Deeper in Sin Read online

  By Sharon Page

  DEEPER IN SIN

  DEEPLY IN YOU

  BLOOD CURSE

  BLOOD FIRE

  BLOOD SECRET

  “Wicked for Christmas” in

  SILENT NIGHT, SINFUL NIGHT

  BLOOD WICKED

  BLOOD DEE

  BLOOD RED

  BLOOD ROSE

  BLACK SILK

  HOT SILK

  SIN

  “Midnight Man” in WILD NIGHTS

  Deeper in Sin

  THE WICKED DUKES

  SHARON PAGE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Teaser chapter

  Copyright Page

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writing a book always involves one or two false starts, a few incidences of banging one’s head on the kitchen counter, and a crisis of faith—the point at which the book just feels like an illogical mess. Thankfully, that is also always followed by the magical moment where a problem is solved and the story comes together. But even then, the author fears that euphoria might just be wishful thinking. So she turns over the book to her editor.

  So once again I have to say thank you to my intrepid and terrifically knowledgeable editor, Esi Sogah, for ensuring this story became the very best it could be.

  Thank you also to Kensington for packaging this story so beautifully.

  Thank you to my agent, Jessica Faust, who is always prompt and wise.

  Thanks have to go to my author friends, who understand all the ups and downs, and who are there to share laughs, tears, and glasses of wine along the way.

  But my greatest gratitude, as always, is for you—the reader. I wouldn’t be here without you, and I hope you fall in love with Sophie and Cary’s story as much as I did.

  1

  At the tender age of sixteen, I became quite familiar with the expression “From the frying pan into the fire” when I left my severe and overbearing father and ran off to Brighton, where I became the mistress of the severe and overbearing Viscount Mullon. He wore a threadbare nightshirt and a yellowed nightcap, and he snored loud enough to wake the horses in the stables. I decided that my future career as a courtesan would be severely impaired if I did not move up in the world—from viscount to earl, then on to a marquis, to be followed by a duke, then a royal duke (except none are handsome), and thus on to a prince, for the Continent was packed with those, even if England was not.

  Besides, if I was to learn the sensual arts, I needed a gentleman capable of teaching them. Poor old Mullon believed fifteen minutes of feeble poking was adequate.

  So off I went to London because, as every aspiring courtesan knows, London is filled to the brim with gentlemen.

  —From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous

  London—March, 1820

  Gentlemen were everywhere.

  The ballroom was packed with them. Tall, handsome ones in the first stare of fashion; young, shy-looking ones; balding, middle-aged ones with large stomachs that strained at their waistcoats.

  Standing at the entry of the assembly room, Sophie Ashley took a deep breath. Thank heaven for the manuscript left to her by her mother—the mother she had never known. In that unpublished book was everything she needed to know about being a courtesan.

  Except for one thing, Sophie noticed, that her mother had not mentioned.

  Cyprians—those elegant courtesans who looked like proper ladies—did not choose men for their appearance. The oldest men had the loveliest women in their arms—cooing, caressing women in low-cut, glittering gowns.

  Apparently, they were the wealthiest men.

  There were perhaps a hundred gentlemen in the room, and only about a dozen or so women. The group of celebrated courtesans who held these balls gave out few invitations to other women. In fact, they tried very hard to keep other women away.

  Sophie took a deep breath.

  Her best friend, Belle, had been horrified by Sophie’s plan. Belle hadn’t wanted her to go through with this.

  But Sophie had to do this. She could do this. She had come to London to become a sought-after courtesan because she had no other choice. She and Belle and the children were all going to starve unless she found work. And any respectable work wouldn’t pay her enough to support three young children and two grown women.

  She and Belle had pooled their money—enough to buy Sophie a pretty gown, a fancy bonnet, fine gloves, and new slippers. With sufficient left over for two things: a stage fare to London and a fortnight’s rent on a room. She had evaded the pickpockets and lecherous men. She’d managed to flee from crafty, wicked madams who tried to lure—or grab—young women off the streets. From her mother’s manuscript, she’d learned there were balls and parties and risqué salons held before the regular Season. Gentlemen wanted to pick their paramours before they were caught up in the social whirl of London.

  She had taken more of her money, had gone to Drury Lane, and had asked around until she found an opera dancer named Kate willing to tell her all about London’s famous Cyprians—for a small bribe. Following Kate’s instructions, she had found her way here, to the first lavish Cyprian ball of the year.

  Kate had warned Sophie that the events were invitation only—and the invites came from the courtesans. When Sophie had asked how to get an invitation, Kate had laughed rather loudly. Most of the courtesans would not invite a young, pretty interloper onto their turf, Kate pointed out. There was one who would, but only if she were well bribed, and Sophie knew she didn’t have enough money left for a substantial bribe.

  So Sophie had devised a plan to get in.

  She’d slipped in through the kitchen entrance wearing her plain brown wool cloak. Then she’d used the servants’ stairs and doors to get to the ballroom. There she’d stripped off her cloak and boots and dull bonnet, and hidden those in a room beside that stair.

  But since she had sneaked in, she had to keep out of the sights of the hostesses of the ball. So she remained along the outskirts of the ballroom—in the shadows along the wall, on the fringe of the glittering, beautiful crowd.

  She looked toward the center of the room. There, in gowns of the gauziest silks and muslins, wearing glittering jewels and décolleté necklines that showed jiggling breasts, were the courtesans. The rulers of the London’s ladybirds.

  Sophie swallowed hard. It felt like months, not days, since she’d sat with Belle and plotted out how she would do this. The planning she’d done with matter-of-fact courage.

  That courage faltered now.

  She hadn’t exactly forgotten that being a courtesan meant she had to entice a man to be her lover. She wasn’t exactly innocent after all. She had made love with Samuel, her intended, before he’d gone to war.

  She had ended up pregnant, had borne a baby out of wedlock, and now she was ruined.

  “But I don’t regret it!” Sophie whispered defiantly to herself. She’d loved Samuel and he was going away to war and she’d wanted . . . she’d wanted to show how much she loved him. She’d wanted a night of passion to treasure! And while he’d been gone, she’d borne him a son—a son he’d never seen. Of course, having a baby had ma
rked her as a fallen woman and had meant everyone had turned their backs on her, but she hadn’t cared. Not then.

  But now, looking at all these men, some handsome and some not, she didn’t know if she could do it. Could she make love to one of these men without being in love?

  She must. She absolutely, positively must.

  The last thing Fitzwilliam Montcleif, the Duke of Caradon—known to friends as Cary—needed was advice on how to find a bride.

  But his friend Grey, the Duke of Greybrooke, was now happily married, and he and his wife were expecting their first child. Grey was determined to push the rest of the so-called “Wicked Dukes” into the same state.

  “I know your past has affected you, Cary,” Grey said quietly. “But what you need to do is find a mistress. Go to one of the Cyprian balls, find a woman, make love to her. Put the past behind you. It can be done—I’m proof of it.”

  Cary set his brandy down, untouched. He faced Grey across the polished expanse of the desk in Grey’s study. He sat in a wing chair, along with Grey and Sax—the Duke of Saxonby. “That’s not going to work.”

  Grey looked serious. “It will. You told me you haven’t been able to be with a woman since you were kept a prisoner of war in Ceylon. You need to prove you can forget the memories that haunt you, and make love to a bride. The only way to find out is to take a woman to bed. I’d drag you there and find you a pretty female myself, but I’m now a happily married man. I have no interest in being anywhere near courtesans . . . and Helena would kill me if she found out.”

  “Your wife wouldn’t kill you. She knows you would never stray.” Cary leaned back, trying to appear normal and relaxed. His friends did not know the real reason why his time as a prisoner of war had left him unable to take a lover. “I am glad Helena tamed you, Grey. You were damned unhappy before.”

  “Haunted by my hellish past. And because of that, I understand what you are going through.” Grey hesitated. “I had problems.... The memories, the suspicions, the fears almost prevented me from loving Helena as she deserved. Those burdens made it hard for to me to accept her touch or—” He broke off, blushing faintly. Amazing, since his friend used to be a rogue and a scoundrel with women, notorious for his plentiful, wicked sexual exploits—that often involved ropes, whips, and shackles.

  “I have to try to get over it,” Cary admitted. At the questioning looks in his friends’ eyes, he continued, “I received a letter from my mother today. She’s worried about me, and since she is in delicate health, it is hurting her to fret about me. It’s killing her, damn it. She told me bluntly that anticipating my marriage—and the chance to see grandchildren—would give her the will to live. So if I don’t want to kill her, I have to find a bride.”

  “Your mother was always blunt.”

  “Good with guilt.” Cary sighed. “But in this, she is right.”

  Cary’s mother had stayed at the country estate while he had gone to London. For the last few months, the duchess had been constantly tended to by his younger sisters, as well as companions and nurses. Her heart was weak, and she became exhausted easily. But she had given him her ultimatum.

  If he didn’t want to kill her, he had to get married and have a child.

  Cary knew it was blatant blackmail. But she was ill—and she was right. It was his duty to marry and have children.

  His father, when he was alive, was enraged by Cary’s reluctance to marry a wealthy, landed young woman and expand the family’s power and influence.

  Brusquely, coldly, his father would remind him that a duke was merely a stepping-stone to the next generation—a studhorse with a house. But when his father talked of the time Cary would inherit, he could see the revulsion in his father’s face.

  “So you have to go to the Cyprian ball and get over these damnable memories of yours,” Grey continued. “Prove you can take a woman to bed without the war horrors getting the better of you. Sax will go with you. I want to make sure you leave the place with an enticing lover,” he said magnanimously.

  “I don’t need an escort to a Cyprian ball,” Cary protested. “I’m thirty, damn it.”

  “If I don’t send Sax with you, you won’t go, Cary. I damn well know it.”

  Sax had been drinking his brandy, relaxing in one of Grey’s wing chairs. He looked up. Grinned. “I’ll ensure he finds a ladybird tonight. You have to get back in the saddle, Cary.”

  “It’s not that bloody simple,” Cary muttered.

  But his friends ignored him. And hell, he would not tell them what had happened to him when he’d been a boy of five. That secret would die with him.

  Sax stood. “Come on, Cary. Time to unleash the Cyprians on you.”

  Cyprians, Sophie had discovered, were not particularly kind.

  They competed for gentlemen like wildcats. Claws were being bared around the room.

  And she was holding her breath right now—as was everyone else around her—because two of the women were fighting. It was a real fight, where they tore dresses and slapped each other and pulled hair.

  And it was all over a tall, broad-shouldered man with golden blond hair and stunning pale blue eyes.

  A quarter-hour before, when the clock had struck twelve, the blond gentleman had entered the ballroom. He was accompanied by another gentleman who possessed unusual silver hair paired with dark brows and lashes. Both men were handsome, but the blond man with the light blue eyes was utterly stunning, in Sophie’s opinion.

  She had been near the door, so she’d watched them come in. The friend had to push the tall blond man through the door.

  But the moment the blond man passed the threshold, every gaze riveted on him. Voices rose in murmurs. She caught fragments of what they said.

  “He is here!”

  “He rarely leaves his house—except to go to his club.”

  “They say his imprisonment left him half mad. That he has never smiled since he returned.”

  Imprisonment? Surely, a gentleman could not have gone to prison, gotten out, and come to a Cyprian ball. For such a man to go to the gaol, it would have been for something terribly serious.

  Sophie was curious, so she kept watching.

  With his golden hair, which fell in careless waves, the tall man looked like a knight from a fairy tale. He didn’t look like someone who had been in a prison cell. And though both he and his friend were stunningly handsome, the gentleman with the golden hair captured most of the attention.

  Sophie had been driven to find out who he was.

  So she could overhear, Sophie had sidled close to a dark-haired courtesan who wore a bright pink gown and garish jewels. “The Duke of Caradon,” the woman said, almost licking her lips, “has ignored every invitation to draw him out. Ever since he was held as a prisoner of war in Ceylon. As a war hero, he would be adored everywhere, but he leaves his home only to ride in the Park and go to his club. So now that he is here, I am going to snare him before those other harridans get their claws into him.”

  A prisoner of war. A hero. Sophie swallowed hard and suddenly realized she wanted to snare him.

  He was so beautiful. And obviously noble.

  He would be the perfect protector.

  And she ached deep inside. And she felt all warm. And rather anxious.

  She knew what that meant—she desired this man.

  Though a little voice warned she should know more about him before she bluntly told him she wanted him to take her to his bed.

  The other woman, who had henna-dyed red hair, chuckled. “You are too late already. Another woman has already pounced.”

  Sophie whirled around to look. She’d waited too long!

  A woman had hold of the duke’s right arm and clung to him like an octopus. She was a Cyprian with hair so pale it was almost silver-white. She wore a white gown, white gloves, and pale white diamonds. She was pressed so tight against his side that his arm was almost trapped in the cleavage of her breasts, which were served up like two mounds of jelly, jiggling over her low-ne
cked bodice.

  “Ha! You are old enough to be His Grace’s mother!” A young girl launched forward, saucily thrusting her chest out. A young woman with jet-black hair and a lovely face, pink cheeks, huge violet eyes, and a Cupid’s bow mouth. She wore a pale pink dress.

  “How did you get in here?” the pale-haired woman demanded with the ice of a duchess. “You were hardly invited. You are so fresh off the farm, you still smell of it, Sally.”

  “I do not,” Sally declared. “You smell like me grandmamma, Angelique. And ye’re as old as she. I’m sure His Grace is not interested in having a mistress who’s so old.”

  The girl stalked over to his side and gave the white-haired courtesan a shove. “Tell her, Yer Grace. Which of us would ye like on yer arm?”

  The poor gentleman gave a desperate glance back toward the door. His friend laughed gently. “I think poor Caradon would enjoy a waltz.”

  The black-haired farmer’s daughter rushed forward and clasped his free hand. “Will ye dance with me first, Your Grace? I should be ever so thrilled if ye would.”

  The girl tried to pull him with her and jerked him away from the courtesan called Angelique. Sally gave a laugh of triumph, which was quickly smothered by the sound of fabric tearing.

  Her gauzy skirt lay half on the floor, and her white petticoats were exposed.

  And her skirt was captured under Angelique’s slipper.

  The girl’s face screwed up, turning purple with rage, and she screeched, “Ye did that on purpose! Ye wicked cat! Ye frumpy old hag!”

  “You are a stupid little brat,” the woman hissed.

  Sophie shivered. Angelique looked elegant and placid, but her voice exuded sheer fury. She snapped her fingers and, suddenly, footmen appeared. She pointed regally at the younger girl. “This young woman has no invitation. She is to be removed.”

  “I do too have an invitation.”

  “Bribed your way inside, I presume.”