Temptation & Twilight. Charlotte Featherstone

the kilt, he showed her what she wanted to see. Grasping himself, he let the lady admire it.

      “That part of you is magnificently made, Sinclair, even in this state.”

      Quirking his lips, he stroked himself once, giving the lady what she wanted, so that later, she would give him what he wanted—which differed vastly from what she desired. He was bedding her only to get information about a secret club she frequented—the House of Orpheus. Orpheus was an enemy of the Brethren Guardians, and had to be destroyed. Iain was playing the part of a Casanova to gain what he and the other two guardians—the Earl of Black and the Duke of Sussex—needed.

      Casanova, he mused mockingly as he let his kilt fall back into place. No, he did not feel like the legendary Italian lover, but rather like a male whore—as filthy and corrupt as an East End flash boy.

      When he had concocted this plan, his friend the duke had told him that nothing good would happen out of it, but he had laughed, mocking him for the prig that Sussex was. Iain believed his soul was already gone, believed himself impervious to any more pain. But the truth was, he was not. He was drowning in sin, and any time now, he believed he’d wake up one morning only to look in the mirror and find all the sins he had committed marring his face. It would be a horrific sight, but a true reflection of what resided in his soul.

      “Have you time for another round? Sex always invigorates men.”

      “You think me full of sap, then?” he teased, when he did not feel the least bit light and cajoling. “You are a biter, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

      Sutherland did laugh then, smothering the outburst quickly.

      Her eyes narrowed. “I hope that isn’t derogatory, my lord. I would hate to have to instruct my dear husband to shoot you dead.”

      As if Larabie, that fat, pompous bastard, could even try. “My dear, a biter is a term used to describe the most lascivious and wanton of wenches, which I am quite certain you will agree you are.”

      “Oh.” She eyed him with a glittering glance that told him she was pretending not to know the true meaning of the word. How he loathed the game of playing innocent when she was so far from it. “Tell me, how does ‘biter’ play into the description of a wanton?”

      She wanted to be shocked, and he was in the right frame of mind to appease her. “A biter, sweet Georgiana, means that said wanton is so eager for sexual congress that she will offer herself, bottom up, to her lover. A man calls her thus when he knows she’s aching for a little slap and bite on her arse, hence the term.”

      “Cunny, too?”

      His lips curled in distaste, but he hoped she would see it for something far more appealing. “By all means, if you wish to have your cunny bitten, I shall be happy to oblige.”

      Thankfully, Sutherland had departed before the conversation turned to this. Even he had some personal level of decency, and this crossed the boundary.

      “How I adore it when you speak filth, Lord Alynwick.”

      He gave her a mocking bow. “I aim to please you, my lady.”

      “You do. Surely you know that.”

      He did. Who would ever see to his own pleasure was another matter entirely.

      Now alone together, Georgiana smoothed her hand down her body, her thighs spreading in invitation as her pale hand slid between them. She was as insatiable as he was. Any man looking for a mistress would find her ravishing—would likely even empty the family coffers for her. But Iain was not looking for a mistress, and her avarice made him feel empty and cold.

      “Tell me your fantasies,” she whispered. “I’ve told you mine.”

      “As I’ve said, I have none.”

      “Please?” she purred.

      “Shall I make one up to appease you, then?”

      She pouted, and her sharp, glittering eyes told him she knew that he had one. “Someone to spank and punish you?”

      He winced. “Good God, no. I’m not one for pain with pleasure.” He’d had enough pain inflicted on him by both sides of his family, and while away at school.

      “To be tied up, to give up all your control?”

      “No.”

      She eyed him thoughtfully. She would never guess what the Sinful Sinclair, the Aberrant Alynwick thought of when he was alone at night in his bed, with nothing but the moon and stars to keep him company. He hardly allowed himself to think of it. Only when he was deep in his cups, and his feelings unguarded, did he allow himself to dream of his ultimate fantasy—a saint with a sinner. An angel cavorting with the devil. An innocent offering herself up to him—a sordid, sinful man who wanted to partake of her goodness, while showing her how delightful it could be to join him on the dark side of seduction. But not just any innocent. No, that would be too easy. There were numerous virgins in London. He could seduce any one of them, and live out his fantasies. No, only one innocent—in mind and soul, in deed and thought—would do for him.

      And damn her, how her guileless eyes and goodness rattled him. He’d walk through the Moroccan desert for her, would bleed himself dry for one chance to taste her lips, feel her breasts in his hands, pressing against his flesh.

      But good girls did not like bad boys. Good girls gave wide berth to men who indulged in the sort of behaviour that governesses warned them about and etiquette books forbade.

      Ladies like her did not allow men like him to partake of their innocence, while corrupting them with sin. And the woman of his dreams was every inch a lady by birth and character, and she called to him like gin to an East End drunk.

      “You are in a strange mood tonight, Sinclair,” Georgiana observed. “Almost contemplative, I would say.”

      “Really? How droll. I suppose I should be thinking of how I might spend the next few hours lying in sin and regret before I am forced to confront my future. I might very well be dead come the morrow. A send-off worthy of the most proliferate rake should be in order.”

      “It should. I offered and you declined.”

      “Ah, yes. Well, a man needs to have his head—both of them—in the right place during these matters. Rest assured, after I have satisfied the terms of your husband’s duel I shall come and release all the pent-up frustration and contemplation that is building inside me. Will that suffice?”

      She flopped back onto his bed with a pout, her legs sliding evocatively against each other. “I suppose,” she muttered. “But you’ll think of me when you are on that field, fighting for my honour?”

      “Trust me, I shall be thinking of nothing else.” Christ, he needed another drink. He was getting bilious, nattering away about such tripe. All he could say was that she—and this damned duel—had better be worth it. If he didn’t discover anything about Orpheus from Lady Larabie, he might just end up putting a bullet in his own chest.

      “Are you afraid to meet him?”

      “Larabie?” Iain snorted. “Not in the least.”

      “No, the Grim Reaper.”

      “Him? Why should I? I already know the path of my destiny.”

      “And have you any regrets?” she whispered, watching him with eyes that were suddenly very clear and knowing—eyes that made the hairs on his neck rise in warning.

      “No, none.”

      “No business left unattended? Nothing left unsaid? No apologies to be made?”

      “Not a one, I’m afraid,” he growled as he fitted his sporran around his waist. “I never apologize. It means I was in the wrong—and I am never that, luv.”

      “Such brass bollocks you possess, my lord. No atoning for your sins before you fall to the earth, never to speak again. No absolution