Tempting Sin Read online

  The carriage stopped. A footman opened the door and let out the steps. She stepped down, blinked to clear her sight. This wasn’t her home in Golden Square?

  Her stomach plummeted. She had no home. Ogden had explained how Michael had lost everything to Travis. That she should leave or find herself in debtors’ prison, no matter the outcome of the duel.

  The sickening realization struck her like a blow. Michael killed himself to avoid the fruits of his folly and had left her to face his creditors alone.

  She clutched at the footman’s arm. “Where are we?”

  “Travis House, my lady,” the footman replied without expression, as if the arrival of an unchaperoned female at his master’s house was a routine occurrence. He eased out of her clutching fingers.

  Unable to make sense of his words, she looked around. The Travis coat of arms and the name carved in a stone above the front door, pierced the fog in her mind.

  Michael’s opponent was named Travis. Viscount Ogden had referred to him as Sin. A play on his family name, St. John, pronounced Sinjin. He’d been one of Michael’s heroes, admired from a distance. She’d heard him and Ogden talk of him. A well-known rake and gambler. One of the richest men in London, too. Now Michael lay dead if not at his hand, then because of his actions.

  A recollection of a tall man in black with strong hands gently pushing her away lurched into her mind. She’d tried to hit him. She shivered. “There has been a mistake. Please, take me to Golden Square.”

  The coachman climbed down from his perch. “No mistake, Miss. His lordship’s orders.”

  Gathering the shreds of her remaining wits with the last of her strength, she fixed him with a cool stare. “Then his lordship was mistaken.” She glanced around for the gate. She could walk home from here.

  A horse trotted up the drive. The coachman retreated. The cause of her troubles had apparently arrived. Pushing her hair back from her face, she squared her shoulders.

  A lean, formidable figure in black gazed down at her from the back of an ebony stallion. This was, indeed, the man in Hyde Park. Only a flash of white at his throat relieved his dark austerity. Black hair curled onto a broad forehead beneath his hat. His saturnine, hard-planed face, slightly bronzed from the sun, showed not a scrap of emotion. Piercing blue eyes beneath slashing black eyebrows observed her with frightening lack of curiosity.

  If her brother was to be believed, they gave him the sobriquet Sin as much for his way of life as they did for his name.

  She drew in a steadying breath. “Your coachman seems to have made an error. My address is in Golden Square.”

  Relaxed on his glossy, black mount, hands crossed on the pommel, he raised one eyebrow and his lips curved in a faintly mocking smile. “No mistake.” His deep voice sounded casual, self-assured.

  “Then would you ask your coachman to take me home, please.” She had not intended to sound quite so pleading. She’d wanted to prove herself calm, rational and unaffected by his striking masculine beauty. To herself, if not to him.

  “Home?” He dismounted in an agile, fluid movement, far more graceful than she would have expected from so tall a man. He handed the reins off to a groom who seemed to appear from nowhere.

  “Yes. Home. If you would be so good.” Politeness was a lady’s only weapon. Her only defense against rakes, debauchers and gamblers. And men who dueled for enjoyment.

  He sauntered closer. Prowled. Like a predator sure of its prey.

  She forced herself to stand her ground. She would not be cowed. “Number twenty-six Golden Square.”

  Travis shrugged. A bare movement of wide shoulders. Wider for being so close. An expanse of dark superfine filled her vision. A sapphire winked in his cravat. He reeked of wealth and coldness, and the subtle scent of masculine cologne.

  “You no longer have a home, Miss Yelverton,” a voice coated in ice pronounced with chilly indifference. “Except that which I am prepared to offer.”

  Frozen to the bone, she retreated. “I have a home.”

  He shook his head slowly, his expression grim. “I won you at dice last night. Did your brother neglect to pass this along?”

  The servants, eyes averted, drew away.

  Dear sweet, merciful heavens. Wild and reckless as he was, Michael could not have made her part of his bet. Another backward step had her hard against the carriage wheel. “You lie.”

  A wry smile twisted his lip, mocking her doubts. “We will discuss this inside.”

  If she went inside the house of a man with his reputation, she would be ruined. “No.”

  He grasped her by the wrist, a manacle covered in soft leather. A startling impression of power checked only by the force of his will sapped her courage. Masculine power. Exotic. Dangerous. Not only because he was stronger, but because of her body’s reaction, the tightening deep inside. She gasped. Pulled away.

  An arm encircled her shoulders. Strong. So very strong. Tight against his side, he propelled her forward, up the steps and through the massive front door.

  Breathless, her heart pounding, she dragged her feet. A futile attempt to resist his insistent forward motion. His strength mocked her puny bid for freedom. A strength she wanted to lean on. Give in to. Shocked by her weakness, she stumbled. His arms never faltered in their support, as if he did not even notice her weight. He gathered her up as if she weighed no more than a child as he marched her along a sumptuously decorated, marble corridor. Almost carried her through a heavy oak door.

  He kicked the door closed with his heel.

  Red, blood red, filled her vision. Victoria swayed and closed her eyes against the surge of dizziness.

  A careful hand beneath her elbow, maneuvered her across the carpet, until, aware of a chair behind her, she sank into it. Nauseated, she leaned back, eyes closed. If only the room would stop spinning. Glass clinked against glass. The sound of liquid being poured. The weight of a hand on her shoulder, warm, large, a surprisingly comforting touch.

  “Drink.”

  She opened her eyes. The room steadied. Focused. Floor-to-ceiling dark oak shelves crammed with red-covered books. Armchairs covered in dark-red upholstery looked comfortable rather than elegant. Thick, red velvet curtains looped back from the windows to puddle on the floor. She was in a magnificent library, a clearly all-male domain.

  A stab of fear struck at her heart. She should not be here. And yet, against her will, there was gratitude for his strength. Without it she might well have collapsed.

  Fumes from the brandy snifter he held to her lips caught in her throat. She shook her head, knowing only too well the effects of strong drink. She’d seen it often enough on her father and brother. “No, thank you.”

  “Drink before you faint.” His tone was hard. Uncompromising. Another male who hated the sight of female weakness. And swooning was not a good idea.

  She took a sip. Heat slid down her throat, easing tension. Stilling trembles. Liquid strength coursed along her veins. She pushed the glass away. “Enough.”

  He sauntered to the large mahogany writing table, leaning one hip against it in an arrogant stance. His eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” His deep, beautifully modulated voice expressed utter boredom. “I am Simon St. John, Earl of Travis, Miss Yelverton.” He bowed with elegant formality.

  “If you were any kind of gentleman, sir, you would have sent me home rather than bringing me here.” She winced at the sharpness of her tone when she had meant to sound haughty. Confident rather than panicked.

  The remote expression on his darkly handsome face communicated nothing of his thoughts. “I repeat. You have no home.”

  A shiver slid down her spine. Not cold, but hot. As if the sound of his voice warmed her more than the brandy. Yes, he was handsome, but she knew his reputation. If he had brought her here to become the mistress of one of the most well-known libertines in London, he was in for disappointment. Having as good as murdered her brother, he deserved a knife in his back or poison in his food, not
his victim’s sister in his bed.

  She met his icy stare boldly, despite her heart’s racing. Racing in fear, surely, not for any other reason. “Nonsense. I reside in Golden Square.”

  “I understand that you wish yourself anywhere but here, right at this moment.”

  She frowned at the uncaring inflection in his tone. “How observant of you. I will be on my way.”

  Something gleamed in his eyes. Amusement? He was amused? He’d forced Michael into an impossible position by financially ruining him and now he was laughing at her? Heat scorched her cheeks. Embarrassment. Anger. A confusing mix.

  “Your brother’s unfortunate demise is awkward,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken.

  Awkward? How in the world was any of awkward for him? This was his fault. She rose and planted herself in front of him. “My brother is dead because of you.”

  Michael. Gone. The realization hit her like a blow. She wrapped her arms around her waist and turned away lest he see her fear. What was she to do now?

  “I had no hand in your brother’s death.” He spoke softly, as if he felt some regret, but when she turned to see his expression there was nothing there but ice.

  But she did. Guilt squeezed at her heart. She should have realized long ago how bad things were with Michael. Instead, after her father’s death, she’d buried herself in her own interests, her work at the Sunday school serving as a distraction from the reality of her life.

  Anger, hot and wild, a counterpoint to his coldness, roared through her veins. “How can you be so unfeeling?” In blind fury, she lashed out to strike him.

  Catching her hand with ease, he forced it behind her back and pulled her close. His breath brushed her cheek. Her breasts tingled at the unyielding pressure of male muscle. Warm. Living masculine strength.

  He tipped her face up with one finger beneath her chin. Forced her to meet his stark gaze. “Let us be quite clear about this, Miss Yelverton,” he said murmured. “I did not murder your brother. He issued a public challenge I was forced to accept. After he failed to kill me, he killed himself. And now we are all going to pretend it was an accident.”

  The powerful frame—taut, magnificent and so close as to be indecent—smelled lovely. Sandalwood cologne, horse and healthy male. All things that should be alien to a spinster such as she, but lovely nonetheless. The urge to lean against him, to draw from his strength had her swaying towards him.

  Shocked by her wayward thoughts, she stiffened her spine, raked a scornful gaze over his granite countenance. An impression of firm lips set in straight lines, skin stretched tight over cheekbones, an arrogant nose, then her gaze encountered his unfeeling blue eyes.

  Something flickered in their depths. An emotion she could not read. She did not have the experience. But clearly, he was not completely unaffected. Strangely, knowing he felt something eased her pain.

  Her heart stumbled as heat traveled from her chest to rest deep in the pit of her stomach.

  His eyes widened. Stiff and precise, he pressed her firmly into the chair and stepped away.

  She inhaled a deep breath to cool the unwelcome glow of her skin. “You cannot make me stay here.” How weak and pitiful she sounded in the face of his strength. She clenched her hands together in her lap to still their trembles.

  He strode to the window and, hands behind his back, stared out. His shoulders spanned the frame and cast a shadow across the patterned carpet that stretched towards her feet.

  The silence dragged. Victoria slanted a glance at the carved oak door and freedom. Surely he would not stop her from leaving. She rose from her chair.

  “The servants won’t let you out without my permission.” While his tone was flat, the warning was unequivocal.

  A flutter of disquiet and something akin to excitement raced through her. A challenge she would not refuse. She hastened to the door. It resisted her pull.

  As silent as a cat, Travis had crossed the room behind her. One hand on the oak panel above her head held the door against her efforts to open it. The handle slipped from her grasp as he pushed it closed with a loud click. “Don’t put my servants to the embarrassment of having to stop you.”

  She spun around, back against the door, as far from his towering presence as she could get, which was no distance at all. His closeness once more stole the air from her lungs. Dizziness threatened. Resisting the quiver of weakness low in her stomach, she glared up at him. “What do you want with me?” She hated the fear in her voice.

  He stepped back as if he, too, found the closeness unbearable. “Finally, a sensible question, Miss Yelverton. Fate has thrown us together. We must see what we can make of the opportunity.”

  A derisive snort escaped her.

  Dark eyebrows snapped down. “I am not prepared to defend my actions to you, though I recognize I have a peripheral responsibility for your current situation.” His eyes, splintered shards of blue glass, narrowed. “Since your other alternatives appear to be the street or debtors’ prison, I will assume the role of guardian.”

  “Is that what you libertines are calling it now?” She gasped at the words that shot unthinking from her mouth. Insulting him was the last thing she should be doing. She just needed to convince him to let her go.

  The corner of his mouth twitched. Amusement. It was so slight a movement she could have imagined it, but she felt herself relax. A little.

  “Miss Yelverton, my first impression was that you were a doxy and, from the tenor of your conversation and the direction of your mind, you seem bent on confirming that assumption.”

  She stared at him, her mind scrabbling for words to put him in his place. “You— How dare you?”

  An expression of arrogant satisfaction crossed his face. “I dare anything. This is my decision. You will live here as my ward, until you find a husband.” He spoke as if he had announced the purchase of tickets for a play.

  “I don’t want a husband.” She’d had years of service to the men in her family with little or no thanks. Never being asked what she wanted, pinching pennies and making do. Now this man planned to marry her off? “Men are arrogant, stiff-necked, stupid, idiotic creatures with a ridiculous code of honor, who drink, gamble, lie ...” She ceased her litany of low-voiced invective at his appalled look and slightly upraised hand.

  “Are you finished?” he asked.

  Needled by his biting tone, her tongue refused to be silent. “No.” But really what more was there to say?

  He glowered. “I will not have my ward speaking that way, do you understand? Clearly it is time someone taught you how to behave like a lady.”

  Hauling in a temper she rarely unleashed, she lifted her chin in a well-practiced expression of condescension. The sort of expression a lady required to put down ill-mannered bumpkins who accosted one at the market when haggling over the price of vegetables. “You cannot think you are that someone. I am certainly not your ward.”

  Simon threw Victoria a considering look, leaned one shoulder against the door and folded his arms across his chest.

  He saw the pride in the tilt of her chin and the anger edged with sorrow in her unusual, violet-colored eyes. They reminded him of pansies. Soft, velvety and mysterious. The facial features that had looked weak on her brother—curving lips, straight nose and pointed chin—spoke of strength and will on this small woman. Her hair fell around her shoulders in such magnificent abundance he had the urge to run his fingers through it.

  In daylight, up close, her rare beauty struck him like summer lightning, shockingly unexpected. A petite woman whose character made her appear larger than life.

  Astonishingly, his body had responded instantly to the feel of her slight curves pressed against him. He, who prided himself on his iron control where women were concerned, wanted her fire and passion in his bed. Badly.

  Bloody hell. His gut twisted. In his world, women fell into two categories. His usual fare, the demi-monde, who sold their favors for jewels and money without scruple or deceit. Or the kind
who spoke of love and devotion and welcomed wicked rakes like him into their beds when their husbands were absent. The lying, cheating ladies of the ton.

  He preferred the first kind. This young lady definitely belonged to the second group— or she would, at some time in the not-too-distant future. He cursed himself for a fool for offering his aid.

  The attraction he’d felt the moment he saw her had led him astray. Made him forget who and what he was and why a woman like her could never have a place in his life.

  He cast a glance heavenwards at his folly. She had seen her brother die, and lost her home.... And that cur Ogden had been circling like a vulture.... Damn it all. What else should Simon have done? Against every instinct of self-preservation, he was committed.

  He gentled his tone. “Go. Freshen up. Mrs. Pearce, my housekeeper, will show you to your room. I’ll send someone to Golden Square to fetch your belongings and have my man make the arrangements for your brother’s funeral.”

  Tears glossed her wide-eyed gaze. She dipped her head to hide her anguish. As though she did not trust him enough to let him see her sorrow when she had made so free with her anger.

  A strange feeling stirred in his chest. It held him frozen, shocked, disturbed to his very core. Hurt?

  Nonsense. No matter how she felt about him, she could not hide from the truth. Her brother was dead and she was Simon’s to do with as he saw fit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Alone in a second-floor bedchamber decorated in varying shades of rose, Victoria’s mind whirled in a confusion of dreadful images, words and questions. She picked up the silver-backed hairbrush from the gleaming surface of the inlaid dressing table and attacked her tangled hair with vigor, seeking some semblance of normality in the everyday task.

  Michael. Dead. It was so hard to believe despite witnessing.... Blinded by pain the brush fell from her lax hand. She sank into the nearest chair. How could this have happened? What on earth was she going to do?

  Since the moment of her arrival, Travis had goaded and threatened, almost as if he wanted to make her angry. As for marrying before the season was out... That she would not do. Naturally, a man would assume marriage presented the only option. At least he hadn’t offered what she had at first feared was his intention. A small comfort. And, in an odd way, vaguely disappointing. A sense that he found her lacking. Unattractive.