Sin. Sharon Page

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ