Sin (11 page)

Lydia’s lovely eyes narrowed. “Who are you behind that mask, my dear? Has Lord Trent really brought an innocent maiden here? What a delicious scandal. I plan to find out exactly who you—”

“Most memoirs are bloody dull stuff, Lydia,” Chartrand boomed from the head of the table, interrupting. Venetia sent up a prayer of thanks.

“Tired of reading boring tomes about military men or Whigs or the trials of blasted reformers,” he shouted. “I sincerely hope you plan to include the spicy stuff.”

“Oh, I do, my lord. Unless, by special request, I choose to retract some of the more scandalous incidents.”

Sipping her wine, Venetia sputtered. How could Lydia be so open about blackmail? But there had been no mention of memoirs in Lydia’s letter to her. Only a request for payment for silence.

“You should have Rodesson illustrate it for you!” Chartrand exclaimed. He gave a nasty laugh. Guffaws followed this and Lydia’s eyes narrowed, shooting sparks.

“But alas, my dear,” Chartrand continued, “He’s never been kind to you, has he?”

“I could hardly have him illustrate as he—”

Venetia stopped breathing. Lydia was going to reveal that Rodesson couldn’t paint—

“Would hardly do justice to the eloquence of my tale,” Lydia finished.

Thank heaven. But a red flush heightened Lydia’s artfully rouged cheeks. Oh, no. Her father enjoyed making political comment when he drew, and he enjoyed having mean-spirited fun. He must have insulted Lydia viciously. If Lydia hated her father she must want revenge…

She should hate Lydia—but she couldn’t bring herself to. No one took Lydia’s literary aspirations seriously. As a fellow artist, Venetia could sympathize. Lydia’s vulnerability had been exposed. No doubt she deserved the cutting treatment, but it must have hurt. No doubt Rodesson’s pictures had hurt Lydia, too. Her father never worried about others’ feelings.

“Still masked, I see.”

The sensuous voice at her right startled her. She dropped her fork. Turned to Lord Swansborough. Dressed entirely in black, the viscount lounged in his chair like Lucifer. He studied her face as though he could see through the mask. “Who are you, that you are so careful of your identity?”

To hide her nerves, Venetia lifted her fork and did battle with a mussel. “If I were to reveal that, my lord, I’d have no need of the mask.”

“I wonder if you could be coaxed to remove it.”

She quaked. The mussel flew from her fork, landing with a humiliating plop on his plate.

Just as she was about to slither beneath the table to hide, Lord Chartrand stood and clapped for attention. Venetia had to jerk her hands up as her plate was taken away. Four mussels still remained, nestled in sauce within their shells, but her appetite had vanished.

Footmen returned, bearing silver trays loaded with delicate stemmed dishes. Frothy white syllabub trembled in crystal as the trays were whisked down the length of the table. The first to be served lifted gold spoons.

“Wait!” Chartrand called. “In one of the dishes is a gold ring. A ring to be worn on an erect cock.”

Venetia stared at her dessert as it landed on her place. No sign of a ring from the outside, but the dish was large. But what on earth would she do with such a thing?

Slip it on Marcus
, whispered her inner, naughty voice.

“If the finder is a gentleman,” Chartrand continued, “He will be the winner of a delightful treat. If a lady finds the prize, she may award it to the gentleman of her choice.”

And what would happen after that?

With trepidation, Venetia lifted her spoon.
Please, let there be no ring in my dish.
The spoon slid through the whipped confection with ease. Down, down, down…

But if another woman found the ring, that woman could select Marcus.

Her spoon hit the glass bottom with a ting. Instead of a flood of relief, Venetia felt her hand tighten with tension. She turned the spoon’s handle in a circle, scraping metal against glass.

“Come now,” urged Chartrand, “Surely someone has found it?”

“Hell and damnation.”

The deep, rugged, utterly irritated male voice was unmistakable. Heart in her throat, Venetia looked up at Marcus. As she expected, the gold ring dangled from his spoon.

M
arcus glared at the gleaming gold ring designed to slide over the wearer’s cock and balls prior to erection. Once the cock stood proud, the ring tightened, enhancing size by restricting blood flow. To squeeze the base was to enlarge the head.

He dropped his ‘prize’ from the spoon to the gold rimmed plate beside the dish.

What should he do? Claim it but turn down whatever it brought? Would that raise suspicion?

He could hand it back to Chartrand and award his host the ‘treat’ in his stead but, for all he knew, whatever Chartrand had arranged might involve his partner—Venetia. If so, Chartrand, the devil, would try to claim her.

So, he would refuse to participate and refuse to let her do it.

Simple enough.

If he ended up over pistols at dawn, so be it.

Picking up the ring, he held it up to catch the light of the chandelier, then tossed it down the table toward Chartrand. “I’ve already planned my night, Chartrand. Why don’t you give a demonstration instead?”

“The prize is yours, Trent.” Chartrand clapped his hands and his footmen brought in a sedan chair, on which sat Rosalyn Rose, completely nude. Her nipples were rouged. Her hand dangled demurely across her henna-red bush. She ran her tongue around her glistening lips.

Chartrand’s grin widened. “Rosalyn shall give a demonstration to your country lovely on the best techniques for fellatio.”

Marcus groaned. “My country lovely is inventive and adept in her own right. She needs no lessons. In fact, I’m aroused enough to take her up to my rooms right now.”

“Upstairs?” Chartrand blinked. “Why such modesty?”

Laughter rose all around. Marcus ground his teeth. Given the number of public displays he’d given, he could never be called modest. Besides, the term was damned feminine.

Face covered by her mask, Venetia was staring at him, syllabub spoon still hanging from her fingers. He noticed Lydia’s appraising expression.

“Are you suggesting I sweep aside your dessert and rut on your table?”

All laughed once more at the joke—Swansborough had done it at the event two years before—but Chartrand’s face grew red. “I insist you claim your prize, Trent. You won in all fairness.”

“But for a game I didn’t know I was about to play.” He quirked a brow. “I’ve decided to try a novel entertainment this year. I’ve promised my fidelity. And I’m sure any other gentleman here would be delighted to aid in the demonstration. Perhaps you should let Rosalyn choose the cock that most intrigues her.”

All the women—except Venetia—tittered at that. It meant a competition. A display of male attributes, with invitations to bring the cocks to attention.

Lydia took up the cry. “Mr. Wembly posses an astonishing piece of equipment—one that would startle a horse. Perhaps Miss Rose should test her skill with that challenge. Not—” Marcus groaned as Lydia turned her radiant smile on him. “Not that you are not generously endowed, my lord Trent, but since you refuse…”

“Unless you’re too foxed, Wembly,” Brude called out.

Downing yet another glass of French red wine, Wembly stood with a slight stagger. “Never. The tipstaff has never failed me yet.” He stalked toward Rosalyn, unbuttoning as he went.

Wagers began to make their way down the table. Brude began. “A hundred guineas he doesn’t last for more than five minutes. The dear girl possesses remarkable suction.”

“The liquor will make him slower, more insensate,” mused Swansborough. “I say he’ll outlast her.”

Lydia gave a wicked smile. “Two hundred that our host claims privilege of rank and thrusts himself between Rosalyn’s lips before the deed is done on Mr. Wembly.”

Brude grunted. “Someone should record these.”

Lady Chartrand summoned a quill and paper.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to play, Lord Trent?” Lydia goaded. “I do love the sight of your magnificent cock.”

Marcus heard Venetia’s spoon clatter to her plate. Now would be the time to search Lydia’s room for the manuscript but he couldn’t leave Venetia alone in here. He would whisk her up to their rooms and lock her in, safe, for the night.

He scrubbed a hand over his jaw.
Ten bloody thousand
. His father would have hired someone to slit Lydia’s throat. Likely why she’d never pushed before. Smug Lydia Harcourt believed she had him by the ballocks. He would show her just how wrong she was.

He glanced down the table to Venetia. Her mask shielded much, but her scarlet-painted lips were so expressive. Firm, tense, slightly turned down. Unhappy. Did she want to flee? All he wanted to do was take her up to his room.

Venetia caught herself staring at Marcus’ face, at his beautiful profile gilded by candlelight. He caught her staring, too. As her face flamed behind the protective mask, he smiled gently.

He had refused his prize.

Had he refused because he had truly reformed, as he’d claimed? Folly to think it was a sense of loyalty—or fidelity—to her. After all, he planned to send her home after tonight. Then, without the rigors of their masquerade weighing on him, he’d probably indulge in all the carnal delights on offer.

Cheers from the table warned that Rosalyn Rose and Wembly had begun their display. Yes, she was terribly curious about how a woman was supposed to delight a man with her mouth but she wasn’t certain she wished to watch. Still, if she turned tail and ran, she would regret it. She wanted to find out just who she was—a prim country maiden or a wickedly sensual woman. She was determined to experience adventure.

Chartrand rose from his seat again. “Before Rosalyn begins to explain the mysteries of her technique, I must remind you of the delights on offer tonight. A Turkish theme in the ballroom. Cards and hazard in the east drawing room. Tomorrow night, if this blasted rain eases, the scavenger hunt will begin. But also tonight, for the more intrepid, there are scenes to take one to the darkest depths of lust. True torment beyond the usual bland birch work and ropes and whippings.”

It would be like a night spent caught in a Belzique picture. Was she ready for that?

Lord Swansborough gave a lazy laugh. “Nothing like the depths of degradation amidst the height of luxury.”

Venetia shivered. A cruel self-mocking note lay beneath the calm, casual tone. Not only did Swansborough look like the devil, he apparently liked to live in a hell of his own making.

Unease slithered through her, raising goose bumps on her skin. In her pictures, dark rogues were saved, but this was reality.

Chartrand clapped again and silence descended. Against her better judgement but consumed by curiosity, Venetia glanced up. Wembly was now sprawled on the sumptuous chair of red velvet, his trousers opened. Rosalyn straddled his thighs. She held her hair back with one hand and his monstrous cock upright with her other.

Heat raced through Venetia. Her breathing quickened.

“For many men, perhaps even all, this is their favorite sex act,” Rosalyn began, in clear strident tones as though she was lecturing at a Royal Society gathering. “Your tongue can control the caresses in ways your passages cannot. Some men will be passive. Others will hold your head still and thrust deeply into you. To take such penetration is an acquired skill—”

She stopped there and abruptly took Wembly into her mouth. To the very hilt. Wearing a smug smile, Wembly held a glass of port in one hand and fondled Rosalyn’s head with the other.

Rosalyn released him. “Many men like to hear a woman gag over their prick and like to see watering eyes. Makes them believe they are very large.”

This brought laughter once more, wild drunken laughter. Wine with dinner, now port and sherry. No wonder.

“Bloody well get on with it,” Mr. Wembly demanded.

“Of course, sir.” Rosalyn replied and her head began to bob upon him. Her cheeks hollowed. Venetia heard soft slurping sounds, sounds she remembered from doing this very thing to Marcus—

Even though the displays aroused her, her every thought centered on Marcus. She glanced over at him. He kicked back his chair and stood, his gaze locked on hers.

She wanted him. But did she dare here amidst the wildness of Chartrand’s games? She thought of the bold auburn courtesan in her theatre picture and desire sizzled through her.

She stood too, aware of all eyes turning to them, but she only looked at him.

Chartrand’s robust voice resonated. “I think it is time to retire to the ballroom.”

“I wish to at least see this—we will be here for only one night. I want one naughty night.”

As Marcus frowned, Venetia worried he would never allow it. “Are you certain, sweeting?” he asked. He lifted her hand for a kiss. “You did not look happy at dinner.”

“I was afraid you might choose Rosalyn.”

“Were you? She doesn’t tempt me, love.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to the open ballroom doors. Light and heat spilled out. Most other guests were inside but a dozen pretty young courtesans in various states of undress were still making their giggling way through the doors.

His brows drew together, his mouth firmed. “I do not intend to let you take part.”

She stroked his forearm, tense beneath his sleeve. “I just want to see what happens, just for a little while.”

Venetia had never attended a ton ball but had heard they were crushes. Chartrand’s bacchanalia was the same. Around the perimeter of the ballroom, handsome gentlemen flirted gallantly with beautiful women. But then they passed through the crowd and stepped into sin.

Pillows, chaises, sofas were everywhere. Lady Yardley reclined on a gold chaise. Lord Brude kneeled at her side, nude. England’s most romantic poet wore not a stitch. Dark hair dusted his lean legs, his strong arms. She could see his firm, slightly furry derriere. He and another nude man were suckling Lady Yardley’s breasts.

Venetia moaned softly as Marcus’ hand slid lower on her back, to caress her bottom. He propelled her to a divan piled with silk pillows—one nestled between two soaring columns. “A safe place to observe the fun.”

She was trembling. Aroused? Curious? A little embarrassed? All of those things. She sank into the embroidered chaise, unable to tear her gaze from the men at her ladyship’s breasts. The second man lifted from his task, cried, “Such magnificent tits. I wish to be smothered by them!”

Lady Yardley spanked his tight buttocks with her fan and he dropped to his work once more.

Venetia gasped as both men’s hands slid up her ladyship’s legs, pushing up her skirts. Those two hands began stroking the countess’ nether regions together while their cheeks hollowed with the force of their suckling. Lady Yardley moaned and slapped indiscriminately with her fan.

Marcus dropped to his knees before her, lowering his head to her clothed breasts. “To make it clear you belong to me. And because I hunger to do this.” He ran his tongue over taut silk, circling her puckered nipples.

“People can see.” She spoke out of instinct, out of an upbringing of propriety.

“That is the point of an orgy, my dear. To be aroused by other’s excitement.”

“I know. I am aroused, but I feel strange to be a spectacle. But it is exciting. Don’t stop.” People were watching. Men looked at them. A group of tittering ladybirds cast interested glances at Marcus, rubbing their cunnies. Some were already naked, others had their skirts pulled up.

Marcus lifted his mouth from her breasts. He brushed back rakishly tousled hair, blue-black as the night sky. Her dress was soaked over her nipples from his mouth.

Heady scents filled the room—burning wax, lush perfumes, and the intoxicating scent of sensual excitement. The room stank of it and it made her wet and fragrant too.

Marcus kissed the swell of her breasts, bare above her neckline. Wantonly, she grasped his hand, pulled it to caress her cunny through her skirts.

Over Marcus’ dark, thick hair bent at her breasts, she saw Mr. Wembly drop his drawers. He laughingly bent over a hard-surfaced platform as Trixie Jones, the courtesan who had played the pianoforte, spanked him with a paddle. His white buttocks turned pink with the jade’s determined smacks. Trixie was nude, but wrapped in bizarre leather straps—like a Belzique heroine. Her pert breasts jiggled as she punished Mr. Wembly.

Lord Chartrand came up behind her, brandishing a riding crop and an enormous, glistening wand. Trixie stopped flogging to hold her bum cheeks apart, crying out as Chartrand slid the dildo into her bottom. The marquess thrust and pushed until the entire impossible length disappeared, striking Trixie’s rear with the riding crop as he worked. His face was flushed, his breathing fierce.

Venetia ground her quim against Marcus’ palm, spreading her legs, needing pleasure…

She spied a tangle of bodies sprawled over pillows. Diaphanous skirts fluttered, women screamed, hard-muscled male bottoms heaved.

Venetia tried to look everywhere at once. The noble war hero, the Duke of Montberry, still dressed, sprawled on a sofa to avidly watch Lady Chartrand and Rosalyn Rose as they kissed each other’s cunnies. Lady and courtesan lay side by side, mouth to cunny, moaning and nuzzling. Lady Yardley summoned a footman to her side from the group of spectators—handsome, muscular, he wore his livery, but no wig atop his dark curls. Now he alone feasted on her magnificent breasts as he released his large cock. Her ladyship moaned in pure rapture as she ran both hands up and down his thick shaft.

Sex surrounded her. Enticed her. Her quim clenched with each moan, each cry, each shriek. She was panting. Venetia glanced down as Marcus coaxed one of her breasts out of her bodice. His body shielded her, no one could see, but suddenly she didn’t care if they could. She was melting with pleasure, grasping at Marcus’ shoulders. She wanted him to pump on her the way she saw men doing to women. She wanted to be crying out in ecstasy. She wanted Marcus’ thick, beautiful cock inside—

Arms linked, three women raced over to their chaise. Marcus quickly eased her bodice up, covering her tingling breast, her hard nipple, before he turned.

“My lord!” the girls squealed. They giggled and batted their lashes at him.

“We wish to introduce your Vixen to naughty girls’ games,” they chorused. “To the pretty pleasures of women’s breasts and quims and licking tongues.”