Engaged in Sin (15 page)

Anne forced her feet to move toward the front door. Treadwell met her and took her cloak. By now she was accustomed to his odd appearance, and she’d noticed his eyes normally held a merry twinkle. At this moment, though, he looked gravely serious.

“Does the duke have a visitor?” How normal her voice sounded. Astonishing, when her heart pounded so hard.

“Aye, miss. An investigator from London. Name of Mr. Wynter. Used to be a Bow Street Runner, I hear.”

Lord Norbrook was a haunted man.

In his bedchamber, Sebastian blearily faced his reflection in his looking glass. As usual, his dress was faultless—sheer elegance in the style of Beau Brummell. Yet inside he seethed with frustration and his head thudded from the effects of too much port. Last night, he’d dreamed of having Anne in his bed. He’d dreamed of her the way she used to be at Longsworth. He wanted her so much. And he hated her. Hated, hated, hated her.

How could she have refused him? He shook his head, even though it made his brain slosh painfully in his skull. She could no longer be the lovely little angel she had once been. She would be dirty now. When she’d been young, she had been so precious. So pure.

He wanted so much to touch her. He could not forget how beautiful she was as a young woman, when her hair had first been put up. He was haunted by the memory of tendrils of gold coiled against her smooth neck and the pretty push of youthful breasts against her bodice. But how could he caress those delightful breasts now, knowing she was no longer untouched?

Before his looking glass, Sebastian adjusted his expression, as though he was putting on a mask. Now he appeared as a viscount should, not like a man suffering lust for an ungrateful chit who did not deserve his desire.

Each step brought a slice of pain through his skull—and it was Anne’s fault he’d had to drink so much, tormented with erotic memories of her girlish beauty—but he went down to his drawing room to greet his guest. The elderly lady, Anne’s maternal great-grandmother, rose from her seat as he entered. Her hair was silver, rubies glittered at her neck, and silk swathed her slim
form. Her face was drawn with worry. “Have you found her?”

“Not yet, my dear Lady Julia.” Feigning gentlemanly concern for the trembling old lady, Sebastian hastened to her side. “But it will not be long. I have spared no expense in the search.”

Pained dark-green eyes peered at him, yet this woman’s sorrow only irritated him. She knew nothing of what real torment was. She thought he would find Anne, then she would reconcile with her great-grandchild, and all would be happy. She had no idea that Anne was now ruined. She had no idea how greatly he was suffering—both hungering for Anne and hating her.

“I fear she is dead, Norbrook,” Lady Julia whispered. “I wanted to make amends to her, but I fear I am too late.”

“No, you must have faith.” Sebastian clasped the old lady’s hand and drew her to sit on the settee. “I am certain Anne is alive.” Yes, he was certain of that. He wasn’t so certain Mick Taylor could find her, as the brute had promised.

“I have no other family, Norbrook.” Lady Julia clutched his arm. “My son, Anne’s grandfather, is dead. My two daughters are gone, and they died childless. I have two titled wastrel sons-in-law. They expect I will leave my wealth to them. I will not. I despise them. I have made Anne my sole heir.”

He’d heard the tale a dozen times before and the only part that interested him was Lady Julia’s assurance that she had made Anne her heiress. She had disowned Anne’s grandfather—her son—over his marriage to an opera dancer. She had refused to acknowledge his family—his daughter, Millicent, and his granddaughter, Anne. But once she ended up alone, the old witch had come to Longsworth to find Anne, who was the only family she had left.

“Yes, my dear lady. You will have Anne home soon.” This time, Sebastian would make Anne marry him. Anne would be desperate now that she was suspected of the madam’s murder, and he had to wed her. For he desperately needed money.

Those gaming hells had cheated him. He was a clever gentleman—how could he have lost so badly at a simple game of dice? But he did not dare hint that he’d been cheated. The brutes running the hells did not take kindly to such charges. However, they did want their blunt. And he had none.

Sebastian had mortgaged the estate and the income did not begin to touch his debts. When he married Anne, he could use his expectations from Lady Julia’s estate for funds.

It meant marrying a tarnished, ruined woman. It meant touching Anne, when she was now revolting to him. But he had no choice.

“If only my granddaughter had not left her home.” Lady Julia’s shrill voice cut into his thoughts. “She would be alive and Anne would be safe. I still do not understand why she took Anne to London, Norbrook.”

His head throbbed. Why did the old woman keep harping on this? “Anne’s mother was having an affair with a married man,” he lied smoothly. “She pursued him to London but he ended the sordid relationship. Millicent had no money and ended up in the stews. But it does not matter.” Would the old crone not let it drop? It was not his fault Millicent had run away with Anne. “I will find Anne. I promise.”

Anne should have done as she was told. She should have married him. Sebastian had only one consolation for having to wed her now: Once she was in his power again, he would punish her for her disobedience. That he would enjoy greatly.

E NEEDED ACTION
.
He had to do something, but he was capable only of walking slowly while counting steps and swinging his walking stick to warn him of oncoming furniture.

Damn the blindness.

In his study, Devon fingered his glass of brandy. His investigator in London, Maxmillian Wynter, had brought him a report of his findings in London’s stews. The former Bow Street Runner had given him an address, but his quarry—the wife and the child of Captain Tanner, a man who had been killed at Waterloo—had disappeared.

He’d already downed two glasses of brandy. The stuff had been watered down again, and he’d roared at a footman until his supply was replenished with the full-strength variety. The young footman, Beckett, had finally admitted they were diluting the stuff on the orders of Miss Cerise, as they called her belowstairs.

Two things had occurred to Devon at that moment. First: He didn’t know his mistress’s last name, and he couldn’t read their contract to find out what she had
signed on it. It was bloody embarrassing to have to ask her now, after he’d made a legal agreement with her.

And second: Since when did a duke’s ladybird give commands about his liquor supply? And why in blazes were his servants paying more attention to his mistress than to their master?

“If Miss Cerise has returned from the village, fetch her for me,” he barked, assuming that a servant lurked somewhere close by. “At once.”

He got up and paced the same path in his study that he restlessly trudged each night. Exactly fifty steps from start to finish. He began at the settee and, when he reached the end of his count, he had to turn to avoid hitting the corner of his desk.

“Your Grace.”

Cerise’s voice was a breathy whisper, a lush sound that set desire on fire at once. But he heard a shaky tremble. She sounded fearful. Afraid of him because she knew she must be in trouble over the brandy? Guilt hit him. “You aren’t in trouble, love,” he murmured.

“Oh! You—what do you mean? I—” Her melodic quaver of a voice died away. “You had a visitor—he was an investigator from London, I believe?”

Instant panic hit him. Had she heard any of his conversation with Wynter? Devon’s annoyance over his brandy vanished. His body reacted to the threat of confrontation. Every nerve went on alert, his heart ran at a gallop, his breathing came quick and light.

“Yes, he was from London.” He left it at that, waiting to hear what she would say, learn what she knew or had overheard. Damn, he wanted to see her. Watch her eyes. Assess her face.

She stayed silent, and he realized it was like being in a field hospital with a shattered leg. Better to agree to the pain of the saw than hope to keep the leg and die of the spread of infection. If she knew what his business had
been with Wynter, he wanted to have it out with her now. “Did you happen to overhear my conversation with him, Cerise?”

“No! Of course not! But you look grim. Pale.”

“Don’t I always look grim and pale, Cerise? Treadwell tells me I do.”

“You don’t! Over the last two days you looked happier. Your … color was much better.”

“Flushed with exertion from making love, I expect.”

“So there was no bad news … nothing to disturb you?”

He let her question stand between them for a while, dissecting every rise and fall of her breath. Finally he asked, “What is it you are searching for? Confirmation of something you suspect?”

“Heavens, no. What—what do you mean by that?”

He had meant confirmation of what she might have figured out if she’d listened in on Wynter and him. She sounded honestly confused. They were dancing around something, but he didn’t know what. “All right, you want to know what Wynter—my investigator—and I discussed? It was nothing of import. Business in London.”

“Oh.” She let out a sigh of relief, one he wouldn’t have heard if he hadn’t been listening closely. “I wondered if you had been asking him questions about me.”

“Angel, he came to bring me information I requested. How could I have asked questions about you? I’d have to do it by post, and the only person who can write a letter is you.”

“You could have sent a footman with questions.”

Her answer came so swiftly he knew she had been working out possibilities in her head. “What are you afraid I would learn? What are you afraid of in London? The truth this time.”

“I
told
you the truth. I was afraid that if you’d sent
this man to inquire about me, he might have spoken to my madam and she might now know where I am.”

With sight, he could have seen if she blushed or paled. He could see a shift of her gaze, a bite of her lip. He would know, with a lot more certainty, when she was lying. “I didn’t ask Wynter to investigate you, Cerise. I saw no reason not to trust you. What do I need to know about you that you haven’t told me?”

“There is nothing else you need to know about me.” The sultry purr. “I missed you, Your Grace, even for just the short time I was in the village.” Her dress rustled; she gave a breathy sigh. “That’s much better. The bodice was squeezing me too tight.”

What did that mean? Had she unfastened the buttons on her dress?

“Did you want me to come here to make love?” Her mouth lingered over those two words.
Make love
. It was as though she could perform feats of magic. Levitate his erection with two enchanted words. And something fell, with a soft
plop
.

“There. I managed to get out of my dress. But I can’t undo the corset by myself. Would you care to assist me, Your Grace? I think it would be so … erotic to pleasure you while I am utterly naked and you are so handsomely and completely dressed.”

To meet Wynter, he’d forced Treadwell to play valet and help him into a silk waistcoat, a tailcoat, and polished boots. Now she was
playing
the mistress. He could hear it in every deliberate little breathless giggle and moan. He knew an act when he heard it.

And it was working. He couldn’t help it. A dozen erotic scenarios exploded in his head. He could take her from behind as she leaned against the wall. Or have her wrap her legs around him and brace her back to the wall. Or lie down on the carpet and let her ride him to oblivion.

He could imagine each scene with perfect clarity. All he had to do was give the command and she would service him in any way he wanted. Any way he needed. He could use her to pound away the guilt that sat like acid in his gut. But he had no right to do so. “No, Cerise,” he growled. “Not now.”

No
.

Anne had gnawed her thumbnail nearly to the quick. If the duke knew about Madame’s death, knew she was suspected of murder, he would have confronted her by now. He couldn’t know. But he was angry. Was it because he’d guessed she was faking her orgasms? How had he done so? This morning he’d laughed with her in bed; now he didn’t want to touch her.

She had been an absolute fool. His business had nothing to do with her, but her awkward questions had provoked suspicion. She’d hoped to distract him with sex; now she didn’t know what to do. What if he asked more questions and drew closer to her secret? What if she clumsily gave him a clue? She
had
to seduce him.

“I can think of many ways we could make love right here,” she purred.

“So can I, angel.”

Did that mean she’d piqued his interest? “You look so … unhappy. You looked pleased over the last few days, when we made love all the time. I would like to make you smile.”

“That may prove difficult, love.”

“Oh, dear.” She feigned dismay, but real fear gnawed inside her. “Then I shall try very hard, Your Grace.” Her saucy voice rang falsely in the room.

“No,” he snapped.

What could she do? She gazed at the walls, which held many paintings of horses. Perhaps a dozen beautiful
works stacked one atop the other, from wainscoting to soaring ceiling. For the first time she noticed that in the middle of all the pictures of horses hung a small portrait of four young women. One was seated gracefully upon a Queen Anne chair, her hair as black as the duke’s, her eyes large and the same intriguing lavender color. Her dress was a spill of ivory satin and white lace, and she wore a mischievous smile. Three young girls surrounded her, each a beauty. One was dark, and the other two had golden hair and large green eyes.