An Occasion To Sin

Chapter One

Lady Victoria Sloane, Countess of Doncaster, basked in the freedom afforded by her costume at the annual Weatherby Masque. By all accounts, Lord and Lady Weatherby had bats in their collective belfries, yet they continued to host the annual fête in spite of its reputation for being cursed.

Truly it was a night to relish, and Victoria could barely keep the smile from her lips. She could be anyone she wanted and she’d chosen to be a trollop, wearing such a ridiculous costume only because the theme of this year’s ball, The Dens of London, was so apropos to her mood. Where did Lady Weatherby come up with such ideas?

Victoria had never heard the origins of the mysterious curse. Happenstance, nothing more. Curses existed in the absence of intelligence. So did malevolence. But one could not deny the odd, the criminal and the absolute astounding things that had happened year after year and were attributed to shenanigans that had started during the ball.

But she would not think of that. Nothing was going to ruin the night of pretend naughtiness awaiting her. No restrictions, no recriminations, no being practical to the point of boring. It was going to be wonderful to be herself while hiding in the guise of a Vauxhall moll.

She couldn’t help but smile as she danced and then danced again and then found time to wander about the room thinking about the silly legend surrounding the ball, all the while drinking too much ratafia.

Incidents such as Lord Marks’ broken leg, acquired after he had attempted to mount his horse, while completely foxed and angered over his losses at the gaming table were understandable and made for excellent gossip over tea the next day.

Or that Roland DeGracy, Lord Warburton, had died on his Ali Baba scimitar last year during the Arabian Nights-themed masque held the ton enthralled for several weeks afterward. Perhaps drunkenness played a part in his death too. Everyone seemed to conveniently overlook that likelihood.

She brushed by a wench with a daringly low décolletage. The scoundrel standing next to her was about to spill his drink as he leaned over her for a better view. It was best to keep a lighthearted, nonchalant attitude regarding the ball’s reputation—to think on it too deeply would only dishearten her and she wanted nothing to interrupt tonight’s pleasure.

There was no denying the ball had a certain peculiarity, which caused hordes to appear every year in spite of it. Victoria wrinkled her nose at the absurd conclusions people made.

Tonight might be no different, however. Or was she imagining the tense, almost electrifying element in the room? As if at any moment lightning could strike. Combust the room into an inferno of impropriety.

And if a curse is what it took for a night of unparalleled freedom, then who was she to question the existence of lightning and whether it struck the same place twice.

She shivered at her wandering thoughts, touched her hand to the fake beauty mark at the corner of her lower lip, then fiddled with her mask to make sure she was well disguised and proceeded toward the far side of the ballroom where the doors led to a private room for ladies. Victoria’s stocking ties seemed to have loosened and threatened to give way during the last dance, a rigorous Roger de Coverley, with, she believed, the Earl of Northrop.

His black cape had swirled around them during the dance and his domino was securely in place but there was no denying the ownership of the gap-toothed and lecherous smile he bestowed upon her with each passing turn.

Lady Doncaster’s husband, nearly thirty years her senior, had refused to participate in the masque and, since their arrival, was comfortably seated at a gaming table in a private room off the library. She had sent him on ahead of her and Charlene to shield their identities from the curious crowd.

She was Doncaster’s second wife and he hadn’t seen the need to indulge her in any way. His motivation involved boasting that he had a beautiful young wife on his arm. That she was a stepmother to four daughters was also particularly awkward since the oldest was only a year younger than Victoria.

She and Henry never danced together.

They never did much of anything other than sit at the dinner table each evening while they ate a five-course meal in silence. He had made it plain that she was his property, that she was to dress befittingly and that she was to keep a civil tongue in her head at all times. No excessive drink, no lewd dresses, no untoward gossip. He did not like her to have thoughts, she noticed. During the course of their two-year marriage she had learned that stern lesson most thoroughly.

Except tonight.

He had paid no attention to the daring gown beneath her light pelisse or to the odiferous perfume she’d drenched herself in.

Perhaps Lady Weatherby played right into the myth of the curse by selecting the most outrageous themes possible for her masque. It was certainly an opportunity for lewd and scandalous behavior whether or not one believed.

Victoria caught sight of her charge, Charlene, the eldest stepdaughter, in the middle of the floor, dancing with a properly dressed nob with a ridiculously high beaver hat and striped clothing. Victoria thought she had seen a similarly dressed man at Vauxhall recently—hand in hand with his molls. His black mask and hat did not cover his astonishingly red hair. Wilbert Montfort. Second son.

Henry’s daughters were no less frightened of their father than Victoria was. Charlene had had her come out last year. Victoria was expected to keep a close eye out for any improprieties and was to inquire dutifully into the status of any young man who showed an interest in Charlene. Red hair did not interest Charlene. In truth, Victoria did not care for it either.

She preferred those dark dangerous men who stole in unawares and captivated silly women. Men who could seduce a woman by their gaze. Oh and the ton was full of them, but none would dare impose upon the wife of Doncaster. Such indiscretions would scandalize the world, if they but knew. Victoria giggled again. Oh, it was so wonderful to dream. To be free.

Victoria wished, secretly and a little ashamedly, that a young man would show some interest in her. Chaperoning a girl only one year younger still made Victoria feel old. Was twenty too old?

Her standing with Henry might have improved had she been able to deliver a son. Victoria considered it a mixed blessing. Her husband visited her bedroom only once a month, more than enough for her but, she suspected, not enough to find her when she was most fertile. A sad circumstance if she were pining for a child. A blessing since she was not pining for her husband.

She bit at her lip thinking of Henry. No, she did not pine. For him or for his visits to her bed. Her marriage was lonely, made lonelier by the cold, dispassionate way he used her body. Of all the things she had imagined about joining her husband in the bonds of sexual congress, she had never imagined the utter emptiness she would feel during and after he used her.

Inside the sitting room, several ladies tittered about the outré customs and the utter impropriety of some women, when in fact they were dressed no less scandalously. Victoria had taken advantage of her husband’s accepting indolence, or more likely his apathetic disregard, for the one evening of the year when he seemed not to mind a little less convention. Charlene was too frightened to dress with much impropriety, even on an occasion when license was given.

Victoria did not participate in the lively discussion, instead secreted herself in a corner and lifted her leg, propping her foot against a cushioned settee.

Do you need assistance, your ladyship? a young servant girl asked, looking proper and tidy in her black-and-white uniform.

Victoria sneezed and then sneezed again. You’ve been around flowers, haven’t you? I can always tell. The nasally resonance of her voice made her sound ill when in fact she was deliriously happy.

Yes, ma’am. Lady Weatherby had me bring in fresh-cut flowers for the room just a moment ago. She whispered, leaning closer, One of the footmen forgot to put water in the vase. She pointed to a broad sideboard with a large overheard mirror. The sumptuous bouquet was centered and overflowing with choice spring blooms, all of them exacerbating her spring fever, what the doctors where calling hay fever now, though she did not understand why since she was never around hay.

Your tie? she asked politely.

Please. And tight. My own maid thinks she will cut off my circulation if it is too restricting.

The servant busied herself while Victoria held her skirts and glanced about the room. Some women she recognized. So far no one had approached her with a familiarity, which was precisely the point of her disguised outfit.

Could she pass for a moll? The feathers in her white wig swept high and then rounded down to brush against her shoulders and back. Her mask covered her face to below her nose. The beauty patch stayed in place. The red glossy rouge on her lips was scandalous indeed. She had waited until her arrival to dab it on her lips. Henry’s indulgence went only so far.

She’d even worn a black pelisse to cover her bare skin until her husband had taken his leave. She might be noticed but she would not be known. Unless perhaps Lady Weatherby had paid attention when she and Charlene came in, trailing behind Henry.

But the dress, if one could call it that, was most startling. She looked like a bee with her yellow-and-black-striped skirting, black bodice with yellow piping, and netting. Her breasts had never seen so much candlelight before and she found she enjoyed the tantalizing display.

She would admit it to no one, but it made her feel alive. And a bit naughty. She shivered at the delicious indulgence, anxious to return to the ballroom and determined to luxuriate in every moment.

Men, several men, had glanced at her with appreciation, something achingly missing in her current situation. Henry would call it disrespect.

There you are, the housemaid said with a final tug. Would you like me to check the other tie?

Yes. Better to be safe, Victoria said, lifting her opposite leg.

The black stockings were new. Her shoes were the same dancing shoes she wore to every gathering this season. The pretty black buckle was most proper but the stockings were feminine and lacy, not the serviceable ones she normally wore. In short, she was not herself.

Supper will start at one o’clock, ma’am, the maid said before she executed a quick curtsey and then was lost in the room assisting others.

Victoria returned to the ballroom to find the music had stopped for a moment as Lady Weatherby talked to the conductor of the seven-piece orchestra. Three spectacular chandeliers adorned the room. Leafy green plants lined the walls and crystal vases with long-stemmed roses and white lilies sat on each of the square candle tables at each of the columns. She wished to bury her nose in the fragrant flowers and drink in the scent, much like she was drinking in the ambiance and flavor of the night. Except her nose was not working properly. She sniffed, trying to catch a whiff of the fragrant blossoms.

Victoria could not have been happier.

A servant walked by with a silver tray at his shoulder, containing several flutes of bubbly liquid. She attempted to stop him but her slight command went unheard in the cacophony of conversation.

A rogue of some height grabbed two glasses and took a few steps toward her.

His lips pressed near her ear as he started the conversation.

Your drink? His voice was deep and, she thought, disguised.

Oh, thank you. A sneeze nearly erupted but she placed a finger under her nose and the urge disappeared.

She smiled as she accepted the crystal glass, her fingers grazing against his. Neither of them wore gloves.

I believe I have seen you at Vauxhall on any number of occasions, he said. Yes, he was attempting an accent such as one would hear in the Stews, but he wasn’t quite successful, which made her smile a bit.

Victoria felt the teasing thrust of his words accompanied by a rakish smile below his domino. He too, had an absurd costume, that of a varlet—one used to being around such women who frequented hells and dens. He wore a bright red kerchief tied at his throat—not a gentlemanly cravat exactly, but something more casual—and daring, as it hung low in the opening of his shirt.

And he was young. Or rather, much younger than her husband. He wore a goatee of a few days’ growth, accentuating his roguish appeal. Victoria almost asked who he was, but on a whim, decided she did not care. Knowing him might diminish her pleasure in the moment.

Perhaps, she said, you’ve mistaken me for someone else.

No, I would recognize you anywhere.

His gaze lingered on her breasts. Embarrassment heated her cheeks at his forwardness, which on any other occasion would be an affront worthy of calling out, but tonight was not only acceptable, it was encouraged.

She searched for a witty rejoinder, not wanting the sparring to end just yet. The masked gentleman, for he was that, had a certain masculine appeal with his broad shoulders and dark hair. The musicians had started to play again and the crowds were parting to allow those partnering to move to the circular dancing area.

I have not noticed you dancing. Do you have a partner for this waltz?

No. Oh, no. Let it be you, she thought.

Then allow me. He took their glasses and set them aside.

When he turned away for a moment, she noticed the tight expanse of his jacket across his shoulders.

He swept her into his arms. Dizzying pleasure swam through her senses. The first turn came quickly and she clenched his shoulder, coming into closer contact with his body.

Victoria enjoyed the strength of his arm and the sure confidence of his hand as he set it to her waist. Setting her hand on his hard shoulder and chest gave her a little thrill of the illicit, the forbidden.

Dancing with a stranger while half-dressed wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but strangely it was the right thing on this night. It was the embodiment of release, a dam bursting, a slave freed.

Her next reaction was that of a doubtful wife. What if Henry noticed her?

Do I know you? he asked on the second turn. You have a light step.

He had been assessing her—another glance at her breasts and then her mouth. His gaze then focused on the slits of her mask. Her eyes were dark. He would not see anything of note.

She did not want to give up the magic of the unknown. Not yet. Not when the welcome admiration caused heat to build from her chest to her face and made her heart race a bit too fast, even if it was a waltz.

It is as you say. Vauxhall perhaps, she said. Teasing and flirting were such interesting titillations. A warm glow of pleasure surrounded her as if the dreamy admiration of another man were something she aspired to attain. As if it had been her goal and she’d accomplished it with lighthearted ease.

And you enjoy your profession? he asked.

Victoria almost stumbled. A daring question. Enjoy it? I must do it to feed my four starving children. Lud, had she just said that? Yes, she had and she nearly burst into giggles.

He laughed low and she saw a glimpse of his white teeth again. Such a tragedy a woman such as yourself can’t keep them well-fed.

Her brows pulled together as she tried to comprehend his meaning. The long second of thought produced an answer and her mouth formed an Oh of understanding. I probably should try harder; they are precious dears.

And would I be able to contribute to the fund supporting your starving children? I am a philanthropist by nature and am always looking for a worthy cause.

Magic had turned into something altogether more like seduction. The squeeze of his hand and the low caress across her bottom were all the proof she needed that she hadn’t misunderstood his proposal. Teasing and flirting had consequences.

When she didn’t respond, he asked, "Have you other clients who might object to my escorting you from the room?"

She was fast learning to read the subtle nuance of his statements. Was she married? Was there a man who would object to her secret assignation?

Clients, no, she said with slow deliberation. An affair? A seduction? Victoria had never considered such a thing, but the Earl of Doncaster wasn’t an easy man to cross. Who would offer to seduce Henry Sloane’s wife?

The short answer was no one. Not unless they were truly unaware she was his wife.

Does something else trouble you? he asked. I assure you, I can provide ample compensation for your worth. Your starving children won’t go hungry.

Was the rapid beating of her heart a mere symptom of disloyalty? Or a greater excitement? The ball, her scandalous dress—the mysterious and desirable man before her?

So why hadn’t she determinedly said no? The idea should have been dismissed with an arrogant wave of her hand and a haughty lift of her brow.

The skin at his neck was tanned but not overly so, as if he might spend time out of doors. His hands were roughened but not unpleasantly. His cologne, what she could smell, was light, fresh and not overbearing. Underneath the costume and faux accent, he was a gentleman in language and manner but he was not a dandy. His behavior was that of a cautious rake, subtly testing her will and resistance to determine if she had either. Was he playing a part too?

With little willful intent, just a natural curiosity to know who this man was, she stroked her finger over the skin of his neck. Contemplation of his question was a surprise. What was she worth? And was she really considering such a shocking—outrageous—proposal?

I know a private place, he said, assuming her lack of response was acquiescence. Maybe it was.

Was sin only about circumstance, she wondered? Here, at this ball, dancing with a stranger, he presented an unthinkable opportunity. What a strange word to describe something so inherently wrong. And something so foolishly dangerous.

An occasion to sin, that’s what this was.

An occasion to do something delightfully wicked, scandalous in magnitude and unforgivable if discovered.

The curse wasn’t about a haunted hall, an unlucky streak or a magic spell. It was about choices.

* * * * *

Victoria let him guide her away to a part of the house that must be reserved for such illicit assignations. The lavish hallways gave way to a Spartan staircase that led to another floor and away from the safety and censure of the crowd.

For the first time, she acknowledged there was some part of her that wished for such seduction and passion. The romance of the moment and the intrigue of being whisked from the ballroom only heightened the mystery of the unknown man about to take and possess her, for there could be no conclusion but one.

Her heart stopped beating in her chest only to take up residence with a pounding low in her belly and between her legs. With each step upward, she trembled with anxiety and need.

It’s not far, he whispered. No one will know. Was he encouraging her? Soothing her? Fearful she would turn back?

Yes, it was a possibility. A guest lurking around the next corner to expose her and reveal her for the unfaithful, immoral wife of Henry Sloane. She shuddered at the very real threat of public disclosure and ton censure.

But none of that would compare to disobeying Henry’s will.

Was this some rebellion against his nature, against his treatment of her? Was she finally breaking one of her wedding vows when he had broken all of his?

At the last step, she came up short. He pulled her against his chest, his mouth meeting hers in a hurried kiss that encompassed her lips with the most delicious warm, wet heat. Soft like butter and sweet like honey. She gasped, pliant and willing as he opened his over hers and parted her lips with his tongue, delving into the depths of her mouth. His tongue touched and moved over hers.

The sound of gasping desperation was hers. She fisted her hands against the soft cloth of his jacket, unwilling to let go and determined that he not stop until she drew her last breath of air.

A loud thud sounded as her back hit the wall and a table beside them shook.

When his hands cupped her breasts, Victoria surrendered her will to his. It was delicious and fueled her need—the slow caress as his palms pressed and kneaded, the teasing trace of his fingers along her skin and the sudden cooling rush as he plucked her breasts from the low décolletage and exposed them in the darkened corridors of the mansion.

She jerked away from his mouth, leaning her head against the wall. Breathing was near impossible and she gulped in great heaping lungfuls of air but it did not slow the racing of her heart or the quivering shock of arousal that passed through her limbs, her nerves, her being.

His lips teased a path along her neck and down her exposed chest. His mouth, the hot delicious tongue, stroked along the swell of her breasts and then he clasped a nipple between his lips.

Victoria’s knees wobbled. Her womb ached. Between her legs, the fierce throbbing turned to demanding need.

He laved each breast in turn. The sucking grew painful as he drew a nipple out into a long, obscene bud that was hard and thoroughly aroused. His fingers gripped the nipple as his mouth worked the other breast. He pinched, tightening, drawing out the wicked pleasure until she could no longer contain her body’s response.

The sharp need coiled into blinding pleasure. Her lower spine ached, between her legs she clenched, holding on to the rushing, climbing excitement until