Sin. Sharon Page

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      CHAPTER THREE

      Venetia darted along the path that wound through Hyde Park. In the afternoon, the ton would flock here. A stroll in the park was de rigueur in the Season for the haute volée. But in the morning, gentlemen rode the paths. Handsome, sleekly muscled gentlemen on sleekly muscled mounts.

      Even on this gloomy day, the panting of lathered horses filled the air. Bold, deep-voiced shouts rose from the men racing on the track—calls of victory, curses of defeat.

      A massive black horse thundered up the Row, black mane flying, hooves throwing up sand. Horse and rider charged as one, streaking up the track toward her. Exultant power showed in the rider’s aristocratic face.

      She tipped her hood back enough to view him.

      It was the Earl of Trent and he rode like a god. Astride that giant coal-black gelding, he rose up, his powerful thighs clamping the horse’s body. Beneath his hat, his raven hair streamed back. Pure ecstasy gleamed in his eyes. Sweat shone on his high cheekbones.

      She was mesmerized.

      At the end of the track, he reined in and turned the giant beast with a twitch of his thighs. He frowned as he saw her. She began to walk toward him, to make it clear he was her intent.

      He urged the horse into a trot and reached her side. She had to hold her hood in place as she looked up at him. On that enormous horse, he towered over her.

      “How did you get here?”

      His cool voice didn’t hold promise. For the last day—even knowing she was being blackmailed—she’d thought of him. Of that kiss.

      “A hackney. It’s waiting for me. I came to find you—your butler admitted you were here.”

      “If this is about your career—” he broke off. Smiled. “Don’t look so devastated, my dear. I would like to offer you a commission.”

      Confused, Venetia asked softly, “For a book of erotica?” Drawing naughty pictures specifically for him? Her every nerve ignited at the thought.

      Heat flared in his eyes but he shook his head. “No, for a portrait. A miniature. Of my nephew. He is but two weeks old, and his mother insists he changes with every moment. I wish a keepsake of him as he is now.”

      There was no mistaking the tenderness in his voice, the wistful look in his eyes. “You wish me to paint you a portrait of your nephew?”

      He was giving her a reason to stay in London. A reason to paint. A career. “But what of your sister’s family? Do they know who I am? The ton do not accept female artists.”

      “I believe my sister, Lady Ravenwood, would be willing to give you the opportunity. She is very strident about rescuing women. As you said, if your father gambles again, what will you do?”

      Strangely, she was almost happy her father would recover and be able to gamble again. But she was so astonished by the earl’s offer. How could his sister’s family accept her in their home and let her be in the presence of their child, knowing she painted scandalous art?

      “Why would you—would they—do this for me knowing what I’ve done?”

      “Lady Ravenwood believes you are an innocent woman forced to do what you must to survive.”

      In that mad moment, she loved him. It was the kindest thing anyone had done. Noble, wonderful. She couldn’t imagine why he had even spared her another thought. Face aflame, she snapped herself to rights.

      “Why would you do this for me?” What did she want him to say? That the kiss had entranced him as much as it had her? That she’d captured his fancy?

      “Do you accept?” was all he said.

      He was giving her everything she’d dreamed of—freedom, independence, her art, the excitement of London—but she couldn’t accept. Not until she could stop Mrs. Harcourt’s blackmail.

      “Well?” he prompted. Her silence had offended.

      She swallowed hard. She thought she’d known despair when Rodesson lost everything. But that had been nothing compared to having this presented to her when she must refuse it. “I came here, my lord, to ask you to take me to an orgy.”

      The horse shied. She leaped back, almost tripping over her cloak. The beast reared, hooves flailing. Would it throw him? The earl pulled hard on the reins, forcing the horse down. The earth shook beneath her as the huge hooves pounded into the ground. He’d brought the horse down away from her, saving her life. He stroked the horse’s gleaming black neck, steadying the beast with soothing words and sheer dominant will.

      With fluid elegance, he dismounted, swinging his long, powerful leg over the horse’s rump. She watched the beautiful play of his muscles beneath his breeches, the bulge of his calves in his polished boots. In a heartbeat, he was at her side, reins in hand.

      Other men watched them with avid curiosity but none approached. Who did they think she was? His lover? The thought made her tremble.

      Filled with concern, his turquoise eyes assessed her. “Are you hurt?”

      She shook her head.

      A sensual smile touched his mouth. “I’d give you another kiss to make certain, my dear, but this is not the place.”

      Her heart thundered like the horses.

      “Now the truth, my dear. Why have you searched me out to invite me to an orgy? I can assure you I have no intention of taking you, but you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

      “I must go because you were correct. Someone else knows about me. I’m being blackmailed.”

      “By whom?”

      “A Mrs. Harcourt,” she whispered, “I must speak to her. Stop her. She is going to a scandalous orgy at Lord Chartrand’s. You are the only gentleman I know—”

      “We cannot speak of this here,” he interrupted. “You must come to my home—you know where I live, of course.”

      “So what does this Mrs. Harcourt want from you?” Lord Trent asked as he poured brandy into his glass.

      Venetia cradled her enormous, delicate brandy balloon between her palms. Her mother had only taken spirits before noon when she mourned her broken heart—in the parlor, with the drapes closed. As Venetia nervously caressed the smooth glass, she realized, with shock, that the Earl of Trent was the only person she could confide her problems to.

      At least she’d taken care to hide her face and hair as she’d walked back here. There had been only gentlemen about, no one had spared her a glance.

      She took a sip of her drink. The spirit slid down her throat, igniting fire.

      “Money,” she said. “Lydia Harcourt is a courtesan. My father was so foolish! She discovered that his hands are crippled and that he can’t paint. She learned about me. I don’t know if he told her everything or if she guessed, but she wants one thousand pounds to keep silent. I haven’t СКАЧАТЬ