Sin Incarnate (No Rules for Rogues Book 1) Read online

  Ivo swallowed thickly, doing his best to keep his gaze from locking on her lips. She was so tall he wouldn’t have to do more than bend his head to kiss her, and that too-full lower lip of hers had clearly been created for kissing. He’d thought so years ago…apparently so had Blanchot. And look where that had gotten them all: an exile, a corpse, and a woman teetering on the verge of ruin.

  She looked pointedly at his cigarito. ‘Can I bother you for one of those? It’s a habit I picked up from my husband, and I suddenly find that I miss it. I could smell the smoke drifting down through the garden, and I don’t think any flower could have smelt so sweet to me tonight.’

  Ivo did his best to keep his expression neutral as he withdrew a second cigarito from their case and passed it to her. Outrageous. That’s what she was. Blazingly, unforgivably outrageous. No one said no to her, ever. She was surrounded by the most masculine, cocksure, sport-mad gentlemen in England, and they let her lead them around by their noses—by their cocks, more likely.

  Very much as he was doing now. He ground his teeth together. He should have refused her request. Someone ought to attempt to keep her in her place.

  She let go of the shawl and put one naked hand out to take the little cigar. Her finger brushed his, and his whole body quickened with anticipation. In that instant he could have sworn the air around them thickened and began to crackle.

  ‘The other guests seem to have been very fond of your husband,’ he said, making a bid to mask both annoyance and attraction. ‘All their stories seem to start and end with ‘Lyon.’’

  He shifted his weight, ruthlessly ignoring the way her presence pulled at him. He had trouble thinking around her. Everything always spiralled back to a hasty duel, a dead man, and a woman he’d wanted desperately, but couldn’t have. To the husband who’d stood in his way, whom he’d have sworn she’d loved even as heat pooled between them every instant their paths crossed.

  ‘Everything always did,’ she acknowledged while smelling the cigarito with her eyes closed, a small smile flickering across her generous mouth.

  Ivo’s groin throbbed and he quickly took a puff of his cigarito. Why this woman? He didn’t want to be attracted to her. Why couldn’t the reality of her present mode burn out the infatuation he’d harboured for so long?

  Why had he brought up her husband? Why was that subject lodged so firmly in the forefront of his mind? It didn’t seem to be in hers.

  She wandered away from him to light the cigarito from one of the wall sconces that lined the terrace. She took a short puff, then strolled back to him, her shawl slipping down off her shoulders to trail from her elbows, exposing her chest and shoulders. Light and shadow played across her skin, emphasizing the swell of breasts, the clean line of collarbones, the hollow of her throat.

  Ivo risked another glance at the open doors. It had been all he could do not to make a fool of himself since he’d arrived. Even now all he could think of was how it would be to kiss her. To simply drag her down into the garden and do every wicked thing he’d ever dreamt of. To awaken her—engender a response to his own desire and watch it radiate out of those arresting eyes of hers.

  If she was going to be a fallen woman, it ought to be with him. Some part of him even felt she owed it to him. A part that felt small and cheap. An ugly bit of himself he didn’t want to acknowledge fully. His grandfather might call him a fool, and he might even have been one if he was to judge with the clearer vision of hindsight, but up until a few days ago, he’d always been proud to have been the knight who’d rescued the lady from the dragon.

  She took a long drag and let it out slowly, smoke drifting up to obscure her face. She sighed again, blew out another cloud, and bit her lower lip, obviously thinking. Remembering. Her eyes were shadowed, almost vacant.

  She smiled a bit wistfully. Torchlight haloed her hair. One side of her mouth quirked up. There was that smile that had gotten him in trouble all those years ago. At the time, he’d have done anything to see it again. Seeing it now sucked the breath right out of him and set alarms ringing in his head. He should go. Now. The fey creature beside him simply wasn’t the woman he’d given up everything to save.

  Reason struggled with want, with need. Desire slipped its leash and he felt himself lean in. It was impossible not to answer that smile. That sly invitation.

  She didn’t step back. Didn’t twist aside. Her eyes didn’t drop in maidenly anticipation, but he hadn’t expected them to. This wasn’t the girl from Paris. No. This was the woman from his dreams.

  ‘Hey, Georgie!’ The Viscount St Audley’s voice, loud and eager, erupted from inside the house. Ivo jerked himself upright and turned to stare out into the garden, nerves jangling, heart racing with the spark of unfulfilled lust, with the rush of near discovery. He gripped the balustrade with his free hand, bearing down until his knuckles whitened, and took a slightly unsteady breath.

  ‘I’ve been looking all over for you,’ the man yelled from the doorway. ‘Layton wants to hear about the race you won last week.’

  Mrs Exley took one last puff on her cigarito, her eyes teasing him, full of the knowledge that he’d been about to kiss her—that she’d been about to let him—and then excused herself, striding quickly across the stone terrace, skirts shushing loudly with every step. A nightingale who’d overstayed the season trilled in the dark recesses of the garden, lost and lonely.

  He shouldn’t have done that. Shouldn’t have been so weak. He and his family were barely on speaking terms as it was. If did something as profoundly stupid as to entangle himself with the source of his original downfall, his grandfather would have an apoplectic fit. And rightly so.

  Ivo stared down at his hands, willing himself to breathe, watched as the ash fell from his forgotten cigarito. He stubbed it out and flicked the remains down into the garden.

  He shouldn’t have come.

  As soon as Bennett had said that Mrs Exley would be here, he should have made his excuses and escaped into the next county. A crack of male laugher burst out of the billiard room, rolled over him, and scurried off into the night to cause havoc as it might.

  The cosseted darling of rakes. The bona ropa of at least one gentleman inside that very room. He shouldn’t want her. He shouldn’t.

  George let her breath out with a rush as she crossed the terrace. The light shining behind St Audley beckoned. Offering warmth, sanity, reason. She’d thought she’d learnt to overcome the flicker of awareness Dauntry called up in her. She’d hadn’t experienced it since she’d seen him last: blood trickling down his cheek, down the blade of the sword still in his hand, eyes burning. She’d been bundled out of the garden while the ambassador had set his lackeys running…

  It had been wrong then, and it felt that way still, but she couldn’t seem to damp down the flutter of attraction. Of recognition. It had been there the first time she’d met him. It was there still, a blood-stirring surge she couldn’t escape any more than driftwood could escape the tide.

  There was simply something in the way Dauntry watched her. Something almost raw, and it made her feel like a wanton. Or at least, it made her feel as if she’d like to be one.

  Something in her core responded. An embarrassing and alarmingly sexual response. She’d taken lovers since her husband’s death, but only infrequently, and always on her terms. One night only. That was the rule. One night. But none of the men she’d shared her bed with evoked the blaze of lust that Dauntry did. Or evoked the knowledge that here stood a man who truly saw her, saw and wanted her. Lyon had given her that. Love that saw her, that acknowledged her.

  Even as she rushed towards the viscount she could feel Dauntry’s eyes on her. She shivered, a trickle of fear combined with the illicit thrill of desire working its way down her spine. She should stay away from him. She wasn’t herself when he was near, and she didn’t much like the person she became in his presence.

  She stepped into the light and slid her arm through St Audley’s, giving him a practiced, flirtatious smile that
invited him to laugh about the little tête-à-tête he’d just broken up. The viscount smiled back at her, but it didn’t reach his eyes. His lips had a white edge to them. He cast one last hard look over her shoulder and led her back into the house.

  Brimstone offered uncomplicated laughter and unconditional love. Audley was another beast altogether. Quick to anger. Possessive of her even with their other friends. Far more the elder brother than her own ever had been—Lucas would have teased her, mercilessly. The viscount clamped his hand over hers and marched her rather stiffly over to where her father-in-law waited.

  Just for a moment out on the terrace the night had become charged. It had been clear Dauntry was going to kiss her, and in the moment, she hadn’t had any desire to stop him. Something feral had clawed its way through her, possessing her. She certainly hadn’t been looking for rescue. She’d been almost sorry when they’d been interrupted. Almost sorry, and terribly relieved.

  Saved from him. Saved from herself.

  Dauntry was the last man on earth she should be considering as a paramour. He didn’t even like her. She was sure of it. He looked at her with disgust, with anger, just as often as lust. And lust was hardly all that flattering a response. But her body couldn’t seem to grasp what was so clear to her head. Her nipples hardened whenever he entered a room. The bottom dropped out of her stomach and her whole lower body throbbed.

  If he were to touch her, she didn’t know what she’d do. Shatter into a thousand pieces. Melt into a puddle. Something climactic. Something that she was afraid wouldn’t be settled by one night.

  She shouldn’t have joined him on the terrace, but her curiosity had gotten the better of her. What had happened to him after the duel? Where had he been since? Had he thought of her as often as she had thought of him?

  Disloyal. Unworthy. Abandoned in thought if not in deed. All the things Dauntry made her feel, made her remember feeling. Not because Blanchot had touched her, but because she’d wanted Dauntry to. Not because Blanchot was dead, but because Lyon was, and Dauntry still had the power to stir her.

  She stared up at him, brown-eyed like a cow and nearly as intelligent. Her mouth hung open, exposing straight teeth that were unfortunately stained and yellowed.

  Philippe Lévis buttoned his breeches, choking down the bile that rose at the back of his throat. Why had he come along to her rooms? A sol seemed an exorbitant amount to pay for that slack mouth.

  He ran a hand over his waistcoat, smoothing the pile of the velvet. She’d disturbed it with her sweaty peasant’s hands. Crushed it, wrinkled it into whorls.

  His jaw clenched, teeth grinding. The room stank of dust, dirty linen, and sex. It overpowered him in waves.

  Blissfully mute, she got up off her knees, the floorboards protesting as her weight shifted, and stepped away from him, swinging her hips like the whore she was. He stood, smoothed his waistcoat again. There was no fixing it. Heat flashed though him, far more rewarding than the sham of a release she’d just coaxed out of him.

  His waistcoat would have to be steamed and brushed, which meant he’d have to go home and change before going out.

  Damn her. The sloppy pig.

  She stepped closer, ran one of her grubby hands up his chest, further abusing the velvet. The stench of cheap perfume swamped him, nearly making him gag.

  He reached out, cupping her face between his hands. Her skin was clammy, sheened with sweat. She smiled, that soft, seductive smile all women used when they thought they had the upper hand, then frowned, confusion written all over her stupid face as he locked his hands around her throat and squeezed.

  He was doing the gentlemen of London a favour.

  If only this was the bitch responsible for his father’s death, or his whore of a mother…but his mother was already dead and the cunt who’d killed his father was safe at her family’s country estate.

  The little peasant whore struggled as wildly as a wolf caught in a leg trap. Her hands pulled his hair, broken nails scratching his face. He held on, forced her back onto the bed where she plied her trade, and used his weight to hold her down until her hands went limp and the light faded from her eyes.

  He climbed off her, pulled his handkerchief from the pocket of the coat he’d draped over the back of the chair, and carefully wiped his hands. Perhaps he’d not go home and change after all? A drink with friends and a bit of courtly flirtation seemed just the thing to cleanse his palate.

  He took his time putting himself to rights. It wouldn’t do to appear mussed, or to walk down the dank stairs that led to the street with undue haste. When his wig was perfectly arranged, his coat lying smoothly across his shoulders, and his hat tucked under his arm, he plucked a coin from his pocket and laid it on the rough table beside the bed.

  He descended the steps with the quick, jaunty step of a well-satisfied customer, heels knocking smartly on the wooden stairs.

  He had places to be. He had things to do. He had an appointment with vengeance.

  Chapter Three

  It seems Mrs E— is currently enjoying the hospitality of her husband’s family. A country house party…what better place is there for an illicit assignation?

  Tête-à-Tête, 10 October 1788

  A sudden rush of feathers announced the eruption of a large grouse, closely followed by two more. They fled upward, streaking away from the excited spaniels. Ahead of Ivo, the hunters watched the birds, those in the fore with guns up. He watched Mrs Exley, who was by far the most interesting thing in the woods that day.

  She raised her gun smoothly, barrel glinting as the sun caught it, danced along its polished surface. She fired, and the first bird plummeted to earth. St Audley took one of the other two and the third fled to safety in the trees.

  An acrid cloud of smoke drifted over the field, the mingled scents of sulphur and saltpetre enveloping Ivo momentarily, overwhelming the damp, loamy scent of the woods. The dogs quickly retrieved the birds and the keeper tucked the limp, feathered bodies into his game bag.

  Yesterday, it had been fishing. Today, it was grouse hunting. Tomorrow, they’d been promised a run with the Quorn. Lord Glendower’s estate and the surrounding country offered a multitude of pursuits for a gentleman—or lady—with sporting proclivities.

  No matter what they did, Mrs Exley studiously avoided him. It wasn’t overt, but she was masterful at it. After their encounter on the terrace, he wasn’t going to get a second chance. At least not if she had anything to say about it. He should be grateful. Relieved. But he wasn’t.

  She stopped to reload. Several long curls fell forward over her shoulder only to be pushed impatiently back again. Ivo drifted towards her, captured by the way the dappled light played across her busy hands, highlighted her cheekbones, flirted with her lips.

  ‘Lord Glendower wasn’t joking when he complimented your shooting.’

  ‘And why would he do that?’ She closed the frizzen over the pan softly, with no clumsy click. The powder flask was returned to the chatelaine she wore at her waist. She rested the gun carefully in the crook of her arm, sure and easy, as comfortable with the weapon as most women were with a babe. Finished, she turned to give him her full attention, blinking several times, obviously irritated and pointedly waiting for an answer.

  Ivo beat back the urge to simply kiss her then and there. If she didn’t shoot him, one of her friends was likely to do so, but, Lord, how he’d like to do something to shake the reserve out of her. To make her react. With anger. Surprise. Desire. He almost didn’t care which. Anything would be better than that silent condescension.

  ‘Gentlemen are known to brag about their womenfolk.’

  ‘As well as their horses and their dogs.’ Her voice was brittle. Dismissive.

  She stared him down for a moment, her mouth set in a firm, disapproving line, her colour high, cheeks flushed pink exactly the way they would be after making love. The image of her pink and tousled stopped him in his tracks and made his mind go blank. Everything subsumed beneath a vision of flesh
damp with exertion, blushing with desire.

  When he didn’t respond, she stepped away from him, hurrying to catch up with the rest of the hunting party. Cursing under his breath, Ivo followed. Why did he flirt with her? Teasing her—at least in the manner he was used to employing with women—was obviously a very bad idea. Flattery utterly failed to charm her. She didn’t want to be charmed by him, and he ought to be able to take the hint; ought to be enough of a gentleman to respect it.

  When Glendower announced an end to the hunt, Ivo fell in behind Mrs Exley, wandering slowly, watching the sway of her hips as she strode along, oblivious. The pad holding her skirts out bounced slightly with each step—rhythmic, suggestive, impossible to look away from. They reached a fork in the road and most of the party turned off towards the village and the inn. Mrs Exley watched them go, then turned to follow the small group led by her father-in-law towards the house.

  Her eyes widened as she saw him. He could see her consider turning about again and marching off after her friends. He could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. He bowed slightly and swept one hand before him, inviting her to join him.

  She raised her chin and stared him down for a moment before taking a single step towards him and setting off down the path. Ivo fell in beside her as she passed. He wasn’t going to so much as touch her. He wasn’t going to offer his arm, or to take her gun.

  ‘Did you happen to meet Mrs Hart while you were in Italy?’

  Ivo glanced down. Mrs Hart, was it? An infamous lady-bird, sent as something of a present to the ambassador of Naples by his nephew, her former protector. Ivo’s mouth quirked in an involuntary smile. ‘I believe everyone has met Mrs Hart. It’s quite impossible not to have done so.’

  She bit her lip, but her dimple was in evidence, giving her away. She knew full well she shouldn’t have asked him such a question. Courtesans were not a suitable topic, but then, he wasn’t sure there was such a thing as a suitable topic between the two of them. Death and desire. Scandal and ruin. That’s what they shared.