Sin
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Synopsis
Venetia Hamilton is no stranger to erotic art--her father's lush paintings are one of society's secret pleasures. But Venetia has never experienced true desire. Not until she meets Michael Wyndham, the Earl of Trent--a powerful man who holds her future in his hands and awakens her curiosity with one searing kiss. His expert touch is only the beginning of her carnal education, but something more dangerous than submission may be the price she pays for such unimaginable delight. . .
Release date: October 9, 2013
Publisher: Aphrodisia
Print pages: 350
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Sin
Sharon Page
London, April 1818
There was nothing like money to pique a lady’s desire…Lydia Harcourt smiled in triumph at the two open letters sitting beside her plate. Humming happily, she refreshed her chocolate with a splash from the china pot.
Promises of generous payment. Enough to pay her bills, if she were so inclined. But the tradesmen, so desperate about their unpaid accounts, were also so easily distracted.
She lifted the letter closest to her and reread it as she sipped her chocolate, savoring her victory. A thousand pounds.
Still, Norton really should be good for more. Perhaps if she pressed…
Lydia settled her cup on its saucer and gave a luxurious yawn and stretch. She was one of the few Incognitas who knew what morning was. She picked up the third letter delivered in the morning’s post. This one promised to be her coup de grâce.
None of her lovers could ever keep their secrets from her.
A talent that now served her well.
A flick of the letter opener and she smoothed out the thin sheet. For a duke, Montberry used the cheapest paper. He’d not wasted much ink either. One stark line sprawled across the page.
Publish and be damned.
And Montberry written beneath, with a flourishing ‘M’ and ‘y’.
Blast the man! Did he really wish the polite world to know what a dreadful bore he was in bed? To know about his preferences? The haute ton thought him a hero. A great man, larger than life. What a grand joke it would be when all learned the truth.
She tossed the letters aside, shook out her loose hair. Rodesson preferred her hair down and tousled into shimmering waves. For some reason, the eccentric artist enjoyed his carnal pleasures before noon. Her cunny bubbled at the thought of their upcoming encounter and she allowed a vindictive smirk to curve her lips, despite the risk of aging lines. It would be a delight to destroy Rodesson after the mocking pictures he’d painted of her! She would not even give him the chance to bribe her.
In fact, today she would start on the letters ‘R’, ‘S’, and ‘T’. She leafed through the small leather bound book that sat by her right hand. A good thing she’d kept meticulous records. Over twenty years, a woman did tend to forget the men she had entertained.
When so few had entertained her.
Two hours later, Lydia stretched out on her bed and skimmed her hands suggestively along her naked curves. She plucked at her nipples, then delved her fingers into her neatly trimmed nether curls.
She gazed with coquettish invitation at her visitor, but inside she glowed with victory at the pained look that burned in his green eyes. Handsome eyes that narrowed at the sight of her feminine juices soaking her curls, droplets sitting atop the bush of black hair like morning dew.
Even nearing sixty, with thick hair of pure white, Rodesson was a handsome man. Lean and well muscled. The lines on his face gave him a grizzled, sensual appeal. An artist, he appreciated that women enjoyed an aesthetic body on a lover.
How she longed to laugh. The great Rodesson, lolling at her feet like a lapdog.
“I would like to tie you up,” he said, hoarsely.
He was the sort of man that allowed the submissive to hold the power in the game. He would not force her, but he was waiting, his emerald eyes afire, to see what she would allow. What she would suggest.
Excitement rushed through Lydia, dampening her cunny even more. Rodesson sought escape in games of bondage when he was haunted by worries—either money or guilt, or when he’d sunk into maudlin contemplation of the woman he’d loved and lost.
“I am your servant,” she promised.
He was not yet fully aroused, though even in its semi-slumbering state his cock was long and beautifully formed. He would often be sexually excited without having an erection, eager to slide into her mouth and have her bring him to attention.
She merely flicked her glance to the bedside table, to the tangle of silken rope and ribbons jumbled on top.
Sunlight spilled through the paned windows, drawing crisscrossed shadows over her nude breasts, belly, and thighs. The thought of bondage at the time when most were rising to sip their coffee and chocolate did indeed titillate.
She closed her eyes as Rodesson left her bed to rifle through her playthings. She heard the sharp intake of breath as he discovered the true treat amidst the heap of restraints. A gift from the Marquess of Chartrand—jeweled bracelets designed to be locked to her headboard. They clinked as Rodesson lifted them.
“Roll onto your stomach, lass.”
Lydia obeyed. How could she despise this man yet delight in the deep, gravelly sound of his voice? Sometimes she thought she seduced herself.
She buried her face between her two plump pillows and shivered at the softness of silken sheets brushing her hard nipples and her wet quim. Once more she closed her eyes, anticipating the touch of a velvet rope or silver shackles to her skin.
A deeper excitement set her heart pounding. A troubled man enjoying kinkier pleasures was more apt to spill his secrets.
Why had he not yet touched her?
She lifted her hips and wriggled her bare arse to tempt him. Now she was truly aroused.
“Bind me,” Lydia whispered in a throaty, alluring voice.
A pressure, a roughness touched her calves. Finally. But this was not the softness of velvet or silk.
Startled, she lifted, shoved a pillow aside, as something rasped across her ankles. She twisted to watch Rodesson wrap a length of rope around her ankles. He had brought rope!
“I prefer velvet,” she protested. The rough fibers scratched. And would leave angry red burns.
“Silence, captive.” The rope wound tighter, cutting into her skin. She could not escape these bonds. Her ankles were well and truly trussed and she found the sensation exciting.
Perhaps she’d betrayed her apprehension, her shock at the way she was growing delightfully wet, for he gave her a gruff laugh and then bent to kiss her bare arse. No, not a kiss. He bit her cheek! Gently, but really.
“Mind. I don’t wish permanent disfigurement.”
He laughed, paying her no heed, and bestowed love nips all over her buttocks. Which, despite her protests, left her soaked and throbbing. The rasp of his jaw along her curves made her yearn for a deep and thrilling penetration in her derriere and she lifted her bottom up to him, hoping he took the hint.
But no, the man instead resumed his work of tying her up. He labored with the knot at her feet for so long she was moaning in exasperation.
“Shackle my wrists! Please, oh yes, please, my master.”
Lydia fell back to the bed, burying her face into the softness of her mattress. She heard the clatter as he lifted them from the table and let out a happy whimper. They were locked, but the gold key was in the lock, ready for him to open it.
She waited and waited, squirming against her sheets.
“Damnation.”
Bother, had he lost the key? Her heart thudded for long moments, her frustration grew. What was he doing? Apprehension grew beneath her irritation. She arched up again to see what he was doing.
He knelt at the foot of her bed, his handsome features distorted in a grimace.
Wincing, Rodesson dropped the shackles to the bed and massaged his hands. “Bloody rheumy hands.” He appeared to be in genuine pain. With her ankles bound, she rolled up onto one hip, watching him try to work his hands, to flex out the stiffness.
But his gaze met hers and a look passed through his eyes that intrigued. He ceased his manipulations of his fingers. Instead he picked up a second length of rope. “Back on your belly, minx.”
Truly excited now, she lay down again. Her famously large breasts squashed against the mattress. He slid the rope under her legs, and circled it around her thighs.
“Your hands must pain you greatly when you paint.” Lydia kept a tone of sympathy and sensuality.
His answer was a curt yes.
He did not wish to speak of this. Was it due to shame? Or something more?
He began to knot the rope that bound her thighs together, struggling, and she could barely breathe with excitement. Her honey flowed like a river between her thighs, her heart pounding, her throat tight. She would never wish to be truly captured, bound, raped. God in heaven, she knew what it was to have a man force himself on her. She had spent a lifetime ensuring she would never have to endure that again, yet by some perversity of her nature, she enjoyed—no, needed—to have Rodesson make her his prisoner.
He lifted the jeweled cuffs. With muttered oaths, he struggled to control the key. She couldn’t see how he could hold a brush with such ruined hands. How it must hurt him to paint. How that gave her a sense of smug satisfaction. He had just produced a beautiful volume and every moment of his work must have been excruciating agony.
Lydia turned to watch him once more.
“Ah lass, it’s no use.” His broad shoulders drooped. So did his cock.
“Give them to me.”
He looked ashamed.
“It is exciting to do this,” she prompted. “To shackle myself because you wish it. I know I dare not disobey…”
He handed them over but his shaft did not swell or straighten. She must work harder to assuage his ego.
He followed her gaze. “No need to worry about that, lass. That still works. It’s the hands that don’t. Can’t even bloody well paint—”
Can’t paint? Had that one volume been his last? Did that mean she had no need to destroy him? She unlocked one cuff and clasped it around her wrist. Lined with velvet it was comfortable—she might enjoy the game, but she didn’t truly like discomfort.
“Lydia, love—”
She gazed up, looking as innocent as she could while locking the second cuff in place. The gold chain between them allowed her movement but she entwined it around her wrists to give the illusion she was completely trapped.
“Lydia, you can’t let anyone know I can’t paint.”
A secret. How delicious. How useful.
“You are my master and I will obey.”
“I am serious, gel. I can’t have it known that I can no longer…perform in that arena.”
She smiled, the submissive once again controlling the man who wished to play dominant. “Now, my master, do you wish to fuck me?”
“I do indeed.” His eyes narrowed and he licked at his lips. “My houri.”
His hands did not trouble him as he lifted her hips up into the air, presenting her derriere and her quim like a heated mare. She no longer knew where she wished him to penetrate. The blunt head of his cock slid from her puckered anus to her bubbling quim and back, soaking her along the way. Her heart thundered as she waited for him to choose, to push inside. Something large pressed against the entrance of her bottom and she lifted toward it, relaxing. She felt herself open to receive…one of her own gew-gaws, a wand of ivory carved like an enormous phallus. His ministrations were gentle and slow, coaxing her to spread for her gigantic toy. Within a few strokes, he had it halfway inside.
“God yes,” he groaned, “Take it deep, my beauty.”
Lydia moaned in answer. “Push it to the hilt, my master.”
Realistic ballocks had been carved as part of the phallus and these pressed into her parted cheeks. Goodness, it meant she was completely filled, the entire length within her. Rodesson held it in place with one hand and she felt him part her nether lips. Her moisture released in a flood, drawing a hungry groan from her lover.
His cock began to do battle with the phallus in her bottom. As his thick, hot staff slid inside her quim, it pushed the other out of her arse. He pushed it back in, stretching her impossibly.
His secret. She must think of his secret…there was something significant in what he had told her…But she was stuffed so wonderfully full. And he began to paint her an image…
“What if you were caught like this by a man in your employ? A young footman of twenty. Randy, brawny, but still a virgin and eager to be taught by a voluptuous, experienced woman. His swollen cock would stand tall for you. You would be imprisoned yet you would control him. And then, his friend would come to see where he was. Another young man, another enormous cock. Both thrusting into you and determined to please. It would be torture for them to control their climaxes until they pleasure you. And you, my beauty, would enjoy their pain.”
She must concentrate but his fantasy was so perfect she couldn’t resist letting herself imagine…
His cock thrust deep and each plunge of his hips crammed her toy deep within her bottom. She rarely reached orgasm with her gentlemen. But with Rodesson it happened every time. It would happen now. The double penetration brought her to her peak without fail. Her anus was so delightfully sensitive and he knew it.
He pounded into her, brutally hard, just as she liked it. She was so wet and slick, she loved the pounding of his hips, the strike of his solid groin against her cheeks. The ripple of her flesh with each slap sent an answering ripple of ecstasy through her butt and quim.
“Yes, harder,” Lydia cried. She wriggled her captured hands between her belly and the bed. With a moan of pure pleasure, she reached her nubbin, the trigger for her pleasure. She must work quickly. She loved to have many climaxes this way and he would reach his peak soon. He was almost sixty after all.
“Oh God, yes.” Two strokes took her to her first. The orgasm slammed into her, roaring through every nerve. Oh yes, yes. Such pleasure. So long had it taken her to learn of pleasure like this. She saw stars, as she did each time with this man. Stars that sparkled like priceless jewels against black velvet.
Barely did she gain her senses from her first climax, before she brought herself to a second. And then a third. By the fifth, she no longer needed to stroke her throbbing, abraded clit. It took one deep thrust of Rodesson’s magnificent cock to make her climax again. She was soaked and finished. But he was not.
“Withdraw,” she instructed, panting, “You must withdraw.”
With a groan of frustration, he did. Wet, exhausted, she rolled onto her back. Her bottom hit the bed, driving the phallus impossibly deep inside her. She came with it, but the orgasm was a mere ripple through her sated body. She didn’t need to give more instruction. Rodesson moved to straddle her shoulders and he held his rigid cock down to her lips.
Once he forced himself to wait it became almost impossible to bring him to climax. Sometimes she had to leave him unsatisfied—on the days he took her by her arse. But today, she must give him special pleasure, for she knew he had secrets to reveal.
She tongued the head, drawing out a moan. His story had been true. Even shackled she possessed great power. She kissed the bubbling eye. “You can’t paint at all?” she whispered.
He tried to thrust himself inside her mouth, but she kept her lips together, teasing the engorged head. “But that is not so tragic,” she reassured. “Wouldn’t your books become more valuable if it is known there is to be no more?”
“I wish there weren’t,” he muttered, speaking more by reflex than by conscious thought.
She took him inside then let him out to torment him once again.
“It doesn’t work that way, love,” he said louder. For a man experiencing skilled pleasure to his cock, he looked decidedly grim. “I done a few things considered shocking in the world of publishing. Keeping me copyright, for example. But if the volumes stop, me blunt will.”
So if she wanted anything from him, she must get it now.
“And hell, since me money’s gone, I’m to be in dun territory. Again.”
“Don’t think of such things, master. Let your slave suckle you and please you.”
“You’re a talented and cunning lass, aren’t you, Lydia?”
No, she could not let him think her cunning and calculating. She must play the courtesan who loved to please, even if he could readily see through the ruse.
She took him deep into her mouth and he rewarded her skill by swelling large. She grabbed his buttocks and let him thrust into her as vigorously as he needed to. She curled her lips over her teeth and endured. His explosion rocked him, and for a moment she feared that his heart was not strong enough. He collapsed to the bed beside her, muttering endearments and words of appreciation.
She breathed hard and murmured words of pleasure. He still seemed to be semi-conscious as he struggled to free her of the ropes, as he gave her the key to free her own hands.
“Yes, you’re a talented woman…” He flopped back.
Knowing Rodesson, she guessed he’d played cards all night and had not yet slept. Curling up beside him, she stroked the damp gray hair on his chest, and waited until he drifted into a post-coital slumber.
Lydia slipped from the bed and drew on her silky wrapper. As she tied the belt around her waist, she padded out of the room.
Once in her library, she scanned the leather-bound books on the crowded shelves. To extract the one she wanted, she had to tug hard to free it. With a warm sense of pride, she surveyed the books surrounding her. Her library was as well appointed as any gentleman’s.
Stroking a finger across the gilt letters embossed in the rich leather, she lay the book on the large table. Opened it, flipped the pages until she found the first erotic picture. She then took a second book and laid it beside the first. Rodesson’s last two books, Tales of a London Gentleman and A Gentleman’s Pleasures.
Why should his inability to paint be a secret, unless…
She studied the pictures closely. The poses. The expressions. The style.
Her guess had been correct. These pictures were…different.
Who had painted Rodesson’s work?
What would her jaded lord do with his hands while the lovely courtesan knelt between his legs and kissed him intimately?
Venetia Hamilton tapped the end of her brush against her lips as she studied her watercolor painting. Even though her earl—yes, she’d decided he was an earl—was a most experienced man, this time he’d met his match in the delightful auburn-haired woman pleasuring him.
She couldn’t resist smiling at her imaginary earl’s downfall in the arena he believed he reigned supreme. Since his lordship was so steeped in vice, so bored by customary sensual acts, he’d begin with definite ennui, merely an onlooker to his own seduction.
In his right hand, Venetia sketched a glass of fine champagne. In his left, since he was in the theatre box of the pretty woman, she gave him a peeled orange the size of an ample breast, large enough to fill his strong hand. No, he would not touch the woman, she decided. But in his expression…there she could show not only the desire, but the growing wonderment as his heart began to open, to unfurl, to delight in the pleasures bestowed upon him.
She turned her attention to the audience, for her earl was receiving these daring caresses to his intimate parts in full view of the Drury Lane theatre. Ah, the expressions told the tale—the matrons pretending to be scandalized, but really enraptured by his magnificent proportions, his exquisite form, his handsome face. Envy on their husbands’ faces. And the leering looks of the mob in the orchestra.
Now she must tackle the earl’s expression. Capture perfectly the growing astonishment on his face as this act that he must have experienced a thousand times—at least—became new and special and wonderful once more…
She took short, unsteady breaths as she stepped back from naughty fantasy to the reality of her tiny studio. When she drew, she became one with the scene—not a participant, but a figure in the shadows, holding a brush, telling a life’s history in one erotic moment.
Her body hummed with desire, ached with it. She should be ashamed to admit it, but she wasn’t at all as proper as her mother had raised her to be. She was, after all, her father’s daughter.
With a sigh, Venetia plopped her brush in the jar and swirled it until the water blushed pink, lit by the fragile spring sunlight that spilled through the paned window. The only raven-haired scoundrels in her life lived on the canvases stacked on the narrow shelves of her studio, all safely hidden beneath muslin covers.
She knew perfectly well that love was a woman’s folly. That rakes never truly reformed—
A sharp rap on the door had her almost knocking over the water glass. The rap came again. Followed by a breathless, “My heavens, Miss Hamilton!”
She had to take the time to turn the easel so her painting faced the wall and Mrs. Cobb burst through the door just as she hid the scandalous picture.
Mrs. Cobb puffed from the jaunt up the stairs. Her cheeks blazed red, her cap was askew. She held out a card. “There is a gentleman to see you, mum. A gentleman calling upon you alone!”
“Which gentleman?” Her father? Rodesson outwardly appeared to be a ‘gentleman’. But he wouldn’t dare visit.
Her housekeeper pushed her cap upright. “The Earl of Trent, mum! I put him in the drawing room. Tea? Should I put the kettle on?”
Venetia’s heart tapped a frenzied dance in her chest. She pushed her chair back, snatched up the studio key, and crossed the floor in a heartbeat to take the card. Her thumb slid over thick, textured vellum embossed with a crest. Her gaze fell to the title, in bold text. It did indeed read—THE EARL OF TRENT.
She slumped against the doorframe in disbelief. How could the earl know who she was?
Mrs. Cobb lurked over her shoulder, demanding a decision on tea as Venetia locked the door to her studio with shaking hands.
“N—no tea,” Venetia stuttered. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the hallway in the most unladylike way. But if she was running into disaster, she wanted to get it done with.
Plodding footfalls told her Mrs. Cobb was following but couldn’t keep up.
The most preposterous notion dawned as Venetia sped down the stairs. What if her father had gambled again, hoping to win his vowels back from the earl? What if this time Trent had won her at cards?
Reaching the open drawing room door, she stopped, smoothed her skirts, and gulped down steadying breaths. She must be careful. If she ruined her reputation, she ruined her sisters’ reputations. Maryanne, Grace…they at least deserved a chance at the lives Mother hoped they would lead—marriage, children, happiness…
The earl, she noted, had found the only warm spot in her chilly drawing room. As soon as she stepped inside, the cold seeped through her dress and wrapped its icy fingers around her bare neck. Since she never received guests, she never heated the room. At least a fire now crackled in the hearth.
His lordship stood so close to the licking flames, she feared a spark might set his trousers alight. His left elbow was propped on the mantel, between the unfortunate bric-a-brac left by the previous tenant—two candlesticks shaped like nude women and a bronze of his favorite mount.
Venetia closed the door gently behind her, then stopped short, still clutching the doorknob.
The earl balanced an open book in his large gloved hand and he lazily flipped the pages. The faint sunlight cast a bluish gleam on his coal-black hair and slanted across his straight shoulders. Even in a casual stance, he easily topped six feet and she couldn’t help but admire how his midnight-blue superfine emphasized the taper from wide back to narrow waist and lean hips. Skintight trousers displayed magnificent legs and disappeared into Hessians with a mirror finish.
She arched on tiptoe to spy around his broad frame. Pictures. The book did indeed contain pictures but she couldn’t see the detail—he stood too far away. But Tales of a London Gentleman was bound in burgundy leather, in exactly the same shade as the book lying across that massive hand.
The earl paused at a plate, then turned the book in his hand to study some detail that had caught his fancy. A flush prickled along the back of Venetia’s neck.
He moved to capture the light more fully on the page, and she saw his profile. Raven hair, darkly lashed eyes, patrician features, and wide, firm lips.
Her stomach pitched to her toes. Trent was the dark-haired gentleman who had appeared in her father’s pictures. The man she’d copied for her book. She’d thought him an invention of her father’s brush. But since he stood before her in the flesh, obviously her assumption had been wrong.
It made sense. Rodesson attended brothels and orgies and hells. Why wouldn’t he base his pictures on actual patrons? On the actual scenes he had witnessed?
The titles flew through her whirling mind. The Fair Lady Bound. The Jermyn Street Harem. The French Kiss.
Even The Trapeze in which the nude lady had been seated on a suspended bar over the gentleman’s upright—
Venetia pressed her hand to her churning stomach. Her father had changed Lord Trent’s appearance, she saw that now. She, in utter innocence, had decided to make her gentleman more handsome. By horrific accident, she had succeeded in making him look more like the actual man.
A soft groan spilled from her lips.
The earl looked up sharply and she stared into vivid turquoise eyes, the color startling and beautiful in contrast to his long sooty lashes and straight black brows.
That extraordinary shade had not appeared in her father’s pictures. Could she capture it? If she blended cobalt blue with a touch of—
“This is my personal favorite, Miss Hamilton. I think you have caught my likeness perfectly in this one.” Dangerous amusement rippled through Lord Trent’s seductive baritone and his deep masculine voice held her transfixed. “You have a remarkable talent.”
A remarkable talent. She felt a warm flush of pride, even as her knees almost buckled.
“My—my lord.” She managed a curtsy, a wobbly one, her plain gray skirts crumpling as she dipped. “I am afraid I don’t understand to what you are referring.”
He closed the book. His brows arched over those turquoise eyes—cerulean blue would do it, blended with a dab of yellow oxide—
“Your book of erotica in which I play the starring role.”
Erotica. The word flowed off his tongue in a nonchalant manner, as though they had met in the park and he had just touched his hat and commented on the rain. But it struck her with the force of a lusty slap on her backside. She thought of the pictures he was looking at, pictures she’d created, and all the confidence she’d struggled to earn evaporated in a heartbeat.
His lordship rested his elbow on the mantel and smiled at her confusion.
No. She had finally succeeded in taking charge of her life and she wasn’t about to surrender her control. Earl or no. She must bluff him. And, for the sakes of her mother and sisters, she must prove better at bluffing than her father.
She stiffened her spine. Prim disgust. That’s what she sought. She imagined Lady Plim, the wife of Sir Plim, and the sharp-tongued tartar of Maidenswode. “My lord, it may be the fashion amongst the aristocracy to carry scandalous tomes about and view them before unsuspecting women, but I am afraid your behavior is—”
He waved an elegant hand. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Hamilton. You’ve got paint on your sleeve.”
“Watercolors. A lady’s pastime.”
He chuckled and a shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard a laugh like that. A low, rumbling, purely masculine laugh. It held a naughty suggestive sensuality that she’d never been treated to before.
He inclined his handsome head. “Rodesson has told me all about you, my dear. He came to me to plead for the return of his vowels—for the sake of his illegitimate daughters.”
Venetia flinched at the word illegitimate. It never failed to make her feel her parents’ actions had been her fault.
“But—” Her last-ditch attempt to protest that Rodesson was not her father died on her lips. His lordship knew the truth and she was not going to convince him otherwise.
He crooked his gloved finger. “Come here, Miss Hamilton. I don’t wish to shout our conversation across the room and I suspect you wouldn’t want that either.”
She glared, not willing to go at his command, but he was right, of course. She would bet pounds to pen. . .
There was nothing like money to pique a lady’s desire…Lydia Harcourt smiled in triumph at the two open letters sitting beside her plate. Humming happily, she refreshed her chocolate with a splash from the china pot.
Promises of generous payment. Enough to pay her bills, if she were so inclined. But the tradesmen, so desperate about their unpaid accounts, were also so easily distracted.
She lifted the letter closest to her and reread it as she sipped her chocolate, savoring her victory. A thousand pounds.
Still, Norton really should be good for more. Perhaps if she pressed…
Lydia settled her cup on its saucer and gave a luxurious yawn and stretch. She was one of the few Incognitas who knew what morning was. She picked up the third letter delivered in the morning’s post. This one promised to be her coup de grâce.
None of her lovers could ever keep their secrets from her.
A talent that now served her well.
A flick of the letter opener and she smoothed out the thin sheet. For a duke, Montberry used the cheapest paper. He’d not wasted much ink either. One stark line sprawled across the page.
Publish and be damned.
And Montberry written beneath, with a flourishing ‘M’ and ‘y’.
Blast the man! Did he really wish the polite world to know what a dreadful bore he was in bed? To know about his preferences? The haute ton thought him a hero. A great man, larger than life. What a grand joke it would be when all learned the truth.
She tossed the letters aside, shook out her loose hair. Rodesson preferred her hair down and tousled into shimmering waves. For some reason, the eccentric artist enjoyed his carnal pleasures before noon. Her cunny bubbled at the thought of their upcoming encounter and she allowed a vindictive smirk to curve her lips, despite the risk of aging lines. It would be a delight to destroy Rodesson after the mocking pictures he’d painted of her! She would not even give him the chance to bribe her.
In fact, today she would start on the letters ‘R’, ‘S’, and ‘T’. She leafed through the small leather bound book that sat by her right hand. A good thing she’d kept meticulous records. Over twenty years, a woman did tend to forget the men she had entertained.
When so few had entertained her.
Two hours later, Lydia stretched out on her bed and skimmed her hands suggestively along her naked curves. She plucked at her nipples, then delved her fingers into her neatly trimmed nether curls.
She gazed with coquettish invitation at her visitor, but inside she glowed with victory at the pained look that burned in his green eyes. Handsome eyes that narrowed at the sight of her feminine juices soaking her curls, droplets sitting atop the bush of black hair like morning dew.
Even nearing sixty, with thick hair of pure white, Rodesson was a handsome man. Lean and well muscled. The lines on his face gave him a grizzled, sensual appeal. An artist, he appreciated that women enjoyed an aesthetic body on a lover.
How she longed to laugh. The great Rodesson, lolling at her feet like a lapdog.
“I would like to tie you up,” he said, hoarsely.
He was the sort of man that allowed the submissive to hold the power in the game. He would not force her, but he was waiting, his emerald eyes afire, to see what she would allow. What she would suggest.
Excitement rushed through Lydia, dampening her cunny even more. Rodesson sought escape in games of bondage when he was haunted by worries—either money or guilt, or when he’d sunk into maudlin contemplation of the woman he’d loved and lost.
“I am your servant,” she promised.
He was not yet fully aroused, though even in its semi-slumbering state his cock was long and beautifully formed. He would often be sexually excited without having an erection, eager to slide into her mouth and have her bring him to attention.
She merely flicked her glance to the bedside table, to the tangle of silken rope and ribbons jumbled on top.
Sunlight spilled through the paned windows, drawing crisscrossed shadows over her nude breasts, belly, and thighs. The thought of bondage at the time when most were rising to sip their coffee and chocolate did indeed titillate.
She closed her eyes as Rodesson left her bed to rifle through her playthings. She heard the sharp intake of breath as he discovered the true treat amidst the heap of restraints. A gift from the Marquess of Chartrand—jeweled bracelets designed to be locked to her headboard. They clinked as Rodesson lifted them.
“Roll onto your stomach, lass.”
Lydia obeyed. How could she despise this man yet delight in the deep, gravelly sound of his voice? Sometimes she thought she seduced herself.
She buried her face between her two plump pillows and shivered at the softness of silken sheets brushing her hard nipples and her wet quim. Once more she closed her eyes, anticipating the touch of a velvet rope or silver shackles to her skin.
A deeper excitement set her heart pounding. A troubled man enjoying kinkier pleasures was more apt to spill his secrets.
Why had he not yet touched her?
She lifted her hips and wriggled her bare arse to tempt him. Now she was truly aroused.
“Bind me,” Lydia whispered in a throaty, alluring voice.
A pressure, a roughness touched her calves. Finally. But this was not the softness of velvet or silk.
Startled, she lifted, shoved a pillow aside, as something rasped across her ankles. She twisted to watch Rodesson wrap a length of rope around her ankles. He had brought rope!
“I prefer velvet,” she protested. The rough fibers scratched. And would leave angry red burns.
“Silence, captive.” The rope wound tighter, cutting into her skin. She could not escape these bonds. Her ankles were well and truly trussed and she found the sensation exciting.
Perhaps she’d betrayed her apprehension, her shock at the way she was growing delightfully wet, for he gave her a gruff laugh and then bent to kiss her bare arse. No, not a kiss. He bit her cheek! Gently, but really.
“Mind. I don’t wish permanent disfigurement.”
He laughed, paying her no heed, and bestowed love nips all over her buttocks. Which, despite her protests, left her soaked and throbbing. The rasp of his jaw along her curves made her yearn for a deep and thrilling penetration in her derriere and she lifted her bottom up to him, hoping he took the hint.
But no, the man instead resumed his work of tying her up. He labored with the knot at her feet for so long she was moaning in exasperation.
“Shackle my wrists! Please, oh yes, please, my master.”
Lydia fell back to the bed, burying her face into the softness of her mattress. She heard the clatter as he lifted them from the table and let out a happy whimper. They were locked, but the gold key was in the lock, ready for him to open it.
She waited and waited, squirming against her sheets.
“Damnation.”
Bother, had he lost the key? Her heart thudded for long moments, her frustration grew. What was he doing? Apprehension grew beneath her irritation. She arched up again to see what he was doing.
He knelt at the foot of her bed, his handsome features distorted in a grimace.
Wincing, Rodesson dropped the shackles to the bed and massaged his hands. “Bloody rheumy hands.” He appeared to be in genuine pain. With her ankles bound, she rolled up onto one hip, watching him try to work his hands, to flex out the stiffness.
But his gaze met hers and a look passed through his eyes that intrigued. He ceased his manipulations of his fingers. Instead he picked up a second length of rope. “Back on your belly, minx.”
Truly excited now, she lay down again. Her famously large breasts squashed against the mattress. He slid the rope under her legs, and circled it around her thighs.
“Your hands must pain you greatly when you paint.” Lydia kept a tone of sympathy and sensuality.
His answer was a curt yes.
He did not wish to speak of this. Was it due to shame? Or something more?
He began to knot the rope that bound her thighs together, struggling, and she could barely breathe with excitement. Her honey flowed like a river between her thighs, her heart pounding, her throat tight. She would never wish to be truly captured, bound, raped. God in heaven, she knew what it was to have a man force himself on her. She had spent a lifetime ensuring she would never have to endure that again, yet by some perversity of her nature, she enjoyed—no, needed—to have Rodesson make her his prisoner.
He lifted the jeweled cuffs. With muttered oaths, he struggled to control the key. She couldn’t see how he could hold a brush with such ruined hands. How it must hurt him to paint. How that gave her a sense of smug satisfaction. He had just produced a beautiful volume and every moment of his work must have been excruciating agony.
Lydia turned to watch him once more.
“Ah lass, it’s no use.” His broad shoulders drooped. So did his cock.
“Give them to me.”
He looked ashamed.
“It is exciting to do this,” she prompted. “To shackle myself because you wish it. I know I dare not disobey…”
He handed them over but his shaft did not swell or straighten. She must work harder to assuage his ego.
He followed her gaze. “No need to worry about that, lass. That still works. It’s the hands that don’t. Can’t even bloody well paint—”
Can’t paint? Had that one volume been his last? Did that mean she had no need to destroy him? She unlocked one cuff and clasped it around her wrist. Lined with velvet it was comfortable—she might enjoy the game, but she didn’t truly like discomfort.
“Lydia, love—”
She gazed up, looking as innocent as she could while locking the second cuff in place. The gold chain between them allowed her movement but she entwined it around her wrists to give the illusion she was completely trapped.
“Lydia, you can’t let anyone know I can’t paint.”
A secret. How delicious. How useful.
“You are my master and I will obey.”
“I am serious, gel. I can’t have it known that I can no longer…perform in that arena.”
She smiled, the submissive once again controlling the man who wished to play dominant. “Now, my master, do you wish to fuck me?”
“I do indeed.” His eyes narrowed and he licked at his lips. “My houri.”
His hands did not trouble him as he lifted her hips up into the air, presenting her derriere and her quim like a heated mare. She no longer knew where she wished him to penetrate. The blunt head of his cock slid from her puckered anus to her bubbling quim and back, soaking her along the way. Her heart thundered as she waited for him to choose, to push inside. Something large pressed against the entrance of her bottom and she lifted toward it, relaxing. She felt herself open to receive…one of her own gew-gaws, a wand of ivory carved like an enormous phallus. His ministrations were gentle and slow, coaxing her to spread for her gigantic toy. Within a few strokes, he had it halfway inside.
“God yes,” he groaned, “Take it deep, my beauty.”
Lydia moaned in answer. “Push it to the hilt, my master.”
Realistic ballocks had been carved as part of the phallus and these pressed into her parted cheeks. Goodness, it meant she was completely filled, the entire length within her. Rodesson held it in place with one hand and she felt him part her nether lips. Her moisture released in a flood, drawing a hungry groan from her lover.
His cock began to do battle with the phallus in her bottom. As his thick, hot staff slid inside her quim, it pushed the other out of her arse. He pushed it back in, stretching her impossibly.
His secret. She must think of his secret…there was something significant in what he had told her…But she was stuffed so wonderfully full. And he began to paint her an image…
“What if you were caught like this by a man in your employ? A young footman of twenty. Randy, brawny, but still a virgin and eager to be taught by a voluptuous, experienced woman. His swollen cock would stand tall for you. You would be imprisoned yet you would control him. And then, his friend would come to see where he was. Another young man, another enormous cock. Both thrusting into you and determined to please. It would be torture for them to control their climaxes until they pleasure you. And you, my beauty, would enjoy their pain.”
She must concentrate but his fantasy was so perfect she couldn’t resist letting herself imagine…
His cock thrust deep and each plunge of his hips crammed her toy deep within her bottom. She rarely reached orgasm with her gentlemen. But with Rodesson it happened every time. It would happen now. The double penetration brought her to her peak without fail. Her anus was so delightfully sensitive and he knew it.
He pounded into her, brutally hard, just as she liked it. She was so wet and slick, she loved the pounding of his hips, the strike of his solid groin against her cheeks. The ripple of her flesh with each slap sent an answering ripple of ecstasy through her butt and quim.
“Yes, harder,” Lydia cried. She wriggled her captured hands between her belly and the bed. With a moan of pure pleasure, she reached her nubbin, the trigger for her pleasure. She must work quickly. She loved to have many climaxes this way and he would reach his peak soon. He was almost sixty after all.
“Oh God, yes.” Two strokes took her to her first. The orgasm slammed into her, roaring through every nerve. Oh yes, yes. Such pleasure. So long had it taken her to learn of pleasure like this. She saw stars, as she did each time with this man. Stars that sparkled like priceless jewels against black velvet.
Barely did she gain her senses from her first climax, before she brought herself to a second. And then a third. By the fifth, she no longer needed to stroke her throbbing, abraded clit. It took one deep thrust of Rodesson’s magnificent cock to make her climax again. She was soaked and finished. But he was not.
“Withdraw,” she instructed, panting, “You must withdraw.”
With a groan of frustration, he did. Wet, exhausted, she rolled onto her back. Her bottom hit the bed, driving the phallus impossibly deep inside her. She came with it, but the orgasm was a mere ripple through her sated body. She didn’t need to give more instruction. Rodesson moved to straddle her shoulders and he held his rigid cock down to her lips.
Once he forced himself to wait it became almost impossible to bring him to climax. Sometimes she had to leave him unsatisfied—on the days he took her by her arse. But today, she must give him special pleasure, for she knew he had secrets to reveal.
She tongued the head, drawing out a moan. His story had been true. Even shackled she possessed great power. She kissed the bubbling eye. “You can’t paint at all?” she whispered.
He tried to thrust himself inside her mouth, but she kept her lips together, teasing the engorged head. “But that is not so tragic,” she reassured. “Wouldn’t your books become more valuable if it is known there is to be no more?”
“I wish there weren’t,” he muttered, speaking more by reflex than by conscious thought.
She took him inside then let him out to torment him once again.
“It doesn’t work that way, love,” he said louder. For a man experiencing skilled pleasure to his cock, he looked decidedly grim. “I done a few things considered shocking in the world of publishing. Keeping me copyright, for example. But if the volumes stop, me blunt will.”
So if she wanted anything from him, she must get it now.
“And hell, since me money’s gone, I’m to be in dun territory. Again.”
“Don’t think of such things, master. Let your slave suckle you and please you.”
“You’re a talented and cunning lass, aren’t you, Lydia?”
No, she could not let him think her cunning and calculating. She must play the courtesan who loved to please, even if he could readily see through the ruse.
She took him deep into her mouth and he rewarded her skill by swelling large. She grabbed his buttocks and let him thrust into her as vigorously as he needed to. She curled her lips over her teeth and endured. His explosion rocked him, and for a moment she feared that his heart was not strong enough. He collapsed to the bed beside her, muttering endearments and words of appreciation.
She breathed hard and murmured words of pleasure. He still seemed to be semi-conscious as he struggled to free her of the ropes, as he gave her the key to free her own hands.
“Yes, you’re a talented woman…” He flopped back.
Knowing Rodesson, she guessed he’d played cards all night and had not yet slept. Curling up beside him, she stroked the damp gray hair on his chest, and waited until he drifted into a post-coital slumber.
Lydia slipped from the bed and drew on her silky wrapper. As she tied the belt around her waist, she padded out of the room.
Once in her library, she scanned the leather-bound books on the crowded shelves. To extract the one she wanted, she had to tug hard to free it. With a warm sense of pride, she surveyed the books surrounding her. Her library was as well appointed as any gentleman’s.
Stroking a finger across the gilt letters embossed in the rich leather, she lay the book on the large table. Opened it, flipped the pages until she found the first erotic picture. She then took a second book and laid it beside the first. Rodesson’s last two books, Tales of a London Gentleman and A Gentleman’s Pleasures.
Why should his inability to paint be a secret, unless…
She studied the pictures closely. The poses. The expressions. The style.
Her guess had been correct. These pictures were…different.
Who had painted Rodesson’s work?
What would her jaded lord do with his hands while the lovely courtesan knelt between his legs and kissed him intimately?
Venetia Hamilton tapped the end of her brush against her lips as she studied her watercolor painting. Even though her earl—yes, she’d decided he was an earl—was a most experienced man, this time he’d met his match in the delightful auburn-haired woman pleasuring him.
She couldn’t resist smiling at her imaginary earl’s downfall in the arena he believed he reigned supreme. Since his lordship was so steeped in vice, so bored by customary sensual acts, he’d begin with definite ennui, merely an onlooker to his own seduction.
In his right hand, Venetia sketched a glass of fine champagne. In his left, since he was in the theatre box of the pretty woman, she gave him a peeled orange the size of an ample breast, large enough to fill his strong hand. No, he would not touch the woman, she decided. But in his expression…there she could show not only the desire, but the growing wonderment as his heart began to open, to unfurl, to delight in the pleasures bestowed upon him.
She turned her attention to the audience, for her earl was receiving these daring caresses to his intimate parts in full view of the Drury Lane theatre. Ah, the expressions told the tale—the matrons pretending to be scandalized, but really enraptured by his magnificent proportions, his exquisite form, his handsome face. Envy on their husbands’ faces. And the leering looks of the mob in the orchestra.
Now she must tackle the earl’s expression. Capture perfectly the growing astonishment on his face as this act that he must have experienced a thousand times—at least—became new and special and wonderful once more…
She took short, unsteady breaths as she stepped back from naughty fantasy to the reality of her tiny studio. When she drew, she became one with the scene—not a participant, but a figure in the shadows, holding a brush, telling a life’s history in one erotic moment.
Her body hummed with desire, ached with it. She should be ashamed to admit it, but she wasn’t at all as proper as her mother had raised her to be. She was, after all, her father’s daughter.
With a sigh, Venetia plopped her brush in the jar and swirled it until the water blushed pink, lit by the fragile spring sunlight that spilled through the paned window. The only raven-haired scoundrels in her life lived on the canvases stacked on the narrow shelves of her studio, all safely hidden beneath muslin covers.
She knew perfectly well that love was a woman’s folly. That rakes never truly reformed—
A sharp rap on the door had her almost knocking over the water glass. The rap came again. Followed by a breathless, “My heavens, Miss Hamilton!”
She had to take the time to turn the easel so her painting faced the wall and Mrs. Cobb burst through the door just as she hid the scandalous picture.
Mrs. Cobb puffed from the jaunt up the stairs. Her cheeks blazed red, her cap was askew. She held out a card. “There is a gentleman to see you, mum. A gentleman calling upon you alone!”
“Which gentleman?” Her father? Rodesson outwardly appeared to be a ‘gentleman’. But he wouldn’t dare visit.
Her housekeeper pushed her cap upright. “The Earl of Trent, mum! I put him in the drawing room. Tea? Should I put the kettle on?”
Venetia’s heart tapped a frenzied dance in her chest. She pushed her chair back, snatched up the studio key, and crossed the floor in a heartbeat to take the card. Her thumb slid over thick, textured vellum embossed with a crest. Her gaze fell to the title, in bold text. It did indeed read—THE EARL OF TRENT.
She slumped against the doorframe in disbelief. How could the earl know who she was?
Mrs. Cobb lurked over her shoulder, demanding a decision on tea as Venetia locked the door to her studio with shaking hands.
“N—no tea,” Venetia stuttered. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the hallway in the most unladylike way. But if she was running into disaster, she wanted to get it done with.
Plodding footfalls told her Mrs. Cobb was following but couldn’t keep up.
The most preposterous notion dawned as Venetia sped down the stairs. What if her father had gambled again, hoping to win his vowels back from the earl? What if this time Trent had won her at cards?
Reaching the open drawing room door, she stopped, smoothed her skirts, and gulped down steadying breaths. She must be careful. If she ruined her reputation, she ruined her sisters’ reputations. Maryanne, Grace…they at least deserved a chance at the lives Mother hoped they would lead—marriage, children, happiness…
The earl, she noted, had found the only warm spot in her chilly drawing room. As soon as she stepped inside, the cold seeped through her dress and wrapped its icy fingers around her bare neck. Since she never received guests, she never heated the room. At least a fire now crackled in the hearth.
His lordship stood so close to the licking flames, she feared a spark might set his trousers alight. His left elbow was propped on the mantel, between the unfortunate bric-a-brac left by the previous tenant—two candlesticks shaped like nude women and a bronze of his favorite mount.
Venetia closed the door gently behind her, then stopped short, still clutching the doorknob.
The earl balanced an open book in his large gloved hand and he lazily flipped the pages. The faint sunlight cast a bluish gleam on his coal-black hair and slanted across his straight shoulders. Even in a casual stance, he easily topped six feet and she couldn’t help but admire how his midnight-blue superfine emphasized the taper from wide back to narrow waist and lean hips. Skintight trousers displayed magnificent legs and disappeared into Hessians with a mirror finish.
She arched on tiptoe to spy around his broad frame. Pictures. The book did indeed contain pictures but she couldn’t see the detail—he stood too far away. But Tales of a London Gentleman was bound in burgundy leather, in exactly the same shade as the book lying across that massive hand.
The earl paused at a plate, then turned the book in his hand to study some detail that had caught his fancy. A flush prickled along the back of Venetia’s neck.
He moved to capture the light more fully on the page, and she saw his profile. Raven hair, darkly lashed eyes, patrician features, and wide, firm lips.
Her stomach pitched to her toes. Trent was the dark-haired gentleman who had appeared in her father’s pictures. The man she’d copied for her book. She’d thought him an invention of her father’s brush. But since he stood before her in the flesh, obviously her assumption had been wrong.
It made sense. Rodesson attended brothels and orgies and hells. Why wouldn’t he base his pictures on actual patrons? On the actual scenes he had witnessed?
The titles flew through her whirling mind. The Fair Lady Bound. The Jermyn Street Harem. The French Kiss.
Even The Trapeze in which the nude lady had been seated on a suspended bar over the gentleman’s upright—
Venetia pressed her hand to her churning stomach. Her father had changed Lord Trent’s appearance, she saw that now. She, in utter innocence, had decided to make her gentleman more handsome. By horrific accident, she had succeeded in making him look more like the actual man.
A soft groan spilled from her lips.
The earl looked up sharply and she stared into vivid turquoise eyes, the color startling and beautiful in contrast to his long sooty lashes and straight black brows.
That extraordinary shade had not appeared in her father’s pictures. Could she capture it? If she blended cobalt blue with a touch of—
“This is my personal favorite, Miss Hamilton. I think you have caught my likeness perfectly in this one.” Dangerous amusement rippled through Lord Trent’s seductive baritone and his deep masculine voice held her transfixed. “You have a remarkable talent.”
A remarkable talent. She felt a warm flush of pride, even as her knees almost buckled.
“My—my lord.” She managed a curtsy, a wobbly one, her plain gray skirts crumpling as she dipped. “I am afraid I don’t understand to what you are referring.”
He closed the book. His brows arched over those turquoise eyes—cerulean blue would do it, blended with a dab of yellow oxide—
“Your book of erotica in which I play the starring role.”
Erotica. The word flowed off his tongue in a nonchalant manner, as though they had met in the park and he had just touched his hat and commented on the rain. But it struck her with the force of a lusty slap on her backside. She thought of the pictures he was looking at, pictures she’d created, and all the confidence she’d struggled to earn evaporated in a heartbeat.
His lordship rested his elbow on the mantel and smiled at her confusion.
No. She had finally succeeded in taking charge of her life and she wasn’t about to surrender her control. Earl or no. She must bluff him. And, for the sakes of her mother and sisters, she must prove better at bluffing than her father.
She stiffened her spine. Prim disgust. That’s what she sought. She imagined Lady Plim, the wife of Sir Plim, and the sharp-tongued tartar of Maidenswode. “My lord, it may be the fashion amongst the aristocracy to carry scandalous tomes about and view them before unsuspecting women, but I am afraid your behavior is—”
He waved an elegant hand. “Don’t waste my time, Miss Hamilton. You’ve got paint on your sleeve.”
“Watercolors. A lady’s pastime.”
He chuckled and a shiver raced down her spine. She’d never heard a laugh like that. A low, rumbling, purely masculine laugh. It held a naughty suggestive sensuality that she’d never been treated to before.
He inclined his handsome head. “Rodesson has told me all about you, my dear. He came to me to plead for the return of his vowels—for the sake of his illegitimate daughters.”
Venetia flinched at the word illegitimate. It never failed to make her feel her parents’ actions had been her fault.
“But—” Her last-ditch attempt to protest that Rodesson was not her father died on her lips. His lordship knew the truth and she was not going to convince him otherwise.
He crooked his gloved finger. “Come here, Miss Hamilton. I don’t wish to shout our conversation across the room and I suspect you wouldn’t want that either.”
She glared, not willing to go at his command, but he was right, of course. She would bet pounds to pen. . .
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