orgy and risked scandal, a woman who had hunted down a murderer, a woman who had saved herself from certain death. By the end of his tale, she felt rather proud of herself.

Until her mother shrieked, “An orgy!”

Trust her mother to worry of that, not of murder and violence.

“Indeed. An orgy.” Marcus inclined his head. Limned by firelight, he exuded power, strength, nobility.

Her mother turned a furious face to her father, who turned furious eyes to Marcus. “You blackguard, I should call you out—”

“Father!” Venetia cried.

Apparently unperturbed, Marcus continued, “I went to protect her. I did not. There is one other thing you both need to know.”

Venetia leapt from her chair. She threw panic-stricken glances at her guilty-looking father and shocked mother. “They don’t, Marcus. Truly they do not.”

“I believe I can guess.”

She flinched at her mother’s look—horrified, disappointed.

“I know exactly what happened,” Olivia swept on. “And so you ruined her. And there is no recourse at all, is there?”

Her mother’s aching gaze fell on her. “Were you foolish enough to fall in love with him?”

And then Olivia dropped her face into her hands. “You have ruined yourself. It’s because of your painting. I tried to stop it. I thought if I didn’t let you paint, I could change your nature. But you are exactly as your father is. A man can be that way—dashing, seductive, wild, and he pays no price but enjoyment. A woman cannot. I should have done anything to stop you coming to London and disgracing yourself by painting—”

“I like her nature.” Marcus interrupted. “And her painting.”

Face strained, her mother looked up at him. “It’s scandalous. Shocking. A good woman should not think of—”

“Sex?” Marcus asked. “Of all the ways lovers can enjoy pleasure? Why not? Her beautiful pictures entrance every man who looks at them.”

Venetia felt her heart sing as Marcus smiled at her. “Why shouldn’t a woman create erotic art and teach the world what women want from their lovers?” he asked.

“And not very long ago, women were burned at the stake, my lord,” Olivia countered. “I wanted Venetia to be happy. I want her to live a conventional life.”

“Were you unhappy?” Venetia approached her mother slowly. Uncertain. Her mother had cried. But she had also laughed and smiled. Had the laughter been false?

“You do not think it is wrong for her to paint?” her mother asked. “When because of it, my lord, you ruined her.”

“I asked her to marry me,” Marcus said. “She refused.”

“Because I ensured that she doesn’t belong in those circles any more.” Her mother jabbed her finger against her own chest. “Because she is illegitimate. Which is my fault. Because she is Rodesson’s daughter, which is also my fault.”

Impulsively Venetia ran to her mother’s side. “It isn’t your fault.” She glanced at her father. His illness had changed him. He looked older, sober, yet still handsome.

“You’re correct, lass,” Rodesson said. “The fault was mine—”

“Do you blame the earl for taking your innocence?”

Venetia flinched at Olivia’s direct question. “No,” she said, “I made the choice.”

Her mother touched her cheek, her eyes wistful. “If I had been dutiful and had married as my father wished, I would have married a gouty old man. I would not have had you, Venetia, or your sisters. I would not have smiled upon you after you were born and felt the grip of your fingers on mine. I would not have seen you and Maryanne and Grace embark on your journeys to womanhood. I was impetuous and romantic but I was never unhappy that I had you girls. I was never unhappy that I had the man I loved, even for only a little while. But I am unhappy that I ruined your—”

“Blast it, woman, I am the one to blame.” Rodesson threw off the sheets, and leapt out of bed. “I made a mistake, Olivia. I thought you would be unhappy with me. I’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget how unhappy I’ve been without you. Those snatched visits only reminded me of how deeply I cared, of what a fool I’d been. I want to make things right now, right by you and by my daughters.”

Venetia stared down at her father’s outstretched hand.

“Tell her the truth, Livvie,” Rodesson urged. “She needs to know that you admire her talent, her courage. I’ve never known a woman as strong as my dear Venetia.”

She’d always thought her mother was ashamed of her.

Her mother hugged her. Tightly. “Venetia, I love you dearly. I am so sorry I tried to steal away the very thing that makes you who you are.”

Wrapped in her mother’s arms, breathing in warm lavender, Venetia understood. Her mother had only tried to change her because her mother felt guilt. Her mother had suffered for so many years for following her heart. Olivia hadn’t deserved that.

Venetia hugged her mother back, giving herself to the comfort of the embrace. She looked to Marcus. Deep happiness shone from his eyes. Happiness for her.

She felt her father clasp her hand. “I wanted to believe I was a wild and passionate artist,” he said. “I feared that being conventional would stifle me. I was a young fool. A library of books doesn’t warm a heart or fill a soul. Only love can do that. You, Trent, are a fool if you don’t love my Venetia.”

Venetia’s heart almost stopped.

“I like to think,” Marcus drawled, “That I am not a fool.”

Marcus did not directly say that he loved her. But for one delicious month, they met in secret and Venetia learned of the true delights London offered. They drove to Richmond by moonlight to tour the park, and she rode Marcus beneath the night sky. He hired a boat on the Thames and they lay naked beneath a blanket, drinking champagne and watching the stars glide past. He gave her a lesson in riding in Hyde Park at dawn, proving that a woman could sit astride her lover’s cock on a stallion. At Vauxhall, they reached simultaneous orgasm as the fireworks exploded above them.

She had no time to paint—she lived every fantasy in Marcus’ arms. With wicked words, he placed other men and women in their bed—in fantasy only—but it added spice to delicious sex.

She attended every event masked and disguised, even wearing a blond wig. They encountered Viscount Swansborough on one sizzling night at Vauxhall, with a masked red-haired woman on his arm. Venetia had been astonished—in hair color and build, the woman was exactly like her. And Marcus and the viscount had exchanged a secret grin.

She knew, without a doubt, she was madly in love. But, without a doubt, she knew she could not have Marcus. They couldn’t keep their secret forever.

And on a warm, starry, lovely May night, he sent a note with the most shocking request…

“He’s adorable,” Venetia whispered. She’d cradled many babies in Maidenswode, as Olivia had helped their tired mothers. She marveled at David, just as she’d marveled at each one she’d held. His head was so soft and delicate and impossibly small. And it had the strangest shape, not round at all, but a bit…squashed.

Lady Ravenwood beamed, her blue-green eyes alight. Venetia was so touched that she was allowed to hold her ladyship’s special treasure. That Lady Ravenwood would trust her, invite her into her home, and be so welcoming and warm.

Holding David’s cuddly weight, Venetia glanced at Marcus, who sprawled in a chair across the room, laughing with his brother-in-law, the handsome Viscount Ravenwood. Her heart soared at even the most stolen look, but she saw Marcus’ expression become grim as he looked toward his mother, who sat, unmoving and silent, by the fire. Marcus had introduced her to Lady Trent. The countess’ large, watery turquoise eyes had moved over her and then Marcus, looking blank, as though she could not even see them.

“I see a little of Marcus in him,” Lady Ravenwood confided.

Venetia gazed intently at baby David, searching for a resemblance. He possessed large, round blue eyes and tiny dark lashes. The sweetest cupid’s bow mouth blew bubbles at her.

“Marcus loves you very much, you know.”

Venetia glanced up, startled. She still could not believe that Marcus had openly told his sister and brother-in-law that they were lovers. What lady received a mistress? A remarkable one, Venetia realized, looking into Lady Ravenwood’s beautiful face.

Her ladyship smiled. “Marcus loves you very dearly. He told me about all your adventures. The risks you took. I must thank you, Miss Hamilton.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were protecting me, you see. Marcus did not want to tell me at first, but I guessed when he spoke of the blackmail. I could see it in his eyes. The most damning secret Lydia Harcourt had over my father was what he did to me.”

“I—I’m sorry.” The secret was what Venetia guessed, but she didn’t know what to say.

“You must understand that Marcus has never forgiven himself for not protecting me. It almost destroyed me. I felt as though I had allowed it to happen because I obeyed my father. I felt as though I had betrayed my mother. I didn’t feel I deserved anything, certainly not happiness in marriage and family.” Lady Ravenwood met her eyes with a solemn gaze. “Only Stephen knows of this. But I am telling you because you must understand how this devastated Marcus. He tried to confront Father once, when he was a schoolboy. He even struck Father and our father almost whipped him to death.”

Venetia’s heart trembled. She stroked along the baby’s blanket-clad tummy. “But what could he have done?”

“Nothing. Marcus ensured that I married and found happiness. He gave me a miracle but he still blames himself. He feels responsible for everyone. I want him to find happiness too, Miss Hamilton.”

“So do I.” Her view of the baby became blurry.

“I think he could find it with you. I think you would make a most admirable countess.”