For ten years, he’d avoided seeing her again. And now that chance meeting had wiped out a decade of working to forget her.
Strangely, it just seemed to have made him want her more.
And he couldn’t have her.
The irony was Portia hadn’t broken the engagement with him; he’d broken it with her. He’d chosen the orgies, the brothels, bondage, and group sex over her.
“Your Grace?”
Sin looked up. His butler, Beagle, looked as unperturbed and rigid as ever as he performed his duties with an orgy going on around him.
Beagle held out his silver salver, on which sat a folded note. “This arrived for you, Your Grace. A child brought it to the kitchen door and said it was to be delivered at once.”
“A child?”
“An urchin lad. He ran off as soon as a footman took the note.”
“Before he’d received any money?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I thought that was quite suspect myself.”
Sin didn’t say anything, but he agreed. He picked up the note and unfolded it with a snap of his wrist. He had to read it twice before the words fully penetrated his brain.
By the morning post, you received an invitation to an unusual house party to be held on an island off the coast, near Southend-on-Sea. To put it plainly, the event is a bacchanalia. Miss Portia Lamb is being lured to the party. It is intended as a joke—a surprise to entice you. A gentleman of your considerable experience would be aware she will literally be a lamb led to slaughter.
To protect her—and her reputation—you must attend.
A Concerned Friend
“What in hell—?” he muttered. Was this true? Who in blazes was “A Concerned Friend”?
Maybe it was a joke. A joke in poor taste.
Where was that damned invitation? He remembered glancing at it, barely reading it. Last night, he’d been thinking of Portia and he’d barely noticed the invitation.
He’d tossed it aside . . . where?
Sin stalked downstairs to his study, off limits during his parties. A stack of invitations sat on the edge of his oak desk. The towering pile contained entreaties for him to attend balls, musicales, card parties, picnics. He was an unmarried duke. Every matchmaking mama of the ton was trying to draw him out.
He sifted through the pile quickly, invitations sliding onto the floor.
Here it was—embossed in silver on thick card.
THE DUKE OF SINCLAIR IS CORDIALLY INVITED
TO AN ORGY
TO BE HELD 21ST JUNE
AT CLIFFSIDE HOUSE UPON SERENITY ISLAND
A letter was also enclosed. Sin scanned it swiftly.
It’s said you give the best orgies in England. I intend to steal your crown. This party will be more thrilling than any other carnal gathering you have ever attended. You will be astounded.
Proceed to Southend-on-Sea, where a small craft will be waiting to transport you to Serenity Island, one mile off the coast.
I defy you to refuse this invitation. I know you will not resist a challenge.
It was signed: W.
At first, he’d thought W stood for Willoughby, at one time his best mate, when he’d first come to London. Now he shook his head. Will wouldn’t invite him to an orgy. They’d avoided each other since their last face-to-face meeting—down the barrels of a pair of dueling pistols.
So who was W? And who would bring Portia to the event?
Now he had to go to this damn party. If Portia was being lured to an orgy for some nefarious purpose, he had to protect her. Given the way their brief engagement had ended, he expected she wasn’t going to appreciate his protection.
But she was going to get it.
2
The Coast, Southend-on-Sea
June 1821
“Have you seen a young lady? About so tall—” Shouting to be heard over the screeching gulls that swooped over the shore, Sin held his hand at the level of his chest.
“Auburn hair—unruly waves and curls,” he continued. “Usually keeps it pinned back and wears big bonnets. Large eyes. Looks sweet and innocent, but she’s a managing sort of female.”
The four old fishermen who sat along the quay looked at him blankly.
Gulls swooped around him, cawing as if laughing at him. Waves lapped at the sea wall, filling the air with the tang of brine and drying seaweed. A gust of ocean breeze almost took his beaver hat off his head and sent salty spray in his face.
“Her name is Portia Lamb,” he added. Praying inside. His gut clenched in fear, even if he looked cool, calm, and ducal on the outside.
“Aye, we’ve seen some young lasses this morn . . .” began one of the fishermen.
The other men all made grunting sounds of affirmation.
“Were she wearing a shocking red gown?” asked the fisherman.
Sin had no idea but couldn’t picture sensible Portia in one. “I doubt it.”