The Deadliest Sin

by Caroline Richards

Genres: Gothic; Medieval Romance

Synopsis

Dark Dreams

They had haunted Julia Woolcott all her life, but the strangest of all began with an invitation to a scandalous house party, and a game more dangerously arousing than any she'd ever imagined.

Unbound Desires

Driven by his ruthless ambition, Alexander Strathmore would do anything to come face to face with the mystery man who'd challenged him to first debauch Julia, then destroy her.


Deadly Sins

A wild shot. . .a frantic carriage ride through the night. . .a forbidden seduction. Rakehell adventurer and sheltered spinster, Alexander and Julia will break every rule of propriety to chase down their nemesis and consummate their unlikely passion.


"A finely wrought tale, rife with twisting secrets and dangerous hungers. Exquisite!"--Sylvia Day, National Bestselling Author

Before becoming a novelist, Caroline Richards worked in advertising and marketing in North America and Europe. Currently, she lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband. If there's one thing she loves more than escaping into a good book, it's writing one.

Release date: September 1, 2010

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Oh, do come with me, Julia. Those dusty tomes can wait—it’s glorious outside!” Rowena’s voice was clear and true as the first birdsong of spring.

Dear God, her sister.

Julia Woolcott’s eyes flew open, widening in the darkness. She blinked. How long had she been asleep, outside the reach of her senses? The darkness was total and she wondered if her eyes were really open. Perhaps she was blind. The blackness was as final as a closed coffin lid.

Thoughts were slow in coming. Counting her breaths, she ignored the burning sensation in her lower limbs. Panic closed her throat, but she knew screaming would do little good. No one would hear. She swallowed back the terror that was more powerful than the scalding pain enveloping her right leg.

More than anything, she needed to know her sister and Meredith were safe, far away at Montfort in the Cheviot Hills. The high stone wall and thick hedges surrounding the sixteenth-century estate would protect them. Let them be safe, she prayed beneath her breath.

The shores of madness had never seemed closer. But as always, the wall of silence appeared when she needed it most, shutting out the world, keeping her safe.

She would not think of that. She would think of Rowena wrinkling her nose at the smells emanating from her older sister’s warren of rooms above the stables at Montfort. It was where Julia played with light and dark, with her daguerreotypes, capturing images with her camera obscura and then fixing them to copper plates with iodine.

“They’re gorgeous, Jules, simply magic!” Julia heard Rowena’s unabashed enthusiasm and imagined her pulling at Julia’s elbow, tapping a riding crop impatiently on the edge of the scarred table where the exposed copper plates lay. Her younger sister could never be kept indoors; it would be as cruel as pinning a butterfly to a board. Closing her eyes in the darkness, Julia imagined the spirit of Rowena captured on one of the copper plates, hair flying in the wind, riding at reckless speed toward Montfort’s endless horizons, and drifted off in slumber.

Awakening again she experienced another sinking recognition that she was no longer asleep but locked away in a layer of shadows, gradations of thick, muffling darkness. Julia attempted to shift her weight from beneath a leaden heaviness but nothing moved save the stiffness of crinolines and whalebone. Heading off panic, she sifted through the images colliding in her mind’s eye. The footman and the knife. The tall man, his face in the shadows, the one who had shut her in that suffocating place.

Then she was calm. Her aunt’s still-beautiful countenance shimmering before her, a picture she had captured many times with her camera, that newfound miracle. Unlike her sister Rowena, brazen and bold, Aunt Meredith would always turn her pure profile away from the camera lens, as though its penetrating gaze would rob her of her secrets. And Meredith had so many secrets.

The air was like a heavy linen sheet pressed against Julia’s face, yet a cold sweat plastered her chemise and dress to her body. It was peculiar, the ability to retreat into herself, away from the pain numbing her leg and away from the threat that lay outside that suffocating room.

A few moments, an hour, or a day passed. She found herself seated, her limbs trembling from the effort. Guilt choked her, a tide of nausea threatening to sweep away the tattered edges of her self-regard. Why had she ignored Meredith’s warnings and accepted Wadsworth’s invitation to photograph his country estate? Flexing her stiff fingers, Julia felt for the ground beneath her. A film of dust gathered under her nails. If she could push herself higher, lean against a wall, allow the blood to flow…

The pain in her leg was a strange solace, as were thoughts of Montfort—her refuge and the splendid seclusion where her life with her sister and her aunt had begun. She could remember nothing else, her early childhood was an empty canvas, bleached of memories. Lady Meredith Woolcott had offered a universe unto itself. Protected, guarded, secure—for a reason.

Julia’s mouth was dry. She longed for water to wash away her remorse. New images crowded her thoughts, taking over the darkness in bright bursts of recognition. Meredith and Rowena waving to her from the green expanse of lawn at Montfort. The sun dancing on the tranquil pond in the east gardens. Meredith’s eyes, clouded with worry, that last afternoon in the library. Warnings that were meant to be heeded. Secrets that were meant to be kept. Wise counsel from her aunt that Julia had chosen, in her defiance, to ignore.

She ran a shaking hand through the shambles of her hair, her bonnet long discarded somewhere in the dark. She pieced together her shattered thoughts. When had she arrived? Last evening or days ago? A picture began to form. Her carriage had clattered up to a house with a daunting silhouette, all crenellations and peaks. Chandeliers glittered coldly into the gathering dusk. The entryway had been brightly lit, the air infused with the perfume of decadence, sultry and heavy. That much she could remember before her mind clamped shut.

The world tilted and she ground her nails into the stone beneath her palms for balance. She should be sobbing but her eyes were sandpaper dry. Voices echoed in the dark, or were they footsteps? She strained her ears and craned her neck, peering into the thick darkness. She sensed vibrations more than sounds. Footsteps, actual or imagined, would do her no good.

She felt the floor around her, imagining rotted wood and broken stone. Logic told her there had to be an entranceway. Taking a deep breath, she twisted onto her left hip, arms flailing to find purchase to heave herself into a standing position. Not for the first time in her life, she cursed her heavy skirts, entangling her legs. If she could at least stand…She pushed herself up on her right elbow, wrestling aside her skirts with an impatient hand. The fabric tore, the sound muffled in the darkness. The white-hot pain no longer mattered, nor did the bile flooding her throat. Gathering her legs beneath her, she pushed herself up, swaying like a mad marionette without the security of strings.

She held her breath. The silence was complete. Arms outstretched, her hands clutched at air. No wall. Nothing to lean on. Just one small step, one after the other, and she would encounter a wall, a door, something. She bit back a silent plea. Hadn’t Meredith taught them long ago about the uselessness of prayer?

Suddenly, her palms were halted by the sensation of solid muscle. Instinctively, she stopped, convinced that she was losing her mind. She felt the barely perceptible rise and fall of a chest beneath her opened palms.

Where there had been only black, there was a shower of stars in front of her eyes and a humming in her head. She saw him, without the benefit of light or the quick trace of her fingers, behind her unseeing eyes.

She took a step back in the darkness away from the man who wanted her dead.

“Who are you?” Julia asked.

He went by many names in many languages, one more profane than the next, and every last one deserved. He listened to her staccato breaths, and breathed in the faint scent of her perspiration and floral toilet water mingling with her panic. The darkness suited him perfectly. He found daylight generally unhelpful in such endeavors.

He didn’t answer her question. “Unfortunate, your outburst last evening. There was little choice but to place you here, where you wouldn’t attract undue attention.” The outrageousness of his statement rang in the enclosed space. He knew the power of fear, that great equalizer. He couldn’t see her, but imagined her expression of anger and dread. His ears picked up a hesitation as though she was trying to find words that wouldn’t come.

“What did you expect? For me to simply acquiesce, follow you blindly into that den of iniquity? How long have you been in this room, alongside me?” Her voice was halting, with a slight hoarseness to it, as though weakened from disuse.

His ear, trained to exotic languages, detected the faint tremor. He remembered her eyes from the night before, wide and shadowed under the brim of a spectacularly ugly bonnet. “It’s of no importance,” he said finally, feeling her balled fists leave his chest.

“To you.”

He shrugged his shoulders, well aware that she couldn’t see but surprised by the spirit of her rejoinder. She was disoriented, a good thing. He knew the feeling, having once spent three days in complete darkness in the caves of Pashtun after running afoul of a caravan and a sheik who had misinterpreted his interest in the sheik’s cargo. Miss Woolcott, he’d wager, was not seasoned in quite the same way, despite her momentary bravado.

He had been expecting a spinster, redolent of moth balls and camphor oil, a type with which, despite his travels, he’d had mercifully scant experience. “I believe we’re well beyond niceties such as formal introductions,” he said. He’d always felt a certain tedium when it came to women of his own class, who, for the most part, believed the world extended no further than the Thames. But then again, he should probably be grateful. Thus far Miss Woolcott had substituted a surprising penchant for violence for the more predictable histrionics. The footman had not emerged unscathed in their scuffle.

“You are entirely too cavalier,” she said, sharply. Her voice was uncommonly low with none of the breathlessness so common to young women. “You will have to forgive my earlier behavior,” she continued, and he wondered briefly how she was going to explain her surprising attack on the footman. In his experience, Englishwomen dealt with the unwelcome by reaching for the smelling salts rather than the pointed end of a letter opener. “I’d been led to believe that I was to meet with Sir Simon Wadsworth, to take photographs of his estate, his gardens. Instead, I find myself here.” As far as she was concerned, she might have found herself in the steppes of Russia instead of a windowless, cork-lined room in the English countryside.

He took a step toward her, knowing the impact enforced proximity carried. He didn’t have to touch her, not yet, at least.

She did not back away. Bolder than she had any right to be, she continued undaunted. “There was obviously some mistake.” She was dissembling but it was of little import in the grander scheme of things. “I wish you to clarify this situation or at the very least offer an apology. A case of mistaken identity, perhaps?”

His silence was worse than any answer.

It must cause her some pain, he acknowledged impartially, the gash in her leg. Unfortunate, that injury, but she had struggled more than anyone had anticipated, regrettably attracting the attention of the overzealous footman. He couldn’t really fault the man when she’d seized the letter opener in a pitiable attempt at self-defense. Entirely unexpected.

Her voice shook. “You’re clearly unwilling to provide me with answers.”

He smiled in the dark.

Her skirts rustled, as though she was drawing herself up straight. The small movement made her wince. “I’ve spent the last I don’t know how many hours in this suffocating room. All I can recollect is receiving Sir Wadsworth’s commission, making arrangements to travel to his country estate, arriving and then—” She broke off mid-sentence.

“And then?”

She let out a hiss of breath. “I refuse to put into words what I saw.”

“So you do remember. Fortunately, I can put it into words, if you feel it beneath you.”

More silence, although her breathing had accelerated.

“I take it you’re appalled, Miss Woolcott.” He could just picture the thinning of her lips, the tensing of her shoulders. In general, Englishwomen were willfully ignorant of nature and its carnal imperatives. He, however, was not discomfited in the least, with the tenor of that discussion.

“I should like to leave this place.”

“I’m certain you would. And to have your injury seen to.”

No tears. No importuning. Interesting. Miss Woolcott appeared to have been hiding a spine under all the hectares of gray wool, not to mention some spirit under that singularly heavy bonnet that had shielded her face from his eyes. For some reason, he remembered the feel of her thin shoulders, like bird bones, beneath his hands.

“Where is my photographic apparatus? It is of great value to me.” Her tone had taken on the impatience of a stern governess.

He’d rather face a stampede of wildebeests. And had, as a matter of fact, not so long ago on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.

The heap of chests, bandboxes, and her camera, like a giant spider on three legs, had been swept from the main hall, along with its owner. “It is secure.” Although you are not. Far from it, he wanted to add.

“As though I should believe you.” She paused in the darkness. “If you refuse to give me answers, I should like to leave now,” she repeated, as though to a child reluctant to give up his toy. Her low voice vibrated with suppressed fear.

“My apologies.” He didn’t attempt to keep the sarcasm from his voice, nor his desire to shock. It had been some time since he’d had direct contact with the rarified, hot-house type of well-bred Englishwoman. If he listened carefully, he could hear the pulse of narrow-mindedness throbbing. “I am clearly remiss in my duties. Therefore, you may like to know this room where you have spent the last five hours was constructed by the great grandfather of our present host, Sir Wadsworth, who, when not disporting himself at debauched masked balls over which he presided with salacious enthusiasm, spent time here. History tells us the illustrious Lord Edgar Wadsworth provided the most exacting specifications for this project. He preferred to partake of his pleasures in sound-proofed surroundings. One can only speculate as to why.”

Her breathing stilled. He wondered whether she was a virgin. It would make things somewhat more difficult.

She digested his statements before adding a challenge of her own. “Before setting out on my journey, I made some of my own inquiries, learning of the estate’s history. I did not believe the present Sir Wadsworth shares in his ancestor’s unfortunate proclivities. Clearly, I was mistaken,” she said tightly, reluctant to refer more specifically to what she had seen the previous evening. “As a result, I should still like to leave. Now,” she repeated.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “If we leave, you will go quietly? The injury you sustained could have been far worse.”

“As though that would have mattered.”

“Actually, it does matter. I’m to keep you in good health, for the next day or so.”

She approached him in the darkness. It took courage, he conceded. Her soft breath fanned his throat where the top two fastenings of his shirt lay open. He was surprised to find his body tightening in response to the scent of lavender floral water.

“And what comes afterwards?” There was pain in her voice, a strangled quality that spoke not just of her injury and incarceration but of something else.

“Why make the situation more difficult for yourself, Miss Woolcott? Oftentimes, knowledge can be distressing.” What a liar he was—knowledge was everything. Knowledge was power.

He sensed a renewed tension in the confining space as Miss Woolcott began facing the implications of what she’d seen upon her arrival at Wadsworth’s estate. As far as he was concerned, not much had changed since he’d left England five years earlier. The lives of the aristocracy were still devoted to, in no particular order, hunting, whoring, and billiards. From his vantage point, the middle-aged rutting—a confirmed group sport among the male upper classes—was as ingrained as cannibalism in pigmy tribes or riding to hounds among the gentry.

The best he could hope for, when the Wadsworth debauchery concluded, was not to be forever haunted by the specter of sagging jowls, swollen paunches, and worse, bent over their pleasurable labors. He surmised that the female guests were harvested from the countryside surrounding Wadsworth’s Eccles House or let from the demi-mondaine or the theater.

Miss Woolcott had yet to back away from him. “I am assuming,” she said, “or rather hoping, that this was all a misunderstanding. That Sir Wadsworth had no intention of inviting me to his”—she paused—“soiree and that, in my confusion and shock, I panicked and, as it turns out, unreasonably struck out at a footman before I could think…before I knew….” She trailed off, unable to convince herself to continue.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat. “Whatever gives you most comfort, Miss Woolcott. It doesn’t truly signify. You’re here now.”

“Why?” That one word whispered through the dark.

“I don’t know why.” It was a lie and it was the truth. They both knew it.

The dark was strangely liberating for Julia. “I find that difficult to believe. Your tone leads me to surmise that you’re not the type of man who does anything on a mere whim. Why not simply put me in a carriage and allow me to return to London?” She was standing so close to him, her skirts brushing his knees, that he could simply encircle her neck with his hands and end it there, if it were not for his overly precise instructions and the convincing tableau he was to construct.

He laughed, an incongruous shot in the dark. “You’re in no position to inquire, Miss Woolcott.”

“I’d hazard a guess that being one step away from certain death entitles one to ask questions, sir.”

“Certain death? That’s a trifle melodramatic.” Only it wasn’t.

“Is it?”

“You’re convinced that someone wants you dead. Now why is that?” Miss Woolcott knew far more than she was willing to disclose.

“You can hardly expect me to believe Sir Wadsworth invited me to join in…in his…peculiar…gathering.”

He decided to continue the game. “Why is that so improbable?”

Heat emanated from her, from the masses of fabric, crinolines, and whalebone that encircled her body. She could be developing a fever, courtesy of the wound no doubt beginning to suppurate on her lower leg.

“I am a woman of a certain age and disposition, hardly the sort to participate in…”

“Participate in what, precisely?”

“Whatever it is that you must keep me in good health for.” She took a step away from him and into the darkness. “Please let’s dispense with this unfortunate misunderstanding,” she added, suddenly all crispness and efficiency, lying to him and most of all to herself. “I shall tell no one about your involvement, rest assured. After all, I don’t even know your name or circumstances.”

It would be better to keep her compliant, he decided. The truth would come, right at the end. He closed the space between them and took her arm. She flinched away from him. “Let’s have a look at the cut on your leg, shall we, before we decide upon anything else.”

He pulled her none too gently behind him, his hand reflexively finding the seam in the wall a few feet before them. Sliding his fingers beneath the hidden hinge, he felt the clasp release. The door swung open, the soft light of dusk as harsh as the noon sun after an eclipse.

He watched Julia Woolcott turn her face to the light pouring through the casement windows, her eyes squinting against the assault, and he wondered suddenly how he could have ever considered her plain. Her violet eyes were set wide and tilted between arced brows. She had a straight, assertive nose, a subtly clefted chin, and a mouth too wide for true beauty. Her features communicated a wary vulnerability and an unsettling intelligence. The mahogany hair that had been strictly scraped into a low chignon fell loose.

She tried not to favor her leg but he could see the spasms of pain tighten her features. Soon, the pain would be gone, he silently promised her.

“And now?” she asked, not bothering to struggle from his grip.

There was no answer that she would want to hear. He knew she remembered what she’d attempted to forget—the women and the men in the glittering salon with its unforgiving chandeliers illuminating every dark corner of lust and licentiousness. It was important she be seen that evening, at one of Wadsworth’s infamous country-house weekends, that there be witnesses to her outrageous behavior as a more than willing participant.

A spiral staircase waited at the end of the hallway, leading to a suite of rooms, a copper tub, appropriate clothing. He would ensure that her wound was taken care of, that she was costumed and prepared in a few hours’ time. There would be no more mistakes. No more struggles.

He would see to it himself.

 

Julia wished the staircase would go on forever, despite the jolts of fire at every step she took. She watched the broad shoulders looming before her, leading the way to what she was certain would be her doom. A large hand still spanned her arm, and she imagined those fingers could choke the life from the most powerful of men. Despite his voice and disengaged manner, she sensed a heavy undercurrent. His size alone prompted claws of fear to tear at her belly.

A pulse pounded in the back of Julia’s eyes as she wondered what her sister would make of her present predicament. You’re ever so bookish, Jules. Put down your spectacles and come riding with me! Rowena, just a fortnight ago, exhorted Julia to rouse herself from her ink-stained studies. How many governesses had paled under the onslaught of that head-strong willfulness?

What Julia would do to have her small, tightly constrained world returned to her. A life punctuated by visits to the vicarage or closely chaperoned outings to London with their aunt. She was the careful, patient, older sister who spent most of her time attending to detail, on the printed page or on her copper plates. In this, at least, she had some small advantage.

Julia’s eyes swept over the broad back and the arrogant tilt of the head in front of her. Dressed simply in trousers and a white shirt, he was not what he seemed: a wayward rogue of Sir Wadsworth’s unsavory circle. She recognized the man was of another sort of Englishman, with his aggressive jaw, the slight hook of his nose, and the gray eyes whose intensity was unseemly. Built like a fortress but with the sleek movements of someone half his size, he was no ordinary man subject to a quotidian world.

That he was sent by Montagu Faron was a certainty. The name soured on her tongue. Unbidden, Meredith’s alarms rang in her head.

The man stopped, on the landing, and she nearly tripped on her skirts and catapulted into his broad back. She froze and moved as far away as his grip would allow. She was gazing up at an enormous hall, two storeys high, with vast oriel windows facing gardens on both sides. Four colossal fireplaces framed priceless chairs and banquettes, richly panniered in dark red velvet. It was the room she had glimpsed the evening before. Luscious silk damask curtains, lined in bronze and white brocade stripes, had been tied back with huge silk tassels to better frame entangled limbs and flashes of skin. It was empty but she sensed they were far from alone.

Walking down corridors she realized the house was ostentatious, even by the standards to which she was accustomed at Montfort.

Moments later, after being abruptly left alone by her captor, she surveyed the vastness of a room dominated by a raised four-poster bed. He had left her there without a word, and she reveled in the luxury of being alone and unobserved. A fire roared in the corner in front of which a mobcapped maid filled a copper tub with water. Not meeting Julia’s eyes, she carefully placed folded linens on the rosewood vanity table. The young woman looked vaguely familiar and Julia wondered whether she had glimpsed her freckled countenance in the debauched scene the evening before. Dismissing the thought as unproductive and heeding the need to collect herself, she watched the maid’s plump backside retreat from the room and then quickly divested herself of her soiled clothes, ripping at the stays pinching her ribcage, struggling out of her sorely used chemise. Layer after layer was removed and thrown in a heap, until she stood in her plain white cotton shift and silk stockings.

Leaning on the edge of the tub, she carefully peeled down her stockings, wincing as the gossamer fabric clung to the crusted gash on her calf. She shuddered at the memory, at her loss of control, at the recollection of lost hours in that hideous, cork-lined room. Where had it come from, that feral panic, so unlike her customary calm demeanor?

She lingered but briefly in the fresh, warm water, as she had no desire to be interrupted by the man she was convinced had been sent by Faron. She would be able to think more clearly when she’d bathed and had something to eat. Swallowing more nervousness, she wondered why the strange man, as she now called him, would leave her to her toilette for so long. Darkness would come soon, she saw by the fading light spilling through the tall, mullioned windows. The fire had made the room overly warm and she longed to throw the windows open wide but was certain they were locked.

She dried herself quickly and took up the fresh muslin shift the maid had left on the four-poster bed. Her leg began to throb again, weeping a thin stream of blood, as the shift dropped over her head and skirted her legs. Fresh weariness invaded each and every muscle of her body. Lowering herself to the edge of the bed, she smoothed a palm over the cool sheets. Perhaps she would allow herself just a moment to close her eyes and sort out the madness of the last twenty-four hours.

None of it made any sense. The pulse continued to pound behind her eyes like a hammer on a blacksmith’s anvil. Even if he were connected with Montagu Faron, why would Sir Wadsworth invite her to a sordid country-house weekend? Meredith had been frantic with worry at the invitation, urging Julia to ignore the summons with its elaborate script and aristocratic seal. Questions crawled into every corner of her mind, forming a thick web of confusion. And fear. Pulling the feather pillow over her head, Julia buried her face, and her uncertainties, in the softness.

When she opened her eyes again, it was dusk, the air thick, heavy, and eerily still. For a moment, she thought she was back in that horrid place, Sir Wadsworth’s perverse chamber. She wasn’t certain what had awakened her. She lifted a hand to sweep aside the tangle of her hair, then froze.

She surged upright, fists twisting into the sheets, unwelcome pain shooting through her calf. “What are you doing?” she asked, knowing very well whom she was watching—certainly not a serving maid, but him, dark hair falling across his brow, as he finished winding a clean linen bandage around her bare calf. “How dare you!” She tried a fresh assault while attempting to pull her leg beneath the counter-pane, despite the numbing pain. . . .