Sin (3 page)

“Impossible,” she lied. “Since the drawings are my father’s.”

“The lady’s hands are playing a chord that corresponds to the music sheet. I know the piece, my sister played it a thousand times—I used to be conscripted to hold her sheets. And in your father’s work, the females are vacuous, simpering, all of a type. But in this book, every woman is different. Distinct.”

“You look at the ladies’ faces, my lord?”

“Yes I do, Miss Hamilton,” he murmured by her ear. “Evidence of a lady’s touch, I believe.”

She kept her attention straight ahead but his scents teased her, enveloped her. A tinge of sandalwood soap. Starch in his shirt collar and cravat, cedar in his clothes, smoke and coffee on his breath. Horse and leather and the lightest hint of his sweat. The earl must be one of those gentlemen who enjoyed a good gallop on the Row at the crack of dawn.

Despite herself, she breathed deeply. Intrigued. Painted men did not have such alluring smells. She was cloistered in her studio all the time—she never met real gentlemen. To remember his scent would help her be more creative. More inspired.

His lordship’s hard biceps bumped her shoulders. The sensual brush of his body against hers set her legs trembling. Venetia balled her hands into fists, stiffened her spine. “You must be a true connoisseur of my father’s work, my lord Trent.”

How else could he have spotted her slight deviations from her father’s style? How likely was it that other gentlemen would?

“
My
father was,” he said. “He owned every volume of Rodesson art. He introduced me to it at an early age. I believe I was eight when he gave me my first volume.”

Eight? Eight was the age of a boy, not a man. Was a boy of that age even able to understand the drawings? To find them arousing?

If he’d started looking at such pictures at eight, when would he have first made love?

The instant the shocking thought raced through her head, Venetia found herself picturing the earl at his first sexual experience. With a voluptuous dairymaid or perhaps a bountiful courtesan. Eager. Sweaty. Naked.

Venetia, good heavens, stop!
She took a shaky breath. “Are there other…differences?”

He turned the pages. “This one.”

She gaped at the picture framed by his large gloved hands.

A simple alfresco luncheon scene. This one featured the earl with his back against an ancient oak tree while his mistress rode atop him.

“This, to me, is a distinct clue your father did not do the work.”

For the life of her, Venetia could not see why. Her father had in fact done similar pictures.

“The position of the woman is the telling thing.”

Mystified, she studied the mistress. The lady’s skirts were up, revealing her plump bottom, and her head was thrown back, eyes closed, lips parted in ecstasy. Venetia had copied the expression from Belzique, the French artist of the last century who drew women in bizarre costumes, wielding whips. Pictures that disturbed her, which she would never wish to copy, but that she found inexplicably intriguing.

“In your father’s works the women are always lifted,” he explained. “In the upward portion of the stroke—” For the first time, his voice faltered.

“Yes?” Her query came out as a husky whisper.

“That position reveals the man’s…equipment.”

“His equipment,” she repeated.

“His shaft. It appeals to the male to see the shaft disappearing inside the woman. For a start, they know actual penetration is taking place.”

His tone was teasing but her chest felt squeezed, as though she’d been laced too tight. She stared at her picture, strangely hurt. “It doesn’t appeal to the male to see the woman seated back, the way she is shown here?”

So it was more than just differences in style. She’d thought her work tempting, seductive, pleasing. But, as a woman, had she not understood what men desired? Was it more complex than she’d thought?

Did this mean her career—her key to independence—would fail? Perhaps her book had only sold well because of her father’s name. Perhaps she would never sell another.

“You look so heartbroken, love,” he murmured. “I can assure you that men enjoy your drawings. Your work is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Far more arousing.”

He settled his hands on the back of the chair. She was caught between his powerful arms as his breath skimmed the nape of her neck. Tiny loose tendrils of her hair stirred and tickled.

He bent forward at the exact instant she drew back. Her bottom bumped against a solid ridge. His lordship’s…equipment, hard and jutting against her derriere through her skirts and his trousers.

He turned to the next page, revealing
Two Ladies Painting Watercolors
. Two young ladies of the ton sat in a garden with easels in front of them and the statue of a naked god to inspire. Both women had been attempting to sketch the nude man, but had become distracted in their arousal. Skirts and petticoats spilled over smooth thighs and they employed their paintbrushes on themselves in inventive ways.

And from the shrubbery, the Earl of Trent spied on the pretty girls.

“Now you see why I am here, Miss Hamilton.” His tone hardened. His jaded amusement was gone. Anger burned beneath his words. “You’ve depicted me as the most promiscuous and perverted man in London. At a time when I put my patronage behind Lady Ravenwood’s charity—a charity to save young women from brothels. Lady Ravenwood—my sister—was horrified when rumors reached her ears that I was doing the very thing she was trying to prevent.”

Venetia fought panic. There was no point in denying the truth anymore. “It was not intentional, my lord! I did not even know you were a real man. I did not even know your name! You were in Rodesson’s books. You did those things in public. You were naked—”

She broke off. She had just said ‘naked’ to an earl. Guiltily, she thought of
The Theatre Box
. Suddenly, she wanted to burn it. “I will never draw you again.”

“No, you won’t, my dear.” He lifted his hands from the book and stepped back, as though giving her room to breathe. “Your career is about to come to an end.”

She spun around. “But I must paint! How else will my family survive? My publisher expects a book in a month’s time!”

A part of her quailed at the earl’s sheer size, his intimidating pose with arms crossed over his wide chest, the hard line of his lips. But she tipped up her chin.

His lips softened. “I do not normally cancel gaming debts, Miss Hamilton. But I won’t be responsible for your ruination. I will tear up your father’s vowels.”

She should be overjoyed. He would return the money. They were saved. She had saved them all. She would return to the country. She would have to give up all her hard-won independence.

Solemnly, she shook her head. “My father always enters into deep play, my lord. He will only lose his money again. I am the only hope my family has. And you need not worry, I am not innocent.”

The lie rolled off her tongue before she could stop it.

His black brow lifted. He took a sharp breath. “Your father lied?”

“He doesn’t know, of course.”

She shivered again as his gaze swept her from curls to hem.

“You blush very prettily, my dear. But I have known of several courtesans who could summon a fetching flush on demand.”

Her face flamed hotter. “I am not innocent and I…I can prove it.”

“Can you?” Trent traced his gloved finger along the length of one of the paintbrushes in her picture. “So you have experienced the pleasures that you paint?”

Venetia was riveted by the sight. Her voice, where was her voice? “Y—yes,” she lied.

“If you are not innocent then you must know how such a caress would feel.” He circled his fingertip over the painted vulva. “You must know how a man delights in parting those soft lips and finding the heat and honey within.”

He paused. Silence stretched for many fervent heartbeats. She heard her soft, quick breaths. The tick of the mantel clock. The greedy roar of the flames.

“Do you touch yourself like this, sweeting? Do you paint your quim with your brush until you are creamy and wet? Do you enjoy threesomes? Do you prefer two cocks at your command, or another woman’s juicy cunny?”

Her knees felt as insubstantial as sea foam.

He lifted her hand from the back of the chair, gave a light brush across her knuckles with his lips. Gentlemanly. Safe. But he drew her index finger into his mouth and she was shocked and thrilled. His tongue toyed with the ridge of her fingernail, soaking the thin cotton.

How could the stroke of his tongue on her finger make her ache between her thighs?

But it did.

Why didn’t she pull her hand back? Stop him? She couldn’t. His words, his forbidden words, cast an irresistible spell.

She must relax. How would the auburn-haired courtesan she’d created behave? A woman bold enough to pleasure her lover in a theatre box wouldn’t be gasping in shock at a kiss on her fingertips.

He released her finger and reached for the hem of her glove. Goodness, she was about to lose an article of clothing. He bared her hand and her glove fluttered to the carpet.

“In one kiss, sweetheart, I’ll know if you are innocent or not.”

No, he wouldn’t. She would kiss him like a courtesan. She wasn’t certain how a jade kissed, but it must be with great passion. Unfortunately, she was entirely on her own. None of her father’s pictures depicted kisses.

With a gentle tug, he drew her to take a step closer. She lost balance, fell into his embrace. Her body pressed along his and his erection nudged her stomach. So close, so intimately close.

His lordship caught her other hand by the wrist, surprisingly quick despite the lazy grace of his movements. In a heartbeat, both her hands were captured in his.

Fighting the urge to gulp, she stared as bold as brass into his turquoise eyes. But she felt anything but bold as his lips—his perfectly sculpted, sensual lips—lowered toward hers.

She must behave like a wanton.

She
was
wanton. His mouth was a work of art, but all she could think of was pressing her mouth to that perfection and making it yield to her. Feigning sauciness, she slid her foot up his lordship’s polished boot. Her soft slipper followed the shape of his bulging calf. The leather fit him like a second skin.

He caught her around the waist, his large hands splayed over her hips. Her nipples ached—she needed something…some pressure against them. She arched up against him, so sinfully close her breasts pushed into his hard and solid chest.

His lips slanted over hers and her moan vanished into his mouth. She tasted his morning coffee, a trace of smoke, and heat, delicious heat.

She had no chance to pretend passion—he lured her lips apart and slid his tongue inside. She’d never kissed like this. She’d only had one peck, one boring, meaningless peck in her whole life! This was scandalous, luscious. His tongue filled her mouth, touched hers, and coaxed it into sensual play.

Venetia slid her arms around his neck and dared to let her fingertips stroke his black hair, softer than the sable in her treasured brushes.

He moaned. Hoarsely.

She’d made him moan. A thrill of power rushed through her. She felt, wild, reckless, mad. Deep in her throat, she moaned again, too. She lifted her leg, seeking to wrap it around his hips. To hold him close. To never let him go.

Why had she never thought to draw something as spectacular as a kiss?

Her body burned with need. Dizzying desire swamped her. She slipped her hands up his back—the earl’s broad, hard, beautiful back. She stroked the planes she’d drawn, imagining bare skin, sculpted muscle. His hands cupped her rear, squeezing, so she grabbed hold of his rump. Goodness, he had beautiful buttocks—hard and smooth and tightly indented at the sides. If he were on top of her, inside her, she would grab him there and clutch his muscular derriere as he plunged into her—

He set her back on her feet, pulled her hands from his rear. “That’s enough, sweetheart. You
are
every inch a gently bred virgin. That unskilled kiss was definite proof.”

She clung to his hands, unsteady. Unskilled kiss? Wonderful kiss. Dizzying kiss. She’d been passionate. How could he
know
she was innocent after that?

“I—” She wanted another kiss. Wanted more. She couldn’t think.

“Eventually your secret will get out, Miss Hamilton. Do you want to ruin your sisters too?”

She shook her head. No, that she couldn’t do. “But I want to be independent. I can’t bear living each day knowing that disaster will come at any moment. Can you not understand that?”

“It’s not safe, Miss Hamilton.”

“So you will save me against my will? Why?”

His lips lifted in a lopsided grin and her heart somersaulted in her chest.

“Because my sister, Lady Ravenwood, insisted it was the right thing to do,” he said. “My father made a career of ruining innocents. I do not intend to follow in his footsteps. Unfortunately for the males of England, Miss Hamilton, your career is most definitely finished.”

“A
nd here is your brand-new nephew!”

Marcus Wyndham, Earl of Trent, stood as Minerva, Lady Ravenwood, walked into the drawing room, a beaming smile on her face. She cradled the tiny baby against her chest. He could barely see the child amidst the frothy white bundle of blankets and blue ribbons, but Min…he’d never seen her look more radiant. Only two weeks from childbed and she glowed.

Sunlight spilled into Min and Stephen’s drawing room, the fire roared with cheer, and being a part of the family gathering filled Marcus with a reassuring sense of warmth. He grinned as Min approached. Even his mother, who sat silently by the fire, had tolerated his presence without shrieking or throwing something at him.

This was the happiest he’d felt in a long time. Nothing seemed to please him these days. Nothing…except Venetia Hamilton’s kiss.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since kissing her. Hadn’t even gone to a bloody brothel to ease his pain because he’d vowed he wouldn’t and because it had been infinitely more pleasurable to lie in his bed with a cock as hard as a bloody iron bar and remember their kiss.

A phrase of his father’s came to mind.
I was shaken to my gleaming boots by her kiss.
He’d been talking about a debutante—a virgin. A proper young lady, untouchable, off-limits, and oh, so ready to play, his father had claimed.

Damn his father—he understood exactly what the old debaucher had meant.

Hell, not the sort of thing to be thinking at a happy family gathering. He pushed the thoughts aside, and lightly kissed Min’s cheek.

“David is smiling already,” she announced, raven curls bouncing. “If you smile at him, Marcus, I’m certain he’ll smile for you.”

With shock, Marcus saw she was offering his nephew to him. He was at once honored and terrified. Min’s large, luminous eyes implored. She was so proud, so delighted with her joyous gift, that she would be hurt if he refused.

He couldn’t hurt her.

“Take care to support his head,” Stephen warned from his chair, “He’s a strong lad and when he throws his head back he can catch you by surprise.”

Marcus flashed a grim look at his brother-in-law. “You’ve rapidly turned into an expert, have you? I seem to remember you were all fumbling hands that first night.”

“True enough.” Stephen chuckled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Several bottles of port will do that to you.”

“Don’t you want to hold him?” Min asked.

Marcus swallowed hard and nodded. “But he’s such a tiny little thing.”

“I can assure you he didn’t feel tiny,” Min admonished.

He blushed at the quip and awkwardly slid his hand around his nephew’s head. For once his hand felt large, unwieldy, dangerous, but the baby’s head fit perfectly within. He cradled the tiny bottom, his gloved fingers squishing into the thick cloth there. Large blue eyes ringed with dark lashes gazed up at him as though he was the most fascinating sight ever beheld. Dark blond hair dusted the strangely shaped head, thickest in a ring above the ears.

He shifted his hands, trying to ensure he had the best grip, and he felt as though he were trying to juggle china.

“There!” Min crowed, “A smile!”

His nephew’s hands fisted, then waved. He’d always thought infants were swaddled tightly, but Min had explained that she did so for sleep. She wished to let David explore and play.

Some madness seemed to overtake him as he gazed down at the bubbling lips and the large eyes. Suddenly he was cooing and gooing.

Beside him, Min giggled. “I think you are smitten, aren’t you, Marcus?”

He couldn’t help but answer her smile. “I have to admit I am, Min.” She was so at ease with the little one even after a mere fortnight. Would he be the same as a father? He suspected he’d be the talk of the nursery if he had his own son—watching his miracle every moment of the day. He’d have to take care to employ an indulgent nanny, not a strident one.

“Find a wife and you could be blessed as well.”

He tried to tease. “You have a child dependent on you. I forbid you to launch into a matchmaking project.” But he wasn’t going to find a wife or, if he could help it, be a father.

Min laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of attaching any female of my acquaintance to you.” He knew she’d meant to tease but her face sobered instantly and the vivacious light faded in her green-blue eyes.

What was she thinking? Remembering how she’d caught him at twenty-one kissing Miss Wallace, who was her bosombow? He’d been cradling the lady’s full breast. Never a wilting flower, Min had accused him of trying to
rape
her best friend. She’d brained him with a vase to save her friend’s virtue.

In that one moment, his beloved sister had revealed what was deeply in her heart—she thought he was like their father. She’d thought that he was capable of forcing himself on a defenseless woman. Miss Wallace had thrown herself at him, but Min wouldn’t believe it.

She’d thought he was a brute. A debaucher. A rapist.

How could she think he was like that? He used to cry himself to sleep listening to Min’s tears at night. With a child’s instinct, he’d known the way Father had touched Min had been tainted by lewdness and nastiness. He’d known it was wrong.

The baby’s loud burp startled him. “Bravo, David.”

Min dabbed at the baby’s pursed lips with her cloth, cleaning chunks of white. Cooing sounds ensued between both mother and son. David gave Min a gummy smile that tore at Marcus’ heart. “What about love?” she asked softly.

“I have friends who married for love,” he said, “Who speak highly of it—call it the most perfect happiness. You know more about love than I.”

Min looked up, her large blue-green eyes alive with perfect happiness. “I could never begin to explain love. Intimacy. Friendship. Something glorious that both hurts and enriches. And you know that if you lost it, your heart might never mend.”

“But love is not for me. Nor is marriage.”

Concern cast shadows in those eyes—concern for him—as she reached for David. “I thought you’d given up your sinful ways.”

He relinquished the baby with relief—too small and precious for his big hands. “So did I. But some temptations are too great to resist.” That kiss. Venetia Hamilton had tasted of sweet tea, sugared biscuits, and feminine heat, and he had wanted to devour her.

“Did you help Miss Hamilton? I know your honor balked at forgiving the debt—”

“Yes, I protected Miss Hamilton as promised. And now my heart shines with the joy of a good deed.”

“What was she like? Was she truly a proper lady?”

“She blushed often. She wore a frightful gown and had red hair.”

“Marcus!” She laughed. “Was she pretty?”

“Yes. A country beauty with peaches-and-cream skin and curls the color of fine sherry bouncing around her wide hazel eyes—eyes both amber-brown and green. She has her father’s nose, unfortunately, and his sharp chin.”

And a lush and lovely mouth. An enticing mouth. Miss Hamilton had wrapped her leg around his hips and pulled herself tight against his erection. Her kiss was eager, artless, and delightfully tentative—and the touch of her hands on him had sent shivers of pleasure down his spine and a surge of blood to his groin that had shut off his brain.

Min’s eyes had widened at his flowery description. “And why are you so curious about a woman who draws naughty pictures?” he asked, to deflect her interest.

“I just wondered if she was a bold woman, the sort with henna-dyed hair. I can’t imagine how a well-bred woman could do such a thing.”

He shrugged. “Survival.” Miss Hamilton had moaned into his mouth as he kissed her. Desperate little moans. He’d never known a woman make such lusty sounds at just a kiss. And he, blackguard that he was, had grabbed her derriere. A gentleman didn’t fondle an innocent woman’s derriere. But apparently a maiden did grab a gentleman’s arse, for she had caught hold of both his cheeks and squeezed. His cock had reared against his belly. He’d been aroused, damn near out of his mind, with the enticement of introducing her to pleasure.

He wanted to speak of it. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t admit that he might be like their father.

Min was caught up in watching David’s eyes flicker shut. The boy would fight, the lids would open wide, then slowly sink down again. Marcus couldn’t help but smile.

“So what do you seek in your perfect countess?” Min asked, cuddling her child against her shoulder and rocking him.

“Beauty, brains, breeding. A fortune. A good heart and quick wit. But Min, sweetheart, I am not getting leg-shackled.”

Min’s enormous eyes twinkled. “But I’d love to play matchmaker for you and force you look in all the places you hate to go—balls, routs, assemblies.” A naughty gleam showed in Min’s eyes. “This Season, my project is Stephen’s brother Frederick.”

He gave Min a severe brotherly look. “You’re not to strain yourself at those events. I hope Stephen made that clear to you.”

From his chair, Stephen laughed.

“You cannot dictate to me through Stephen! He is too much your friend—he tolerates your interference too much.”

“I didn’t look after you when I should have, Min,” he murmured.

She blushed and looked down at her son, giving a loving pat. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She was so strong it humbled him. She’d endured and found happiness and comfort in Stephen’s arms, found love in her marriage bed. The only worthwhile thing he’d done with his life was to find Stephen for Min.

His heart soared to see her happy, but it would never be enough. It didn’t atone for the nights he buried his head into his pillow. For the years when he didn’t protect her.

Cradling her baby with one hand, Min touched his arm. “You gave me a great gift. You forced me to see my future was to be a wife and a mother.” She looked over to their mother, rigid and emotionless in her chair by the fireplace. “I would like Mama to hold him.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

Their mother stared blankly toward the flames, as though unaware of her children, her first grandchild. As though she could not even hear the laughter. He never knew how to handle the countess. No matter what tactic he tried—to soothe, to coerce, or to inflict his will, his mother fought him. Punishment, he figured, for what he’d done.

“Please, Marcus,” Min implored. “If we watch her and just let her touch him for a few moments. She wouldn’t do him harm, I’m certain of it.”

She looked so anxious, that it broke his heart. “She won’t even remember holding him.”

“Marcus, I would like to try.”

Oh, the man was a disobedient scoundrel!

Venetia tossed her paintbrush into the water glass and slumped back in her chair. She fixed the canvas—and her recalcitrant hero—with a scowl.

“You are supposed to be a blond war hero! Dressed in scarlet with a lethal sword at your side and an even more magnificent weapon between your thighs. You are not supposed to be a raven-haired earl with a wicked smile!”

Goodness, she was raving at a two-dimensional man. And like the Earl of Trent, he was not listening to her.

Her lips still burned from his kiss. A kiss he’d used to prove her innocence, a kiss that had shaken every fantasy she’d had about a love affair. She couldn’t forget it. Or him. Was this what lust did to a woman?

Venetia balanced her elbows on the desk, taking care not to dip them in wet paint, and dropped her forehead against her hands. Four pictures started and in each one the male looked exactly like Trent. She’d even attempted a drawing of two voluptuous, randy courtesans exploring each other’s succulent breasts, her heart pounding as she drew, her throat tightening, but suddenly, in the background, a
portrait
of the sensual earl had appeared.

She’d tossed and turned in her bed all night. Imagining him in her bed—without a stitch—kissing her, moving over her, parting her thighs—

Her elbow hit her teacup. It tottered and before she could catch it, it tipped in the saucer. Tea sloshed over her picture. But what did that matter? Her career was over.

Out of habit, she had come to her studio, picked up her brush, and painted to ease her confusion, to give her time to control her whirling thoughts. She had no choice but to forfeit her independence, but she didn’t want to give it up!

It was more than just the money. She would have to slink back to the country. And do what? Become an eccentric spinster doing good works for the church? If she was a guest of the country gentry she could always peruse their libraries to see if they had copies of her books.

She could marry. At twenty-four, she was on the shelf by London standards, but if she were very fortunate, a widower might consider taking her on. There was one in Maidenswode who had offered—he was fifty, fat, had eight children, and drank.

To return to the country would mean hiding her paints in the stables, sneaking out to the woods to draw…

She would have to paint in secret once more. After her mother had found that first portrait—of a nude male statue—painting had been forbidden. Her mother feared that it was the artistic temperament that made Rodesson so licentious. Olivia Hamilton had been horrified to discover her eldest daughter had been compelled to sketch naked men.

Venetia stroked the ivory handle of her brush. What was he doing now, the roguish Lord Trent? Was he asleep, curled up with a woman or two in his bed? She could envision the threesome, with him sandwiched between, his groin pressed again a bottom just as it had pressed into hers, and the other woman would press her breasts and privates against his backside. His beautiful, sculpted backside—

The ache wasn’t only in her quim—for some reason her heart ached too.

If she were in his bed, in his arms, she could reach out and touch his bare back. Boldly trace the line of his spine down to his tight buttocks, to those iron-hard muscles she’d loved having beneath her palms.

What if she’d dared to explore more?

As though compelled, she bent and opened the lowest, deepest drawer of her desk. She should just shut it now. Instead, she lifted the first book from the stack. The rippled leather caressed her bare fingertips. Gently, she set it on the middle of the desk, so it wouldn’t make a sound. Guilt made her heart pound.