Deeper in Sin Page 4

  “Didn’t you like it?” she asked again.

  “I did.” He hesitated. Then continued, in his deep, hoarse voice, “But it was wrong. Wrong of me to plunder your innocence.”

  “Even if I want you to?”

  “I can’t,” he growled. “Even if you want me to. For me, touching or kissing like that starts out hot and erotic and exciting, and then it changes.”

  She gaped at him. Pure, raw agony showed on his face. He looked worse than she had when she’d cried herself sick after being thrown out of her house and being told she was actually the daughter of a whore, and her blood was as immoral and rotten as her mother’s.

  “What’s wrong? I don’t understand, Your Grace.”

  “I can’t explain it, Sophie. That kiss brought back a memory I don’t want to have.”

  “I did something wrong then.”

  She’d felt his passion when he’d kissed. She’d felt his erection straining in his trousers. But also in the strong, sensual way his mouth moved over hers. His tongue had slipped into her mouth, and she’d been transfixed, realizing how much that mimicked sex, and she’d been sure he wanted her.

  She wanted him. Even though she barely knew him—she wanted him.

  It was just like with Samuel. She’d known, from the very first moment she saw him, she loved him.

  She might be tumbling into love with the duke.

  “You did everything right,” he said softly. “Except to choose to kiss me. I’m no good, Sophie. Tonight is making me realize that.”

  “That can’t be true!” she said in a fierce whisper.

  He was perfect. He was everything she’d dreamed of in a protector.

  He was watching her face, his handsome face drawn in a frown. “We’re leaving,” he said abruptly.

  Sophie gasped at the inside of the Duke of Caradon’s carriage. Velvet seats of dark crimson, a polished wood floor, silk on the walls, and brass lights. The ceiling was painted with all the delicate beauty of an Italian master—she’d been raised in a doctor’s house, and he had had a large library filled with books. One of Dr. Tucker’s prize possessions had been beautiful plates of famous paintings of the Renaissance. This was every bit as spectacular.

  Her heart drummed a song of hope. Caradon claimed he was taking her to a place to show her the error of her decision—to show her what happened to most hopeful courtesans. She had protested at first. She had to become a courtesan, no matter what.

  But once the carriage started off, she realized what this meant.

  He liked her!

  He must care for her; otherwise, surely, he would have given up on her.

  She knew he had not whisked her away from the ball because he had some nefarious intent. Why rescue her from Halwell if he had? And he’d stopped kissing her because he thought she was innocent. She would have to make him see she was not.

  He had deposited her on the seat, where she faced the way they were traveling. He sat opposite. The carriage lamps made his hair glow like it was gold spun by fairies. His eyes were so unusual. In the light, they were as pale as diamonds—almost silvery.

  She smiled at him, glowing with joy.

  He looked at her with suspicion. “Why do you look so happy?”

  She couldn’t announce what she had figured out—that he liked her. She must be careful. In the book, her mother had pointed out that a woman must be able to tell when a man is smitten, and she must use that knowledge carefully. Sophie was not quite sure what was meant by “carefully,” but she knew she had to heed the advice.

  “I am in a carriage with a handsome duke. It’s rather exciting.” Joy bubbled into her voice.

  “And you are hopelessly naïve. I haven’t told you where we are going—though if I did, it would sound no safer. I told you I intended to show you the error of your decision to become a courtesan. You know nothing about me. I could be a damned evil villain, I could be intending to hurt you, and you still came into my carriage with me, trusting as a lamb.”

  “I don’t think I am naïve. People did say I have always been hopeful and always look for the good in things.” Well, she had, until she had been thrown out when enceinte. “Anyway, I can tell you don’t want to hurt me.”

  “You can’t tell anything of the sort,” Caradon said shortly. “Some of the most cruel and vicious people hide their violence and perversions behind kind smiles.”

  She shivered. “Are you warning me? I have known an evil man. See—I am not completely unknowing. I do know you are nothing like him, for example.”

  “I won’t hurt you, Sophie. But there are so-called gentlemen who will.”

  “Yes, I do know that. They live in more places than London.” And one of them—Lord Devars—would have her in his clutches if she didn’t get settled in a role as courtesan, if she didn’t get money. “There is a solution. A way I know I won’t end up with a terrible, dangerous man. I just have to convince you to take me on truly as your mistress. Isn’t that why you were there? To find a mistress? I am more than willing to take on the role. And you would be perfect for me.”

  He looked worn-out and rather grim. “How would I be perfect?”

  “You are rather wonderful,” she said bluntly. “You’re handsome. You came to my rescue. You are good and kind. And you are a duke. So you see, you are perfect.”

  “You are the most remarkably ingenuous woman I’ve ever met.” He sighed.

  Impulsively, she leaned forward and planted both of her hands on his knees. His legs were long, splayed so they fit in the carriage without bumping her legs. “But don’t you see it would be the perfect solution? You get what you want. I get what I want.”

  “Miss Ashley—”

  But she jumped in. “You can’t save me. I can’t be saved. And I won’t be, not at the expense of my family. It’s my fault we are in such trouble—” She sank her teeth into her lip. Her words had run away with themselves.

  Of course, he caught it at once. “Why is it your fault? What happened that you feel you have to ruin yourself?” His tone was filled with tenderness. He looked truly concerned.

  He really did care about her.

  And she cared terribly about him. Already.

  But she could not tell him of what she’d done and that she had a child—and what she’d been forced to do when they’d needed money. “It’s just that I’m the only one who can become a courtesan. And I have my book, so I know what to do and what to expect.”

  “You have a book?”

  “A memoir written by a famous London courtesan.” She couldn’t help but speak with pride about her mother. She didn’t know her mother’s name, but from the journal, she knew her mother had been pursued by dukes, earls, and even royal princes. Mrs. Tucker had called her mother sinful. The woman admitted she had only agreed to take in Sophie because Dr. Tucker wanted to do it. Her mother had given them a lot of money to support her upbringing. But to the doctor, Sophie had been an experiment—the doctor believed a good upbringing in a decent household would result in a decent girl.

  He had been proven wrong, Mrs. Tucker had declared with venom.

  The duke’s voice brought her back to the present. “A book is what spurred you to come to London to become a courtesan? My God, Miss Ashley, you are so sweetly unsophisticated, it is a wonder you haven’t plunged into trouble before.”

  She swallowed hard. She had, but she couldn’t let him know that now.

  If she wanted to land him, she must get him lusting after her, desiring her, wanting her.

  She had to try to seduce him. In some way.

  She quickly stood and moved across to sit on his lap. But he caught her by her bottom before she could land on him. “No, Sophie.” He leaned toward the window. “We’ve arrived.”

  “Where are we?”

  “A brothel.”

  Panic hit. For a moment, her faith in him wobbled. “Why are we here? Are you going to sell me to them?”

  He rolled his eyes heavenward. “Now you understand that you
have to be wary. You are far too impulsive. But no, I am not going to sell you to a brothel. I want you to see what can happen to young women in London.”

  “I’m going to become a Cyprian. I’m not going to work in a brothel.”

  “What if you do not become a highflyer, one of the elite courtesans? What then?” he asked.

  “I will become one. I am highly determined to do it—and that means I shall succeed! And I would be perfectly fine, if you would be my protector.”

  He did not answer. The door to the carriage opened, and without another word, the duke jumped out, ignoring the steps. He held out his hand and clasped hers to help her down.

  Awareness rushed through Sophie in a big whoosh. She tingled all over.

  Surely, it was plain to him—the magic that happened when their hands touched.

  She saw the glow in his eyes as he looked at her. The fire in them. But he quickly shook his head as if to wave out the fire of desire the way you would wave out a match.

  He did feel the same intensity!

  Yet he was refusing to acknowledge it.

  What she would do in that brothel was seduce the reluctant duke. He said he couldn’t kiss her because he was haunted by terrible memories. But surely, kissing and sex would make him forget his awful memories.

  She wondered what they were. But it didn’t matter. She had to pleasure him as it was described in the book. Then, for sure, he would want her to be his.

  The duke propelled her toward the door of a narrow house on a dark street. “Come, Sophie. We are going inside. I am going to teach you a lesson tonight and make you see sense—if it kills me.”

  Sophie let the duke lead her into the brothel. The town house, jammed between others on the rather seedy London street, was neither well kept nor derelict. A burly man at the door greeted them with a grunt, and she was whisked inside. Heat crept through her silk gown and plain brown cloak—she had gathered up her cloak when they had left the ball.

  She glanced into a parlor filled with women. Most of them wore thick lip cream and had kohl smeared around their eyes; and they were dressed in nothing but their shifts and loosened stays. They lounged, looking bored and fed up. They looked up hopefully at Caradon, but he shook his head. He had a quiet word with the grunting doorman, who then disappeared. Minutes later—minutes where Sophie took furtive looks at the prostitutes—a tall, thin woman appeared. The woman wore a gown of heavy red velvet festooned with lace.

  Caradon and the woman conversed, too quietly for Sophie to hear.

  This was not going to be her future.

  The tall woman smiled at the duke and pointed upward.

  Caradon returned to her. “Upstairs,” he said.

  She followed him up, and he took her into the first room on the upper floor. A sagging bed with four posts stood along one wall. There were a few glowing coals in the grate, and a lamp sat on a rickety-looking bedside table.

  Sophie moved to him. Goodness, he was tall. The top of her head only reached his chest. She gazed up at him—at his strong jaw, wide full lips, pale blue eyes that looked almost like silver in the faint light. Her heart hammered. Her legs felt funny—weak, shaky.

  She touched his chest. He pulled her hand away. “This, my dear, could be your future.”

  Then, inexplicably, he walked to the wall and pressed his face to it as if he could see through. There was paper with a painted pattern of faded flowers plastered to the wall.

  The duke motioned her over and clasped her shoulders, positioning her exactly where he had stood. Now she saw a glint of light coming through the wall. There were two tiny holes.

  “Shouldn’t they repair the wall? Someone could see through.”

  He looked a bit smug. “That’s correct. They are peepholes, intended for you to watch. Men enjoy doing it.”

  He was trying to shock her. She couldn’t let him. She couldn’t let him scare her away.

  It took a while to focus through the small holes and figure out what she was seeing. The room was decorated in garish colors—dark reds, purple, yellows. A canopied bed sat in the middle of the room. A small fire burned in the grate, and candles burned on the tables.

  Squinting, she saw two round, naked, white bottoms.

  Women’s bottoms.

  “That can’t be right.”

  The duke came up behind her. His hands gently touched her arms. A light touch, but how she quivered.

  “What can’t be right?”

  “There are two people in there. Both women.”

  The woman’s gowns were bunched up, and they squirmed around on a bed.

  “There are three people in the room,” Caradon said.

  His breath whispered past her ear. How it tingled!

  She strained to see. There wasn’t anyone else—

  A guttural chuckle sounded over the women’s giggles and moans.

  There was a man in the room. Heaven only knew where—

  Then she knew, because she saw two naked, muscular arms emerge from the tangle of sheets and wrap around the two women’s waists. The man was on the bed, under the two prostitutes.

  The man pushed one girl onto her back and rose up over her. He had a long body, bulky with muscle, and dark brown hair. His buttocks were as taut as knotted rope.

  “Isn’t he being greedy? Two women? What does he do, have them take turns?”

  “Likely a protector might ask you to do it,” the duke responded. “You should learn.”

  In the room, the man tugged down one of the woman’s bodices, and while he couldn’t work it down very far, he freed one plump breast. That woman was blond. Her hair was a blousy mess, her lip color smudged. The other woman had bright red hair hanging to her waist in curls. The three of them squirmed on the bed like kittens. Each woman took turns grabbing at the thing hanging between his legs. He had the most enormous . . . prick, as it had been described in the book. She had only ever seen Samuel’s. This was monstrous. And it swayed as the women tried to grab it and stroke it and bat at it.

  “That is the Marquis of Stonely.”

  “Rather apt,” she muttered.

  She heard Caradon surprised laugh behind her.

  Then Stonely managed to get the blonde’s two breasts freed. And he suckled one while the redhead caressed and licked the other.

  “Shocked?”

  “I don’t know. It was shocking, but . . . look, the blond woman seems to be enjoying it. I’m not that shocked anymore. I feel all warm. And excited.”

  “You are supposed to be shocked.”

  “Well, I was . . . for a while.”

  “You are missing the point of this, Miss Ashley.”

  “I’m learning about being a courtesan. Isn’t that the point?” She half twisted to look back at him. “Is this the sort of thing you want?”

  “No,” he growled. “Not what I want. But what many men want.”

  “But I don’t want many men. I only want you.”

  He shook his head. “That won’t happen, Miss Ashley. It can’t.”

  She couldn’t imagine anything happening but that. It was all she wanted.

  “So you might end up with a man like Stonely. He doesn’t make love with a woman; he pounds into her. He doesn’t care about her pleasure. He’s too busy trying to prove himself.”

  “Prove what?” she asked.

  Stonely got out of the bed, strutting like a rooster. With his large hands, he pulled the redhead to the edge of the bed. Roughly, he yanked off her unfastened dress. He positioned her on her stomach with her legs over the bed and her naked bottom in the air, facing him.

  Then he barked, “Come here” to the blond woman, and she complied. She was plump, her lush bosom spilling out of her dress. She swayed a bit, and Sophie saw many empty wine bottles in the room.

  “Get a move on,” Stonely said, grumpily.

  Perhaps she could see the duke’s point. Stonely looked aroused, but not as if he were enjoying himself. He was driven, obviously, by desire.

  But
where was the breathless excitement he should be sharing with a partner, the thrill of making love together?

  “Hurry up, girl,” said Stonely, then he picked up the plump girl, who had long, long legs, and positioned her on top of the first girl. She lay on top of the first girl, stomach to the redhead’s back. Her bare bottom was on top of the other girl’s, also pointing at Stonely.

  Then Stonely chucked. A dark, leering laugh.

  He sounded just like Devars, and Sophie flinched.

  She couldn’t retreat—Caradon stood behind her.

  The blonde on top twisted to see him. “Put your prong in me now! I’ll grip you much tighter than she will. I’ve got skill, and I can milk your big, thick prick. I can do for you much better than she can.”

  “No, you can’t!” the redhead protested.

  “Yes, I can. I’m very, very good.”

  “Not half as good as I!” shouted the redhead

  “Can we stop arguing,” groaned the man, “and let me get on with it?”

  Then he proceeded to move his jutting erection to point at the redhead, and he thrust into her with one fast punch of his hips. He banged vigorously against her bottom, rocking the two girls on the bed. At a few thrusts, his face was red and sweating. Then he jerked out of the bottom girl and thrust back into the top girl.

  “I don’t see why I have to be on the bottom,” the redhead complained. “She’s squashing me.”

  “And I like the idea of her big tits squashing you. Now silence, while I put my rod up your delicate little arse.”

  “Good lord,” Sophie whispered. She had no idea about that!

  Caradon bent close to her. “From this angle, I can see your cheeks are flaming red.” His hand slid around her waist, making her gasp.

  But the trio on the bed didn’t notice the quick, sharp sound, fortunately.

  “I—I just didn’t know.” She had to bluff her way through this.

  “Do you think you would want to share your man with someone else?”

  “Maybe he wouldn’t want to.” That hadn’t been in her mother’s book. Nor that other thing he’d said he was going to do. Maybe the courtesan world had changed since her mother’s day. Maybe men did expect more shocking things.