Deeper in Sin Page 2

“Well, what if I did?”

  “Angelique, my dear, do not be so hard on the young woman,” said the duke’s friend.

  But the footman approached the girl, obviously ready to toss her out.

  The girl let out a screech of fury and jumped at the older courtesan. She tore at the woman’s hair, pulling it from its pins. She pulled at Angelique’s necklace and tore it free, sending it clattering. Which got her a sudden, vicious slap. The young woman slapped back.

  “Ladies! Ladies, please!” shouted the friend.

  The golden-haired duke had not said a word. Never had she seen a man with a more wooden expression. He looked terribly uncomfortable.

  In front of him, the two women tore at each other like lionesses fighting over a lion. The Duke of Caradon stepped forward and picked up the torn dress and the broken necklace. Then he pushed his way in between the two women. Without saying a word. A few blows rained on him by accident.

  Angelique drew back as he handed her the necklace. Her chest rose with fast breaths. Her eyes blazed. “Your Grace, I apologize.”

  The duke said nothing.

  The black-haired girl pulled her ruined skirt fabric from his hand and flashed a considering look at him. Then she burst into noisy tears and ran.

  “Damnation,” the duke muttered. Then he followed.

  “Wretched girl,” Angelique snapped. “Those tears were as false as her bosom—she puts padding in her bodice.”

  If the duke’s friend was shocked, he didn’t look it. Instead, an amused smile twitched his lips. Indeed, he was handsome, but the golden-haired Duke of Caradon was the most gorgeous gentleman Sophie had ever seen.

  “You played a foolish game, Angelique,” the duke’s friend stated. “He’s always the knight errant. Though I should thank you—pursuing a tearful damsel in distress will be good for him.”

  Angelique began to sputter, but then she smiled. Smugly. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, you are wrong.”

  His friend was a duke too? Sophie hadn’t expected that. And the golden-haired duke was returning.

  “Where’s the girl?” his friend asked.

  The duke looked as if his cravat were squeezing him tight. “This was a mistake, Saxonby,” he muttered. “The girl flung herself on me and then, when I agreed to make her my mistress on the spot, got in a fury at me, jumped in a carriage, and galloped away.”

  He possessed a deep voice, slightly hoarse, as if it were a labor for him to speak. Perhaps that was why he’d let his friend talk instead.

  “Viscount Willington’s carriage,” Angelique pointed out. “The girl already has a protector and obviously hoped to replace him with you. She’s a bold, ambitious little vixen. Not the type for you at all, Your Grace. But I do apologize for that scene. Her dress was torn by accident, but she came at me like a wildcat.”

  “After all, Angelique, it is not as if you are legendary for your intense passion and your even more intense temper.” The duke’s friend Saxonby grinned.

  “I shall endeavor to make your evening more pleasant, Your Grace.”

  “Sure she will, Caradon.” A man standing in the crowd near them leered openly at Angelique’s figure.

  Sophie realized men had gathered around, drawn by the women’s fight. While they all looked as if they’d enjoyed it, the duke looked as if he had sat on a hedgehog—downright uncomfortable.

  “It is fine, Angelique,” the blond duke said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve gone anywhere but my club. I hope your necklace can be repaired.”

  “I heard of your terrible experiences in Ceylon. Perhaps I could give you some comfort.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not ready for comfort yet.” He bowed, then walked away, followed by his friend Saxonby.

  “Let us get you a drink, Caradon,” the friend said.

  Sophie was intrigued. The Duke of Caradon was simply gorgeous.

  It had been a long time since Samuel had died at Waterloo—almost five years. For the first time in a long time, Sophie was looking at a man and her heart was pounding hard and she was thinking: I would want him to kiss me.

  Then she saw Angelique’s expression, and Sophie gasped. The courtesan watched the duke leave with pure venom in her eyes.

  Angelique turned and glared at her. “Who in heaven’s name are you?” she snapped.

  Damn! Sophie didn’t answer. She whirled around and raced after the two dukes, trying to vanish into the crowd and also, hopefully, meet the dukes.

  She almost caught up to the men. Then she overheard Saxonby say, “Don’t give up hope—you’ll find a female yet. Remember your obligation to your nursery.”

  Now Sophie was mixed up. Nurseries were for babies. Was the duke looking for a wife? Here?

  Even from behind, the Duke of Caradon was obviously handsome. His golden hair shone in the candlelight. He had impressive shoulders and a narrow waist. Neither he nor Saxonby were behaving like the other men here—no pawing, loud laughter, silly remarks.

  The thing was—her mother had been a courtesan. She hadn’t known, not until she had fallen pregnant with Samuel’s child. Then she had been told the truth. But she didn’t know her mother’s name. Her mother had left her a letter, signed only “Your Mother.” And her mother had left the unfinished manuscript. The story of her life as a courtesan. In it, her mother insisted that sometimes protectors fell in love with their mistresses.

  But a gentleman of the aristocracy wouldn’t be so eccentric as to look for a wife at a courtesan’s party, would he—?

  A hand grasped her arm and roughly jerked her back. “Don’t run away from me,” snapped a hard female voice. “How did you get in?”

  A hand in a white satin glove clutched her arm. Hard enough to make bruises.

  It was Angelique.

  Sophie knew she must be honest. She had seen this woman cattily rip another woman’s skirt, but surely, Angelique would understand how desperate she was. Surely, that would touch her heart.

  “I’ve just come to London,” she explained. She spilled out her story as fast as she could. In her fancy corset, designed to make her look fashionable, she quickly became breathless. But she managed to get out every detail—about how she had been turned out of her house, how her husband was dead (it wasn’t exactly a lie; though Samuel wasn’t really her husband, they had planned to marry), and how there were three children who needed food.

  Angelique looked at her coldly. “So you saw fit to come without an invitation. Admittance is granted only by me or by the other five hostesses.”

  “I know it was wrong, but you must understand, I have to support my family,” Sophie pleaded. “I have to ensure the children have enough to eat. They have the best natures and have endured everything so far very stoically. We’ve had to sleep in barns. And scrounge for food. Though we’ve never stolen anything. We would never—”

  “Do please stop,” Angelique demanded. The woman put her gloved hand to her head as if Sophie’s hurried words had given her a headache. Angelique’s eyes narrowed—she had huge eyes, and though her hair was pale blond, her lashes were dark and her eyes were rimmed carefully in black. “You are following the Duke of Caradon. I want to know why.”

  When Sophie didn’t answer, Angelique tightened her grip. “You will tell me now.”

  Sophie remembered how Angelique was draped over him. He must be her favorite. Which meant Sophie definitely could not have him. And she could not get thrown out. Not now. “I wasn’t following him. I just walked this way. And I guess so did he.”

  “Do not be smart with me,” the woman snapped. “I saw you watching him. You want him.” Angelique’s dark eyes peered at her. The woman’s gaze roamed over her. “Are you acquainted with the duke?”

  “Oh no.”

  “But you want him.”

  “Oh, I—” She thought quickly. “I only came because I must support the children. I must find a protector, but I wouldn’t dream of trying for a duke. And I could see he knows you. And he wouldn’t be interested in me, if he al
ready knows you.” She feared she was laying it on a bit too thick, but what else could she do?

  “What is your name?”

  “Sophie, ma’am.”

  Angelique’s brow lifted again. Then a slow smile touched her lips. “Well, Sophie, I have just the gentleman for you. He is a marquis—which is only one step below a duke. Fabulously wealthy.”

  Next thing Sophie knew, she had been hauled to the side of the ballroom and introduced to a short, pot-bellied man with gray hair. A marquis.

  She tried to smile politely as Angelique almost shoved her at the man and walked away. Angelique was offering her a rich man, but she could not become this man’s mistress.

  An excuse hovered on her lips—

  The marquis grasped her forearm and spun her so her backside faced him. He stared at her bottom. And smacked his lips. “What a marvel is Angelique. A discreet payment, and she exceeds herself. You are perfect, my fair Callipygian. They speak of the Venus Callipyga, but your buttocks are far more shapely, generous, and beautiful.”

  His hand grabbed and squeezed as if to test his point.

  Good heavens.

  “Please, my lord, you’re hurting me.”

  “Nonsense!” he barked. “You’ve got a lovely fat arse. It’s made to be squeezed.”

  “I’m afraid it is not.” Sophie tried to shove his hand away, to no avail. He might be gray-haired, but he possessed a solid, bulky build, and he had strength. He kneaded her bottom so painfully, she whimpered.

  “If this is meant to entice me, it does not—you are hurting me, sirrah.” The courtesan book may have spoken about satisfying a peer’s unusual tastes, but she could not do this.

  “Nonsense. You’re all tougher bits of horseflesh than you pretend to be. Nothing wrong with a bit of rough play, my dear. I pay well for it.”

  “Whatever rough play you have in mind, I have no intention of taking part.”

  “I’ll make it well worth your while to play my games. Shall we start with giving those lush globes of yours a good spanking?”

  Her skirt came up—yanked by his hand. While she recoiled in shock, he slapped her bottom—hard—with his open palm.

  “Ow!” she cried. She stomped. On his foot. He wore polished boots and she wore slippers, but he jerked back in shock. His face went red with fury—

  His gloved hand closed in a fist, and she tried to run, knowing he meant to hit her. But his reflexes were too quick. He grasped hold of her skirt and pulled her back, slamming her hard against the wall.

  She lost her breath and fought for it. Tears burned. “Don’t hit me. I don’t want to be spanked or hurt. Please!” she cried desperately.

  His fleshy lips curved in a smug leer. “A little resistance makes it all the more delightful—”

  He broke off as he was pulled back abruptly. Sophie was yanked away from the wall and found she was suddenly planted behind a large male body. Stunned, she drank in broad shoulders, a jacket of dark blue, and hair of burnished gold.

  It was the Duke of Caradon.

  “Back off, Halwell,” he said. “The girl is mine.”

  2

  At first I took to the stage, for I had a fine singing voice and I looked very fine in breeches. Gentlemen flocked to Drury Lane to see my most stirring performances.

  Gentlemen were so bold as to assume that a bouquet of roses or perhaps a sparkly bracelet could buy my favors. But I was not to be swayed—until, finally, I succumbed to the ardent pursuit of a most gloriously handsome man.

  Having found the perfect earl—he was thirty, unmarried, and in possession of a vast fortune. He was of course the Earl of R——(as you see, if you are a reader of a male persuasion and of exalted position, a lady can select her moments to be discreet if she is motivated to take such action). Every feminine wile I bestowed upon him seemed to leave him inexplicably cold.

  So frustrated was I that I visited his bedchamber one night. Aroused to a fit of feminine pique, I wandered about his bedchamber while he slept, slapping my legs with a riding crop. The thwack of the leather both awakened and aroused him. With glowing eyes, he shyly suggested that he roll upon his stomach and I playfully punish him accordingly.

  At that moment, my eyes were opened to the odd and outlandish tastes of gentlemen.

  —From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous

  “Caradon, goddamn it, I could call you out!” the marquis sputtered.

  For the first time, Sophie saw the Duke of Caradon smile. Watching the sun rise would prove pedestrian after this. His smile was not a wicked grin like his friend Saxonby’s, but something so beautiful, she would have been tempted to launch a thousand ships to get him.

  “Not wise, Halwell. I spent years soldiering, and I am a very good shot.”

  They were going to shoot each other? Shock, as well as sheer fury, gripped her. Sophie exploded out from behind the duke. “You can’t be serious, both of you! You can’t shoot at each other over this! What if you kill each other—?” She thought of Samuel. He had gone to battle to serve his king. He had been young, with everything to live for, and a bullet had stolen his life from him. “How can you want to shoot another man over something like this? Dear God, after there has been war. What an utterly stupid—” She broke off.

  Caradon stared at her with startled pale blue eyes.

  “My dear—”

  “No!” she cried. Samuel would have much preferred to have lived. He gave his life for his country, and she had shed tears every day for two years after he had died, wishing he could have survived. How could these men throw away their lives so casually?

  “It’s senseless and horrible, and I won’t let you do it,” she declared.

  “Keep out of this, you daft, idiotic girl,” Halwell snapped.

  She glared at the marquis. “You behaved in a most ungentlemanly manner, my lord. You assaulted my person. You have absolutely no right to be insulted, and you should apologize.”

  “Apologize? To a tart?” Halwell laughed. “I think not.”

  “I would be careful,” Caradon spoke smoothly, but his tone made Sophie shudder. There was something about it . . . something strong, threatening, something that made her feel she would most definitely obey and be careful.

  “You assaulted my new mistress, Halwell, so I am the wronged man here. Should I call you out? I will do it right now if you push me further. Then you’ll face me over a pistol whether you are willing or not.”

  The bulky marquis withered before her eyes. Light revealed beads of sweat on his brow. “I didn’t see you with the lass, Caradon. I had no idea she had been spoken for. Angelique presented her to me. The fault lies with that manipulative whore, not with me.”

  “Begone.” Caradon’s voice, though raspy, was like ice.

  The marquis, who had been so bullying with her, scurried away.

  The duke turned to her. “Are you all right, Miss—”

  “Sophie.” Her voice came out breathless. “Sophie Ashley.”

  “The Duke of Caradon. At your service.”

  In this circumstance, any woman would gawk in blatant admiration at her handsome rescuer. Sophie did just that. Staring at his dark-lashed, blue eyes—light blue like a wintery morning sky—she observed, “He’s a bully. He fell apart when you called his bluff. You certainly didn’t have to do much to scare him away. Why is he afraid of you?”

  The duke’s brows lifted in surprise. She thought he wouldn’t answer, then he said, “Because I actually am a good shot.” He said it in a self-deprecating way. “So Angelique threw you into his clutches?”

  Sophie nodded, then shuddered. “She couldn’t have known what kind of a gentleman he is.”

  The Duke of Caradon shook his head. “She did, I am sure. She was his lover once.”

  Sophie squirmed. “Why did she do such a cruel thing? If Angelique wanted rid of me, why not just send me packing?”

  “To Angelique, it was probably a humorous joke.”

  “But I
explained why I came here without an invitation. I told her why I must be here. I have to find a protector, or my family will starve. And she thought the marquis would be perfect for me. I thought—I thought she seemed sympathetic.”

  The intensity of his gaze made her cheeks heat. It wasn’t a lustful stare though. Still, she took swift breaths—something about the way he was looking at her made her short of breath.

  “Women like that are not sympathetic to young, pretty competition.” His eyes searched hers. “You have a starving family, you said. The truth?”

  Tears stung her eyes. She couldn’t cry—she didn’t look pretty when she cried. So she nodded. “It is true. Three children.” Her voice was wobbly and strained as she battled those wretched tears.

  “Yours? You look so young.” He wore a troubled expression.

  Oh goodness. He definitely did not appear happy at the idea of children. And one was indeed hers. “My—my friend’s . . .” she began. Then she stopped. Maybe it was easier just to stop at that. At a not-exactly-a-lie moment. “My friend and I had both lost our homes, so we have been trying to survive together.”

  He didn’t say anything for several minutes. She was not sure what to do. In her mother’s manuscript, it was advised that mistresses had contracts—legal papers that laid out exactly what they could expect and what they could keep after the affair. When would he mention that? Talk about the house, the carriages, the jewels—the things she desperately needed.

  And she hated herself for thinking so avariciously.

  She’d never cared about this kind of thing. She would have been content to have been as poor as church mice with Samuel. But having a child changed everything.

  She could starve. She couldn’t let children starve.

  When he didn’t say anything, her stomach began to gnaw with worry. “You called me your new mistress, Your Grace,” she reminded him. “I am very thrilled to begin my—uh, my new position.”

  He had been studying her with a frown. Now he started. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I am your new mistress?” She said it hesitantly. Why didn’t he either make her the offer he was supposed to, or at least try to kiss her or something?