Pure Sin
Available in:
- eBook
- Paperback
- Book info
- Sample
- Media
- Author updates
- Lists
Synopsis
A tale of exquisite pleasure that begins in the wilds of Montana—and ends in the untamed places of two lovers’ hearts
Lady Flora Bonham couldn’t help but be tantalized by Adam Serre’s potent sensuality. It made no difference that she’d only just met him or that he was the scandal of polite society. Flora had never lived according to anybody’s rules, and the instant she felt the heat of Adam’s passion, the only thing that mattered was that she wanted him.
Adam Serre couldn’t help but be wary. Lady Flora was quite spectacular, with her daring beauty and delicious conversation, but the noble daughter of a famed archaeologist did not fall into the category of amorous interludes. And after just extricating himself from a vicious marriage, his interest in women was purely transitory. Until the incomparable Flora set out to seduce him with a temptation that was pure sin.
Release date: July 7, 2010
Publisher: Bantam
Print pages: 400
* BingeBooks earns revenue from qualifying purchases as an Amazon Associate as well as from other retail partners.
Reader buzz
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
Author updates
Close
Pure Sin
Susan Johnson
Chapter One
Virginia City, Montana
April 1867
She met Adam Serre on the night his wife left him.
He walked into Judge Parkman’s foyer as she was handing her wrap to a servant, and they nodded and smiled at each other.
“Pleasant weather for April,” he said as they approached the bunting-draped entrance to the ballroom together. He smiled again, a casual, transient smile.
“Is the temperature unusual?” Flora glanced up only briefly, intent on adjusting the length of her white kid glove on her upper arm.
Adam shrugged, his broad shoulders barely moving beneath his elegantly cut evening coat. His gaze was on the crowded ballroom visible through the decorated portal, which was patriotically swathed in red, white, and blue in honor of their host’s recent appointment to the federal bench. “It’s been an early spring,” he said, searching for his host in the glittering assemblage. “But, then, the Chinook winds are unpredictable.”
Both were curiously unaware of each other. Adam, for whom the previous few hours had been volatile, was still distracted. Flora Bonham, only recently arrived in Virginia City after a long journey from London, was looking forward to seeing her father.
They were both late for the judge’s celebration party.
But the sudden hush that descended on the ballroom as they appeared in the doorway had nothing to do with their tardy arrival.
“He actually came!”
“Good God, he’s with a woman!”
“Who’s the woman?”
An impassioned buzz of astonishment and conjecture exploded after the first shocked silence, and Lady Flora Bonham, only child of the noted archaeologist Lord Haldane, wondered for a moment if she’d left her dress undone and some immodest portion of her anatomy was exposed before the expectant throng.
But after a moment of panic she realized all the guests’ gazes were focused not on herself but rather on her companion, and she looked up to discern the cause of such avid fascination.
The man was incredibly handsome, she noted, with a splendid classic bone structure and dark, sensual eyes that held a tempting touch of wildness. But before any further appraisal flashed through her mind, he bowed to her, a graceful, fleeting movement, said, “Excuse me,” and walked away.
Almost immediately she caught sight of her father advancing toward her, a warm smile on his face, his arms out in welcome. Her mouth curved into an answering smile, and she moved into her father’s embrace.
Two minutes had passed.
Perhaps less.
It was the first time she ever saw Adam.
“You look wonderful,” George Bonham said as he held his daughter at arm’s length, the brilliant blue of his eyes taking in Flora’s radiant beauty. “Apparently the rough ride from Fort Benton caused you no harm.”
“Really, Papa,” she admonished. “After all the outback country we’ve lived in, Montana Territory is very civilized. We had to walk only a dozen times to lighten the stage through the deepest mud, the river crossings were uneventful, and the driver was moderately sober. After a hot bath at the hotel, I felt perfectly rested.”
He grinned at her. “It’s good to have you back. Let me introduce you; I’ve met most everyone in the last months. Our host, the judge, is over there,” he went on, gesturing. “Come, now, let me show you off.”
But Flora noticed as they joined a group nearby and greetings were exchanged that the man who’d entered the ballroom with her continued to elicit extraordinary interest. Every guest seemed alert to his movements as he crossed the polished expanse of Italian parquet flooring.
No one had expected Adam to appear that night.
And as he strode toward his host, greeting those he passed with a casual word, a smile, a sketchy bow for old Mrs. Alworth, whose mouth was half-open in astonishment, a flurry of excited comment swirled through the room.
“His wife left him today.”
“Probably with good reason.”
“Rumor has it she ran off with Baron Lacretelle.”
“A mutual parting, then. Adam has dozens of lovers.”
“He’s a cool one to show up tonight as though nothing untoward has happened in his life,” an older man remarked.
“It’s his Indian blood,” a young lady standing beside Flora whispered, her gaze traveling down Adam’s lean, muscled form, her voice touched with a piquant excitement. “They never show their feelings.”
He looked as though he was showing his feelings now, Flora reflected, watching the animated conversation between their host and the man who was attracting so much attention. The bronze-skinned man smiled often as he conversed, and then he suddenly laughed. She felt an odd, immediate reaction to his pleasure, as though his cheer was beguiling even from a distance.
“Who is he?” Flora asked, struck by his presence.
The young lady answered without taking her eyes from the handsome long-haired man. “Adam Serre, Comte de Chastellux. A half-breed,” she softly added, his exotic bloodlines clearly of interest to her. “He’s even more available, now that his wife has left him.”
“Available?” Did she mean marriage? Never sure of female insinuation, since her own conversation tended to be direct, she made a polite inquiry.
“You know …,” the pretty blond declared, turning to wink at Flora. “Just look at him.” And her sigh was one of many—surreptitious and overt—that followed in the wake of Adam’s progress that evening.
Flora was introduced to him much later, after dinner, after a string quartet had begun playing for those who wished to dance. When Judge Parkman said, “Adam, I’d like you to meet George Bonham’s daughter. Flora Bonham, Adam Serre,” she found herself uncharacteristically discomposed by the stark immediacy of his presence. And her voice when she spoke was briefly touched with a small tremor.
“How do you do, Mr. Serre?” Her gaze rose to meet his, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. His beauty at close range struck her powerfully, as if she were imperiled by such flagrant handsomeness.
“I’m doing well, thank you,” he said, his smile open and natural, the buzz of gossip that evening concerning his marriage apparently not affecting him. “Is this your first visit to Montana?”
“Yes,” she replied, her composure restored. He seemed unaware of his good looks. “Montana’s very much like the grasslands of Manchuria. Beautiful, filled with sky, rimmed with distant mountains.”
The earl’s daughter was quite spectacular, Adam thought with a connoisseur’s eye, her mass of auburn hair so lush and rich and heavy, it almost seemed alive, her face dominated by enormous dark eyes, her skin golden, sun kissed, from so much time out of doors. He knew of her travels with her father; George Bonham had visited several of the Absarokee camps in the past months. “And good horse country too,” he replied, “like the steppes of Asia. Did you see Lake Baikal?”
“Have you been there?” Animation instantly infused her voice.
“Many years ago.”
“When?”
He thought for a moment. “I’d just finished university, so it must have been 1859.”
“No!”
“When were you there?” He found the excitement in her eyes intriguing.
“June.”
“We set up camp on the west shore near Krestovka. Don’t tell me you were in the village and we missed you.”
“We were a few miles away at Listvyanka.”
They both smiled like long-lost friends. “Would you care for some champagne?” Adam asked. “And then tell me what you liked most about Listvyanka. The church, the countess Armechev, or the ponies?”
They agreed the church was a veritable jewel of provincial architecture. It was natural the artistic countess would have appealed more to a young man susceptible to female beauty than to a seventeen-year-old girl obsessed with horses. And the native ponies elicited a lengthy discussion on Asian bloodstock. They found in the course of the evening that they’d both been to Istanbul, the Holy Land, newly opened Japan, the upper reaches of the Sahara, Petersburg in the season. But always at different times.
“A shame we didn’t ever meet,” Adam said with a seductive smile, his responses automatic with beautiful women. “Good conversation is rare.”
She didn’t suppose most women were interested exclusively in his conversation, Flora thought, as she took in the full splendor of his dark beauty and power. Even lounging in a chair, his legs casually crossed at the ankles, he presented an irresistible image of brute strength. And she’d heard enough rumor in the course of the evening to understand he enjoyed women—nonconversationally. “As rare as marital fidelity, no doubt.”
His brows rose fractionally. “No one’s had the nerve to so bluntly allude to my marriage. Are you speaking of Isolde’s or my infidelities?” His grin was boyish.
“Papa says you’re French.”
“Does that give me motive or excuse? And I’m only half-French, as you no doubt know, so I may have less excuse than Isolde. She apparently prefers Baron Lacretelle’s properties in Paris and Nice to my dwelling here.”
“No heartbroken melancholy?”
He laughed. “Obviously you haven’t met Isolde.”
“Why did you marry, then?”
He gazed at her for a moment over the rim of the goblet he’d raised to his lips. “You can’t be that naive,” he softly said, then quickly drained the glass.
“Forgive me. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”
Virginia City, Montana
April 1867
She met Adam Serre on the night his wife left him.
He walked into Judge Parkman’s foyer as she was handing her wrap to a servant, and they nodded and smiled at each other.
“Pleasant weather for April,” he said as they approached the bunting-draped entrance to the ballroom together. He smiled again, a casual, transient smile.
“Is the temperature unusual?” Flora glanced up only briefly, intent on adjusting the length of her white kid glove on her upper arm.
Adam shrugged, his broad shoulders barely moving beneath his elegantly cut evening coat. His gaze was on the crowded ballroom visible through the decorated portal, which was patriotically swathed in red, white, and blue in honor of their host’s recent appointment to the federal bench. “It’s been an early spring,” he said, searching for his host in the glittering assemblage. “But, then, the Chinook winds are unpredictable.”
Both were curiously unaware of each other. Adam, for whom the previous few hours had been volatile, was still distracted. Flora Bonham, only recently arrived in Virginia City after a long journey from London, was looking forward to seeing her father.
They were both late for the judge’s celebration party.
But the sudden hush that descended on the ballroom as they appeared in the doorway had nothing to do with their tardy arrival.
“He actually came!”
“Good God, he’s with a woman!”
“Who’s the woman?”
An impassioned buzz of astonishment and conjecture exploded after the first shocked silence, and Lady Flora Bonham, only child of the noted archaeologist Lord Haldane, wondered for a moment if she’d left her dress undone and some immodest portion of her anatomy was exposed before the expectant throng.
But after a moment of panic she realized all the guests’ gazes were focused not on herself but rather on her companion, and she looked up to discern the cause of such avid fascination.
The man was incredibly handsome, she noted, with a splendid classic bone structure and dark, sensual eyes that held a tempting touch of wildness. But before any further appraisal flashed through her mind, he bowed to her, a graceful, fleeting movement, said, “Excuse me,” and walked away.
Almost immediately she caught sight of her father advancing toward her, a warm smile on his face, his arms out in welcome. Her mouth curved into an answering smile, and she moved into her father’s embrace.
Two minutes had passed.
Perhaps less.
It was the first time she ever saw Adam.
“You look wonderful,” George Bonham said as he held his daughter at arm’s length, the brilliant blue of his eyes taking in Flora’s radiant beauty. “Apparently the rough ride from Fort Benton caused you no harm.”
“Really, Papa,” she admonished. “After all the outback country we’ve lived in, Montana Territory is very civilized. We had to walk only a dozen times to lighten the stage through the deepest mud, the river crossings were uneventful, and the driver was moderately sober. After a hot bath at the hotel, I felt perfectly rested.”
He grinned at her. “It’s good to have you back. Let me introduce you; I’ve met most everyone in the last months. Our host, the judge, is over there,” he went on, gesturing. “Come, now, let me show you off.”
But Flora noticed as they joined a group nearby and greetings were exchanged that the man who’d entered the ballroom with her continued to elicit extraordinary interest. Every guest seemed alert to his movements as he crossed the polished expanse of Italian parquet flooring.
No one had expected Adam to appear that night.
And as he strode toward his host, greeting those he passed with a casual word, a smile, a sketchy bow for old Mrs. Alworth, whose mouth was half-open in astonishment, a flurry of excited comment swirled through the room.
“His wife left him today.”
“Probably with good reason.”
“Rumor has it she ran off with Baron Lacretelle.”
“A mutual parting, then. Adam has dozens of lovers.”
“He’s a cool one to show up tonight as though nothing untoward has happened in his life,” an older man remarked.
“It’s his Indian blood,” a young lady standing beside Flora whispered, her gaze traveling down Adam’s lean, muscled form, her voice touched with a piquant excitement. “They never show their feelings.”
He looked as though he was showing his feelings now, Flora reflected, watching the animated conversation between their host and the man who was attracting so much attention. The bronze-skinned man smiled often as he conversed, and then he suddenly laughed. She felt an odd, immediate reaction to his pleasure, as though his cheer was beguiling even from a distance.
“Who is he?” Flora asked, struck by his presence.
The young lady answered without taking her eyes from the handsome long-haired man. “Adam Serre, Comte de Chastellux. A half-breed,” she softly added, his exotic bloodlines clearly of interest to her. “He’s even more available, now that his wife has left him.”
“Available?” Did she mean marriage? Never sure of female insinuation, since her own conversation tended to be direct, she made a polite inquiry.
“You know …,” the pretty blond declared, turning to wink at Flora. “Just look at him.” And her sigh was one of many—surreptitious and overt—that followed in the wake of Adam’s progress that evening.
Flora was introduced to him much later, after dinner, after a string quartet had begun playing for those who wished to dance. When Judge Parkman said, “Adam, I’d like you to meet George Bonham’s daughter. Flora Bonham, Adam Serre,” she found herself uncharacteristically discomposed by the stark immediacy of his presence. And her voice when she spoke was briefly touched with a small tremor.
“How do you do, Mr. Serre?” Her gaze rose to meet his, and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. His beauty at close range struck her powerfully, as if she were imperiled by such flagrant handsomeness.
“I’m doing well, thank you,” he said, his smile open and natural, the buzz of gossip that evening concerning his marriage apparently not affecting him. “Is this your first visit to Montana?”
“Yes,” she replied, her composure restored. He seemed unaware of his good looks. “Montana’s very much like the grasslands of Manchuria. Beautiful, filled with sky, rimmed with distant mountains.”
The earl’s daughter was quite spectacular, Adam thought with a connoisseur’s eye, her mass of auburn hair so lush and rich and heavy, it almost seemed alive, her face dominated by enormous dark eyes, her skin golden, sun kissed, from so much time out of doors. He knew of her travels with her father; George Bonham had visited several of the Absarokee camps in the past months. “And good horse country too,” he replied, “like the steppes of Asia. Did you see Lake Baikal?”
“Have you been there?” Animation instantly infused her voice.
“Many years ago.”
“When?”
He thought for a moment. “I’d just finished university, so it must have been 1859.”
“No!”
“When were you there?” He found the excitement in her eyes intriguing.
“June.”
“We set up camp on the west shore near Krestovka. Don’t tell me you were in the village and we missed you.”
“We were a few miles away at Listvyanka.”
They both smiled like long-lost friends. “Would you care for some champagne?” Adam asked. “And then tell me what you liked most about Listvyanka. The church, the countess Armechev, or the ponies?”
They agreed the church was a veritable jewel of provincial architecture. It was natural the artistic countess would have appealed more to a young man susceptible to female beauty than to a seventeen-year-old girl obsessed with horses. And the native ponies elicited a lengthy discussion on Asian bloodstock. They found in the course of the evening that they’d both been to Istanbul, the Holy Land, newly opened Japan, the upper reaches of the Sahara, Petersburg in the season. But always at different times.
“A shame we didn’t ever meet,” Adam said with a seductive smile, his responses automatic with beautiful women. “Good conversation is rare.”
She didn’t suppose most women were interested exclusively in his conversation, Flora thought, as she took in the full splendor of his dark beauty and power. Even lounging in a chair, his legs casually crossed at the ankles, he presented an irresistible image of brute strength. And she’d heard enough rumor in the course of the evening to understand he enjoyed women—nonconversationally. “As rare as marital fidelity, no doubt.”
His brows rose fractionally. “No one’s had the nerve to so bluntly allude to my marriage. Are you speaking of Isolde’s or my infidelities?” His grin was boyish.
“Papa says you’re French.”
“Does that give me motive or excuse? And I’m only half-French, as you no doubt know, so I may have less excuse than Isolde. She apparently prefers Baron Lacretelle’s properties in Paris and Nice to my dwelling here.”
“No heartbroken melancholy?”
He laughed. “Obviously you haven’t met Isolde.”
“Why did you marry, then?”
He gazed at her for a moment over the rim of the goblet he’d raised to his lips. “You can’t be that naive,” he softly said, then quickly drained the glass.
“Forgive me. I’m sure it’s none of my business.”
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
