Sinner's Heart The Hellraisers - 3 by Zoe Archer
Chapter 1
London, 1763There was no pleasure in sinning when one sinned alone.
Not so long ago, Abraham Stirling, Lord Rothwell hadnt been alone. When Bram would plunge into the night and its pleasures, there had been others beside him to share the wickedness. The five of them had done such acts as to make the whole of London their stage and audience, the city held rapt by scandal of the Hellraisers making.
It was down to him, now. Whilst his friends had strayed, he held tight to the wild paths. Sin and immorality and indulgence at any cost. His one reliable means of forgetting.
Bram was alone tonight, but soon he wouldnt be.
Laughing, Lady Girard swayed down the corridor, away from the crowded ballroom. She did not look back, but his footfalls upon the polished floor deliberately announced his pursuit. Bram made no secret of his hunt. Breaking her studied insouciance, she cast him a deliberate glance over her shoulder as she slipped into one of the small, empty chambers, leaving the door open.
Behind him, sharp laughter rang out, the sounds of men and women determined to enjoy themselves no matter the price. Desperation edged their gaiety, as though by dancing, drinking, and flirting, they might beat back the specter of madness that haunted the city.
He wouldnt think of that. He would think of nothing but his own pleasure. Thus his aggressive pursuit this evening of Lady Girard, as her husband gambled away a fortune in the card room.
Whit never cared for the games of chance at assemblies. He had said they never played deep enough for his liking, the stakes far too low. More than a few nights with the Hellraisers had been spent in gaming hells, immersed in risk, winning and losing staggering sums of money. Whit had his strategies, even before hed been able to manipulate the odds. Hed tried to instruct Bram, but Bram hadnt the patience for calculation and cunning. Not at cards and dice.
Loss carved a hollow within his chest. No, he wouldnt think of Whit, either. Nor Leo nor Edmund. Not even John.
This night is mine. Lady Girard will be mine.
He stepped into the small chamber and closed the door behind him. The sounds of forced gaiety muted. The only noise within this sitting room was the ticking of a gilt clock on a mantel, and Lady Girards heeled slippers tapping on the floor as she walked backward, watching him with a sly gaze.
Light from a single candelabra turned her yellow, low-necked gown lustrous and painted the tops of her breasts gold. She was beautiful, her powdered hair as pale as ivory, her lips bearing traces of artful paint. A glittering trinket of a woman.
Just enough sparkle to distract him for a few blessed moments.
That daring gown flatters you, Lady Girard.
She leaned back against a small table, her hands resting on its edge. The position thrust up her chest so that the neckline of the gown dipped even lower, almost fully exposing her breasts.
You flatter me, Lord Rothwell.
Flattery is a means of deception, and I do not deceive. He stalked closer, feeling the hum of anticipation through his body, until he stood over her.
She chuckled. I know all about you. She trailed a finger up the length of his chest, toying with the sparkling jet buttons of his waistcoat, and lingering in the spaces between the buttons. A hum of appreciation curled from her lips.
Lust, and only lust between them. So simple. The call of one body to another. Animal and basic, for all their sophisticated voices and urbane glances. The lush realm of the senses.
He stepped closer, the froth of her skirts about his legs.
You claim to know all about me. He ran one finger over the curve of Lady Girards collarbone, and her eyes drifted closed. Yet here you are.
Im told that too much chocolate is detrimental to my health, and yet I crave its taste. She looked pleased by her wit, and hed no doubt she would repeat the phrase again to another lover.
We have circled one another for long enough.
And here I was, despairing that I might ever draw your notice. She gazed up at him through the fan of her lashes, a coquettes practiced look. God knew that Bram had seen an abundance of that same calculated flirtation, and done his own share.
You have it now.
She tossed her head. The sapphires at her ears danced. Another deliberate move. What if I desire more than your notice?
He was in no mood to indulge her need for flattery. Too much burned through himloss, anger, despair. There was only one way he knew to gain solace. It might be temporary, but any relief was better than none.
Do you want me to swive you, or not?
Her eyes widened at his directness. Well, yes, but
Turn around and put your hands on the table.
For a moment, she just stared at him, as though shocked by his command. He stared back, and reached into himself, drawing upon the power within him. It was a pair of velvet shackles he might fasten wherever he desired. A single suggestion, and he felt her will bend, supine, to his.