Читать книгу Sin - Sharon Page - Страница 7

“And here is your brand-new nephew!”

Marcus Wyndham, Earl of Trent, stood as Minerva, Lady Ravenwood, walked into the drawing room, a beaming smile on her face. She cradled the tiny baby against her chest. He could barely see the child amidst the frothy white bundle of blankets and blue ribbons, but Min…he’d never seen her look more radiant. Only two weeks from childbed and she glowed.

Sunlight spilled into Min and Stephen’s drawing room, the fire roared with cheer, and being a part of the family gathering filled Marcus with a reassuring sense of warmth. He grinned as Min approached. Even his mother, who sat silently by the fire, had tolerated his presence without shrieking or throwing something at him.

This was the happiest he’d felt in a long time. Nothing seemed to please him these days. Nothing…except Venetia Hamilton’s kiss.

He hadn’t been able to sleep since kissing her. Hadn’t even gone to a bloody brothel to ease his pain because he’d vowed he wouldn’t and because it had been infinitely more pleasurable to lie in his bed with a cock as hard as a bloody iron bar and remember their kiss.

A phrase of his father’s came to mind. I was shaken to my gleaming boots by her kiss. He’d been talking about a debutante—a virgin. A proper young lady, untouchable, off-limits, and oh, so ready to play, his father had claimed.

Damn his father—he understood exactly what the old debaucher had meant.

Hell, not the sort of thing to be thinking at a happy family gathering. He pushed the thoughts aside, and lightly kissed Min’s cheek.

“David is smiling already,” she announced, raven curls bouncing. “If you smile at him, Marcus, I’m certain he’ll smile for you.”

With shock, Marcus saw she was offering his nephew to him. He was at once honored and terrified. Min’s large, luminous eyes implored. She was so proud, so delighted with her joyous gift, that she would be hurt if he refused.

He couldn’t hurt her.

“Take care to support his head,” Stephen warned from his chair, “He’s a strong lad and when he throws his head back he can catch you by surprise.”

Marcus flashed a grim look at his brother-in-law. “You’ve rapidly turned into an expert, have you? I seem to remember you were all fumbling hands that first night.”

“True enough.” Stephen chuckled, raking his fingers through his hair. “Several bottles of port will do that to you.”

“Don’t you want to hold him?” Min asked.

Marcus swallowed hard and nodded. “But he’s such a tiny little thing.”

“I can assure you he didn’t feel tiny,” Min admonished.

He blushed at the quip and awkwardly slid his hand around his nephew’s head. For once his hand felt large, unwieldy, dangerous, but the baby’s head fit perfectly within. He cradled the tiny bottom, his gloved fingers squishing into the thick cloth there. Large blue eyes ringed with dark lashes gazed up at him as though he was the most fascinating sight ever beheld. Dark blond hair dusted the strangely shaped head, thickest in a ring above the ears.

He shifted his hands, trying to ensure he had the best grip, and he felt as though he were trying to juggle china.

“There!” Min crowed, “A smile!”

His nephew’s hands fisted, then waved. He’d always thought infants were swaddled tightly, but Min had explained that she did so for sleep. She wished to let David explore and play.

Some madness seemed to overtake him as he gazed down at the bubbling lips and the large eyes. Suddenly he was cooing and gooing.

Beside him, Min giggled. “I think you are smitten, aren’t you, Marcus?”

He couldn’t help but answer her smile. “I have to admit I am, Min.” She was so at ease with the little one even after a mere fortnight. Would he be the same as a father? He suspected he’d be the talk of the nursery if he had his own son—watching his miracle every moment of the day. He’d have to take care to employ an indulgent nanny, not a strident one.

“Find a wife and you could be blessed as well.”

He tried to tease. “You have a child dependent on you. I forbid you to launch into a matchmaking project.” But he wasn’t going to find a wife or, if he could help it, be a father.

Min laughed. “I wouldn’t dream of attaching any female of my acquaintance to you.” He knew she’d meant to tease but her face sobered instantly and the vivacious light faded in her green-blue eyes.

What was she thinking? Remembering how she’d caught him at twenty-one kissing Miss Wallace, who was her bosombow? He’d been cradling the lady’s full breast. Never a wilting flower, Min had accused him of trying to rape her best friend. She’d brained him with a vase to save her friend’s virtue.

In that one moment, his beloved sister had revealed what was deeply in her heart—she thought he was like their father. She’d thought that he was capable of forcing himself on a defenseless woman. Miss Wallace had thrown herself at him, but Min wouldn’t believe it.

She’d thought he was a brute. A debaucher. A rapist.

How could she think he was like that? He used to cry himself to sleep listening to Min’s tears at night. With a child’s instinct, he’d known the way Father had touched Min had been tainted by lewdness and nastiness. He’d known it was wrong.

The baby’s loud burp startled him. “Bravo, David.”

Min dabbed at the baby’s pursed lips with her cloth, cleaning chunks of white. Cooing sounds ensued between both mother and son. David gave Min a gummy smile that tore at Marcus’ heart. “What about love?” she asked softly.

“I have friends who married for love,” he said, “Who speak highly of it—call it the most perfect happiness. You know more about love than I.”

Min looked up, her large blue-green eyes alive with perfect happiness. “I could never begin to explain love. Intimacy. Friendship. Something glorious that both hurts and enriches. And you know that if you lost it, your heart might never mend.”

“But love is not for me. Nor is marriage.”

Concern cast shadows in those eyes—concern for him—as she reached for David. “I thought you’d given up your sinful ways.”

He relinquished the baby with relief—too small and precious for his big hands. “So did I. But some temptations are too great to resist.” That kiss. Venetia Hamilton had tasted of sweet tea, sugared biscuits, and feminine heat, and he had wanted to devour her.

“Did you help Miss Hamilton? I know your honor balked at forgiving the debt—”

“Yes, I protected Miss Hamilton as promised. And now my heart shines with the joy of a good deed.”

“What was she like? Was she truly a proper lady?”

“She blushed often. She wore a frightful gown and had red hair.”

“Marcus!” She laughed. “Was she pretty?”

“Yes. A country beauty with peaches-and-cream skin and curls the color of fine sherry bouncing around her wide hazel eyes—eyes both amber-brown and green. She has her father’s nose, unfortunately, and his sharp chin.”

And a lush and lovely mouth. An enticing mouth. Miss Hamilton had wrapped her leg around his hips and pulled herself tight against his erection. Her kiss was eager, artless, and delightfully tentative—and the touch of her hands on him had sent shivers of pleasure down his spine and a surge of blood to his groin that had shut off his brain.

Min’s eyes had widened at his flowery description. “And why are you so curious about a woman who draws naughty pictures?” he asked, to deflect her interest.

“I just wondered if she was a bold woman, the sort with henna-dyed hair. I can’t imagine how a well-bred woman could do such a thing.”

He shrugged. “Survival.” Miss Hamilton had moaned into his mouth as he kissed her. Desperate little moans. He’d never known a woman make such lusty sounds at just a kiss. And he, blackguard that he was, had grabbed her derriere. A gentleman didn’t fondle an innocent woman’s derriere. But apparently a maiden did grab a gentleman’s arse, for she had caught hold of both his cheeks and squeezed. His cock had reared against his belly. He’d been aroused, damn near out of his mind, with the enticement of introducing her to pleasure.

He wanted to speak of it. But he couldn’t. Couldn’t admit that he might be like their father.

Min was caught up in watching David’s eyes flicker shut. The boy would fight, the lids would open wide, then slowly sink down again. Marcus couldn’t help but smile.

“So what do you seek in your perfect countess?” Min asked, cuddling her child against her shoulder and rocking him.

“Beauty, brains, breeding. A fortune. A good heart and quick wit. But Min, sweetheart, I am not getting leg-shackled.”

Min’s enormous eyes twinkled. “But I’d love to play matchmaker for you and force you look in all the places you hate to go—balls, routs, assemblies.” A naughty gleam showed in Min’s eyes. “This Season, my project is Stephen’s brother Frederick.”

He gave Min a severe brotherly look. “You’re not to strain yourself at those events. I hope Stephen made that clear to you.”

From his chair, Stephen laughed.

“You cannot dictate to me through Stephen! He is too much your friend—he tolerates your interference too much.”

“I didn’t look after you when I should have, Min,” he murmured.

She blushed and looked down at her son, giving a loving pat. “It wasn’t your fault.”

She was so strong it humbled him. She’d endured and found happiness and comfort in Stephen’s arms, found love in her marriage bed. The only worthwhile thing he’d done with his life was to find Stephen for Min.

His heart soared to see her happy, but it would never be enough. It didn’t atone for the nights he buried his head into his pillow. For the years when he didn’t protect her.

Cradling her baby with one hand, Min touched his arm. “You gave me a great gift. You forced me to see my future was to be a wife and a mother.” She looked over to their mother, rigid and emotionless in her chair by the fireplace. “I would like Mama to hold him.”

He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

Their mother stared blankly toward the flames, as though unaware of her children, her first grandchild. As though she could not even hear the laughter. He never knew how to handle the countess. No matter what tactic he tried—to soothe, to coerce, or to inflict his will, his mother fought him. Punishment, he figured, for what he’d done.

“Please, Marcus,” Min implored. “If we watch her and just let her touch him for a few moments. She wouldn’t do him harm, I’m certain of it.”

She looked so anxious, that it broke his heart. “She won’t even remember holding him.”

“Marcus, I would like to try.”

Oh, the man was a disobedient scoundrel!

Venetia tossed her paintbrush into the water glass and slumped back in her chair. She fixed the canvas—and her recalcitrant hero—with a scowl.

“You are supposed to be a blond war hero! Dressed in scarlet with a lethal sword at your side and an even more magnificent weapon between your thighs. You are not supposed to be a raven-haired earl with a wicked smile!”

Goodness, she was raving at a two-dimensional man. And like the Earl of Trent, he was not listening to her.

Her lips still burned from his kiss. A kiss he’d used to prove her innocence, a kiss that had shaken every fantasy she’d had about a love affair. She couldn’t forget it. Or him. Was this what lust did to a woman?

Venetia balanced her elbows on the desk, taking care not to dip them in wet paint, and dropped her forehead against her hands. Four pictures started and in each one the male looked exactly like Trent. She’d even attempted a drawing of two voluptuous, randy courtesans exploring each other’s succulent breasts, her heart pounding as she drew, her throat tightening, but suddenly, in the background, a portrait of the sensual earl had appeared.

She’d tossed and turned in her bed all night. Imagining him in her bed—without a stitch—kissing her, moving over her, parting her thighs—

Her elbow hit her teacup. It tottered and before she could catch it, it tipped in the saucer. Tea sloshed over her picture. But what did that matter? Her career was over.

Out of habit, she had come to her studio, picked up her brush, and painted to ease her confusion, to give her time to control her whirling thoughts. She had no choice but to forfeit her independence, but she didn’t want to give it up!

It was more than just the money. She would have to slink back to the country. And do what? Become an eccentric spinster doing good works for the church? If she was a guest of the country gentry she could always peruse their libraries to see if they had copies of her books.

She could marry. At twenty-four, she was on the shelf by London standards, but if she were very fortunate, a widower might consider taking her on. There was one in Maidenswode who had offered—he was fifty, fat, had eight children, and drank.

To return to the country would mean hiding her paints in the stables, sneaking out to the woods to draw…

She would have to paint in secret once more. After her mother had found that first portrait—of a nude male statue—painting had been forbidden. Her mother feared that it was the artistic temperament that made Rodesson so licentious. Olivia Hamilton had been horrified to discover her eldest daughter had been compelled to sketch naked men.

Venetia stroked the ivory handle of her brush. What was he doing now, the roguish Lord Trent? Was he asleep, curled up with a woman or two in his bed? She could envision the threesome, with him sandwiched between, his groin pressed again a bottom just as it had pressed into hers, and the other woman would press her breasts and privates against his backside. His beautiful, sculpted backside—

The ache wasn’t only in her quim—for some reason her heart ached too.

If she were in his bed, in his arms, she could reach out and touch his bare back. Boldly trace the line of his spine down to his tight buttocks, to those iron-hard muscles she’d loved having beneath her palms.

What if she’d dared to explore more?

As though compelled, she bent and opened the lowest, deepest drawer of her desk. She should just shut it now. Instead, she lifted the first book from the stack. The rippled leather caressed her bare fingertips. Gently, she set it on the middle of the desk, so it wouldn’t make a sound. Guilt made her heart pound.

In the middle of the book, she would find Rodesson’s famed picture of a gentleman reviewing his ‘harem’ of willing wantons at a Jermyn Street brothel. That gentleman, the Earl of Trent, was shown in aroused glory…

All she had to do was look.

All she had to do was open the book and satisfy her…curiosity.

No, that was…improper. Invasive. Rude. Unforgivable. But she could just peek. After all, the earl had performed in public. It was his own fault he had ended up in a book—

Really, one peek could hardly hurt.

She flicked past two courtesans entwined like the numbers six and nine to find The Jermyn Street Harem.

Trent was shown reclining on silken pillows, dressed in a dark blue robe, covered but for his spectacular…cock which curved upward into the air. Dozens of women stood before him, displaying their breasts and quims. His lordship appeared as jaded as always as he selected one for his entertainment.

Throat dry, Venetia studied the picture. Trembling, she traced his length with her finger.

This was so very…wrong. To touch…him. This way. But she couldn’t resist.

Was he exaggerated in the work? She doubted it. He’d felt enormous, impossibly so, when pushing against her backside.

His…cock looked so rampant. Thick at the base, it curved toward his lean stomach like a sickle and was crowned with a large, dusky head. It was clearly the centerpiece of the picture, rendered in great detail—even to the veins on its shaft.

She found her fingers stroking between her thighs. The way she did, without conscious thought, while she drew.

Women were not supposed to touch themselves there. Even bathing was to be done with a cloth and with haste. But if she didn’t touch herself, she’d die from the pain.

Rubbing in a slow, sensual spiral, she remembered his words. “Do you touch yourself like this, sweeting? Do you paint your quim with your brush until you are creamy and wet?”

She lifted her brush from the water goblet, stroked it against the rim to smooth the bristles and squeeze the water out.

Do you prefer two cocks at your command, or another woman’s juicy cunny?

She thought of him watching her, amused, intrigued, with his hand on his large cock…

She wanted him so, this man she couldn’t have. He was an earl—one who frequented the wildest brothels, lavished fortunes on the most desirable mistresses—but in her fantasies, she could have him. He would be hers.

Yanking up her skirts, she listened. Her door was behind her, closed. From beyond it, nothing but quiet. Feeling illicit, she parted her thighs on her chair and touched the wet brush to her nether lips. She drew a line of water to the apex and dabbed there, teasing herself with the cool wet against her heat. The sable bristles, soft but slightly stiffened by use and washings, rasped her clitoris.

She could just imagine the look of approval on Trent’s handsome face…

Sliding the brush down, she held it tight to her bud and rubbed herself against it. Wanton. Wild. Not longer caring about a delicate performance…

Yes, yes, he was right. She was wet and sticky. Heat and honey.

Oh, yes. Oh!

She had to hold the edge of the desk as the climax roared through her. She shook with it, rocking the chair on the plank floor. Her fingers dug into the blotter; she dropped the brush to the floor.

She gave a weak, giddy giggle as she imagined Trent applauding—

She gasped at the quick rap on the door.

Mrs. Cobb. The doorknob rattled. Twisting in her seat, she saw it begin to turn. She’d forgotten to lock it!

The book fell into the drawer with a bang just as her housekeeper pushed open the door and peeped through the opening. Facing forward, Venetia prayed Mrs. Cobb didn’t notice her hiked up skirts, prayed that her racing heart didn’t explode.

“This came in the post, mum.”

Fluffing out her skirts as casually as she could, Venetia felt the hem swish over her ankles. She dropped a cloth over her painting in progress—it didn’t matter if it smeared.

She knew her face must be beet-red but she had no choice but to walk over on shaky legs and take the letter. As she took it, she gagged.

“Pooh, scent! It stinks of the stuff.” She sneezed. Her eyes watered. She stretched her arm out straight to keep the offensive thing away. Eyed it warily. Who would send a letter drenched in perfume? The return address was Compton Street, on the fringes of Mayfair. Instinct warned that this wasn’t the sort of letter she could allow anyone else to see.

“Thank you, Mrs. Cobb.” She began to swing the door shut.

“Is it trouble, mum?”

“No.” She closed the door firmly. Guilt stabbed. Mrs. Cobb might like gossip, but she was truly concerned.

Venetia strode back to her desk and tore open the envelope with the end of her paintbrush.

Her gaze riveted to one word in fussy, lavish handwriting. Rodesson.

Scanning the words…your father revealed…can no longer paint…his talented daughter…

Her stomach tightened. Nausea roiled in her belly. She reached the last line. One thousand pounds to preserve your secret.

And the loopy, flowing signature, almost impossible to decipher. Lydia Harcourt.

“Lyd, what the bloody hell are you about?”

With three silk gowns draped over her arm, Lydia gasped in shock. A gown slid from her grasp to pool on the floor. The voice came from behind her, from the doorway of her bedchamber. A voice she hadn’t heard for years…

She trod on the skirts as she turned, to see Tom lounging in the doorway, dressed like a dapper dandy. She gulped. The second to last time she had seen her half-brother he had been wearing his butcher’s apron and it had been splattered with fresh, bright red blood. The last time he’d demanded money…

She was suddenly conscious she wore only a corset and a shift and her large brown nipples were obvious beneath the flimsy lawn.

“Haven’t you a good word for yer own flesh and blood, Lyd? After so many long years?”

“I thought you were in Italy.”

“Missed the home shores, lass. And missed me family.”

Run out of blunt, no doubt. Though most men fled to Italy because they could live in decadence there without money.

“I’ve nothing.” She laid the dresses on her bed, as smoothly as she could. Her traveling trunk was already half-filled. “I can’t spot you a thing this time.”

He laughed. “Sweetheart, I could pawn the contents of your drawing room and buy a villa fit for a king.”

And where did that leave her? “The house was rented furnished, Tom.” And she had a mere month to vacate it.

“I’ve been in London for a while. And the tables have been bloody fickle—”

“I won’t give you money for gambling.”

“I’m worried about you. Blackmail’s a rum business, Lyd. A bloody dangerous one.”

She jerked up. Her peach satin snagged on the trunk hinge and tore. How did he know?

“I was playing whist at The Sin Room and overheard the very foxed Duke of Montberry.”

Montberry! Oh, how annoying that man was. She’d thought he would at least use some discretion. That was the problem with dealing with aging men. Montberry might have been a military genius but in the years since Waterloo he was quickly losing his wits. What a fool to get drunk at Mother Maggie’s horrid brothel and spill secrets.

Tom grinned. He was a strikingly handsome man. Why hadn’t he found himself a post pandering to an Italian countess and left her alone? But she owed him her very life and she couldn’t deny him what he wanted.

“I’ve looked after myself my entire life, Tom. I’ve nothing to fear.” Nothing to fear but age. She was almost forty. It had been so easy when she’d been young—eighteen. Lord Craven had believed she was fifteen. Of course she hadn’t been a virgin, but she’d put on the act for Craven. A sponge, a bit of blood, some sobbing and tears.

And what other choice did she have? What future was there for an aging woman with no means?

“Ye could come with me back to Italy, Lyd. Venice is a beautiful, decadent city.”

Italy. So far away from England. She needed to escape London. The carriage this afternoon as she’d walked to Hyde Park…it had been a near miss. And last night, the man in the shadows…the footpad. He’d grabbed her arm, a knife had glinted, he’d swiped, but then he’d ran. She’d been in the company of Lord Brude, thinking herself safe…

Since mailing her last letters, the ones to R, S, and T, she’d been beset by accidents…

Accidents. No reason to think they weren’t. Other than the fact she’d now made enemies. Powerful enemies…

Blast men! All she’d wanted was her due for all her years of servitude. A little protection for her retirement. And instead of paying a few thousand pounds—a mere trifle to these men—they’d rather do her harm…

Italy. She could flee to Italy. Buy a villa. Buy a handsome Italian or two…

No, she couldn’t escape to Italy with Tom. Not now. Not yet. She doubted she’d make it to the coast alive. She had to go to Chartrand’s orgy first. He would be there. As would Brude, Wembly, and Montberry…

Tom stretched out on the side of her bed, watching her with his head-of-the-family arrogance, his booted feet dirtying her expensive ivory counterpane.

“How much do you want?” Lydia asked on a sigh.

“Madam is not in.”

The breeze tugged at the hood of Venetia’s cloak. She caught hold of it to keep it in place, shadowing her face. Not in? She must speak to Lydia Harcourt. She stuck her foot on the threshold so the door could not be shut. “When will she return?” she demanded.

“Not today.” The housekeeper frowned at her foot.

“Then when?” Her father was now lying in sickbed. She needed to reassure him that Lydia Harcourt was taken care of. What if he had another attack of his heart from the worry?

Beneath her clean, starched cap, the servant’s eyes narrowed. “I cannot say.”

“Mrs. Harcourt sent me a letter requesting my prompt response.” Venetia tried to infuse haughtiness in her words but, standing on the steps at an unfashionable hour with her cloak’s hood pulled low to hide her face, she knew the servant wouldn’t find her intimidating. The servant would know she had secrets to hide.

“Madam has left for a stay in the country. She will not return before a week hence.”

An Incognita leaving London at the beginning of the Season? “Where has she gone?”

“A house party.” Raw greed gleamed in the housekeeper’s dark eyes. “Now, madam, if you have a package or a letter ye wish to leave for my mistress—”

And have her pluck a few notes from the stack that Lydia Harcourt expected to receive? Or perhaps take the lot and run off? She wasn’t that naïve.

She bit her lip. The physician had assured her Rodesson would recover. But he had looked so frail last night…and anxiety over this wouldn’t help. “I would prefer to deliver my…gift to Mrs. Harcourt directly,” she said. “Where is she staying?”

“I’ve been instructed not to say. Ye’ll have to come back when she’s returned.”

The housekeeper pushed hard on the door. Venetia admitted defeat and drew her foot back. The door snapped shut in her face.

She trudged down the steps. She worked so hard to ensure her servants didn’t know about her secret life. But Mrs. Harcourt was careless. The housekeeper obviously knew what sort of business she was here to transact. The hood, the veil, the face paint had hidden her appearance at least. But why would Mrs. Harcourt race off without waiting to get her money?

She stomped down the last two steps. She hated this. Hated to be at the mercy of this woman.

She paused at the stairs that led down to the servants’ entrance, cast in shadow. An idea dawned. Could she bribe another servant to tell her where Mrs. Harcourt was? She nipped down the steps and raised her fist to knock—

“I might be wearing drawers and I might not, milord!”

Startled, Venetia glanced up. A couple stood at the top of the steps. The girl, blessed with golden ringlets, coyly stroked the chest of a fine gentleman.

“I knew the instant I set on eyes on you whether you were or not, strumpet,” the gentleman returned and he boldly cupped the swell of the woman’s breast beneath her poppy-red pelisse in full view of Compton Street.

“Strumpet!” Giggling, the young woman slapped the man’s broad chest with a dainty reticule. “Miss Harcourt to you, sir.”

Was this giggling twit was her blackmailer? Some courtesans merely used the title ‘Mrs.’ to appear respectable to their neighbors. Just as her mother had pretended to be a widow.

“You’ve no idea what is beneath me dress, milord,” the girl challenged.

Venetia chewed her lip. Should she walk back up and announce herself? The girl was silly and young, and hardly seemed capable of creating a clever scheme of blackmail.

“What if I were to toss your skirts right now to find out, sweet strumpet?”

His lordship was tall, alluringly dark, and radiating dangerous sensuality, just like Lord Trent. This silly flirtatiousness reminded her of her kiss with Trent. Of the thrill of bandying naughty words…

A strange wistfulness blossomed in her heart—jades could be bold and flirtatious and have fun. She’d spent a lifetime in Maidenswode being rigidly correct lest someone suspect the truth—that her mother wasn’t a respectable widow.

The gentleman inched up the girl’s skirts.

“Swansborough!” the girl cried. This time she slapped his hands.

Laughing he let her skirts drop. “And where is your sister, angel? Why has the lovely Lydia left London?”

Venetia stood absolutely still.

“She went to a dull house party. She was ever so…tedious, going on about how she would be spending a week at Lord…Oh, Lord Chartrand’s estate. Why should anyone wish to rusticate in the country? At least I shall be able to use her theatre box.”

Lord Swansborough gave a throaty laugh. “Angel, Lord Chartrand’s house party is the most wicked orgy of the Season.”

“My sister has gone to an orgy? How utterly scandalous.”

“Indeed. I just might retrieve my invitation and go myself.”

An orgy. Venetia’s jaw dropped. How the devil could she go to an orgy to speak to a courtesan? But she had to! Rodesson could not travel. Once again, it was up to her.

Venetia saw the girl’s eyes widen to the size of sovereigns. Even from several feet away she could read the young ladybird’s sudden desperation. “But I want you to take me to the theatre, my lord. You promised it would be a most rewarding—”

A squeak escaped Venetia’s lips. Men really did indulge in sexual activities in the theatre! Then she stayed motionless, her heart thudding. Had that noise given her away?

But the girl and Lord Swansborough swept up the stairs, oblivious to her hiding place in the shadows. Venetia breathed out in happy relief. Lord Swansborough had given her a brilliant idea. She knew exactly how she could go to an orgy.

Lord Trent. No doubt he would be attending. It made perfect sense. He was the only rake she knew in London. She could ask him to take her.