Deeper in Sin by Sharon Page Page A

unafraid of a child.
    But a child could move with lightning speed. He’d run, desperate to get out. But every door had been locked, the windows nailed shut. Sheer terror had led him to grab a weapon to defend himself.
    He had hidden, armed with a fireplace poker, standing on a dresser so he could hit the man’s head.
    He’d intended to knock the man out. But he was so scared the monster would wake up, he’d kept hitting and hitting....
    After he’d been rescued, he’d been . . . different. He had never felt right afterward. He saw other boys growing up, and he envied the fact they had no idea what vile monsters existed in the world.
    For a long time, he had been the wildest rake in London, and he’d managed to bury the past. Then he had been taken prisoner, and that had unleashed the memories of his kidnapping—the ones he had buried—
    Cary downed his brandy.
    What in hell was he going to do?
    His mother wanted him to marry—she claimed it would kill her if he didn’t.
    Sophie wanted to heal him.
    Should he keep trying with Sophie? Should he make her his mistress and see if he could actually get over this?
    But Sophie was naïvely in love with him. What about when he had to let her go so he could get married? He wasn’t the kind of man who could marry and keep a mistress.
    She would find another man. Then another. After a while, she would be older and jaded and cynical.
    He thought of Angelique and the other hardened, tough Cyprians. He didn’t want to see Sophie lose her sweet, innocent optimism.
    No, he had to send her home.
    Cary got up to pour more brandy.
    In the morning, no doubt he was going to have an argument with her about that.
    What he didn’t expect was the arrival of the magistrate, along with Saxonby, at seven o’clock in the morning—because he was suspected of murder.

7
    I had not seen my viscount for many, many months. All other gentlemen bored me! I soon gave up any plans to remain with the Duke of Carlyle. For a start, there was already a Duchess of Carlyle. What dreary nights we shared. The duke only wished to speak of cards and horses and hounds.
    He condemned me for any desire to indulge in real pleasure—a ball, a masquerade, the theater, condemning all such activities as foppish and uninteresting. “If I wished to be bored at a tedious ball, I could be doing so tonight—with my wife,” said he.
    He was the sort of man who was far too dense to be put off by an insult, so I replied, with acerbity, “Perhaps you should reveal qualities that I can find interesting.”
    â€œYou are a female. Your lack of interest is the result of a naturally smaller intelligence.”
    Finally, I could bear it no more. The Cyprians of London were holding a magnificent masquerade. What a coup to appear with the duke on my arm—even an aging bore would lend me prestige as long as he were a duke. But we were not to go. And I was forbidden from attending without him.
    â€œWell,” said I, “I shall not attend the party, but my costume will not go to waste.”
    My masquerade costume consisted of a mask and seven gossamer thin veils. I wore nothing beneath them. I took my signature curricle that was the pink of a perfect rose. Excitement bubbled in my blood.
    St. James’s Street was my target. When I reached its wide expanses, I lifted my whip and drove my team of four into a wild gallop. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw gentlemen rushing out of their clubs to watch me.
    Then, as I gave the whip another glorious crack in the air, one of my veils broke free. It fluttered in the wind that my horses had whipped up, then it flew away, leaving my right breast completely bare.
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    â€”From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
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    Silken sheets whispered over her skin. She was deliciously warm . Warmer than she’d been in bed for five years.
    Sophie sat up in the Duke of