Sinful (Hot Regency Romance Novella) by Sharon Page Page A

She has learned how to pleasure a man, yet
when this sinfully handsome duke insists that intimate delights
must be a two-way street, Anne cannot deny his sensual promise.
     

Chapter One
     
    August 1815
     
    The first time she’d tried to sell her body
outside the Drury Lane theatre, Anne Beddington approached a
handsome black-haired gentleman, without knowing whom he truly
was.
    He had been gentle and kind. And
young—perhaps only a few years her senior. Twenty-one to her
seventeen, she guessed. He smiled patiently at her even as he
refused her offer. Somehow he’d known at once that she was a
virgin, that she had never prostituted herself before. He pressed a
few coins into her shaking hands, then he tipped up her chin to
look at her.
    She’d never gazed directly into a gentleman’s
eyes. He had violet irises—a color so unearthly it gave him a fey
air—and thick black lashes. One look and she was bewitched.
    “Angel, this is not a thing you want to do,”
he’d said grimly. “You are an innocent and pretty despite all that
grime. Take the money and use it to go home to your family.”
    He assumed she’d left her country family and
run away to London, or she had come to Town to find work, as so
many girls had to do. Nothing could have been further from the
truth for her.
    She had clutched the coins in her palm—two
gold sovereigns—embarrassed to be given his charity when she’d been
quite prepared to earn her money, but she had swallowed her pride,
lifted the hems of her threadbare skirts, and scurried back to her
mother’s bedside.
    The money had not lasted long. Her mother had
needed so much laudanum for her pain. Eventually Anne had been
forced to do what the gentleman had warned her not to.
    Now, five years later, she was about to do
the very thing she had failed to do that first night outside the
theatre. She was going to convince the Duke of March to bed
her.
    This time she was not in London. And this
time the duke was her captive quarry. She stood in his study in his
hunting box—a manor house in Leicestershire—with her hand still on
the door handle. He was sprawled out in front of her on the carpet,
more than six feet of brawny, tanned, naked male. His long
legs were splayed apart, his bare buttocks relaxed. His black hair
fell in a mess of waves to his shoulders. An empty brandy decanter
lay by his outstretched hand.
    He appeared to be dead to the world.
    Anne’s heart tripped in her chest. Was he only unconscious? With his chest squashed against the rug, and
his mouth turned away from her, she couldn’t tell if he was
breathing.
    If he had polished off an entire decanter of
brandy, could he have drunk himself to death? She didn’t know. In
the slums she’d seen men drink quite a bit, but could a man stomach
that much?
    She glanced to the study door. For privacy,
she had closed it behind her. Should she summon the odd, terrifying
butler who had met her at the door? The stooped man had a hump on
his back, tufts of yellow-gray hair at his ears, and a large gap
where his front teeth should have been. He’d tried to shoo her
away. She had been firm, though he’d cackled in the most revolting
way when she informed him she was a gift from the Earl of Ashton
and must see the duke at once.
    She really did not wish to deal with the
butler again.
    Lifting her hems, Anne hurried to the naked
duke and crouched beside him. Her body cast a shadow over his face,
but she could see scars on his cheeks above the haze of thick black
stubble. His lips were full and soft. They appeared completely
motionless.
    Her throat dried. She bent close and felt his
breath whisper over her cheek. Then he gave a low, rasping snore,
and Anne choked on a relieved giggle.
    Should she shake him awake? She had been a
whore for so long it meant nothing to touch a masculine body, but
she didn’t know quite what to do with an unconscious duke who had
no idea she’d invaded his home.
    Would summoning help end with her tossed