Had the reason Sinclair couldn’t resist London’s sexual vices been because he was using them to escape memories? Was that why he had orgies? Was he trying to bury the pain of a tragedy?
She felt a spurt of pain around her heart. But it wasn’t one of anger. She could picture Sinclair, naked and beautiful, surrounded by naked bodies, but distant and hurting. A tragic hero looking over naked, heaving bosoms toward a distant horizon . . .
Heavens, how could she be feeling sympathy? Inventing a past filled with tragedy for him. She knew his cousin, the duchess hadn’t approved of him, hadn’t liked the fact he’d become duke, but that was hardly a tragedy. Yet the foolish thing was she wished he had a tragic past, and she would have an excuse to forgive him—
Suddenly she saw Rutledge’s hand lift toward her face. Toward her mask!
She quickly took two steps back. “Leave the mask. I . . . uh, like to be mysterious,” she said evasively.
“I’d like to see you.”
“No, you wouldn’t! I’m always masked. I have scars. I was in a . . . a fire. And I have scars on the side of my face and I always wear a mask to cover them. So I mustn’t take it off. They are not awfully disfiguring, but I am ashamed of them. And Sinclair allows me to keep them covered.”
“Of course you must.” Rutledge grimaced. “What a shame. With that mask on, you looked like you had so much promise.”
Of course he found her distasteful now. She felt very indignant. Men with scars could still be adored by ladies. But if a woman had any flaw in her looks, she was cast aside. Usually into homelessness and poverty.
Bother. She wasn’t here to crusade.
Rutledge was leaving and she had not asked him a question. Acting on instinct, she rested her hand on the crook of his arm, stopping him. Her heart pounded. “Have you heard there is a wager—a joke to be played on the Duke of Sinclair? A woman to be brought and delivered to him?”
The earl stared in surprise. “Delivered?”
“Yes, brought by men. I heard this was to happen at this party.”
“Didn’t know that. If that were true, why did you come along?”
Drat. She had no answer for that.
He continued on, though, without caring that she’d done nothing but move her lips helplessly.
“If women are being delivered, I might order one or two. Not enough women at this event so far.”
“So you think like Lord Willoughby,” she said, her voice dripping with disapproval. She couldn’t help it. “I thought Lord Willoughby sounded greedy.”
“Pah. He likes two women in his bed. I can roger five women at once. Now that is fun. Five eager courtesans, all pleasuring me at once. After you’ve had five pretty whores, you find one or two is boring.”
She blushed fiercely. And she wanted to smack him. He was even more arrogant than Willoughby! But inside she wondered—was that how Sinclair felt now? He might have started using sex to escape memories of a tragedy, but would he now not want anything less than multiple women? Or maybe that had been the lure of brothels and orgies all along.
Why then did he say that ending their engagement was his biggest mistake?
“So . . . impressed by my endurance?” Rutledge smirked.
“I have only your word for it. You could also claim to be able to swim the English Channel.”
“I’d be more interested in plumbing the depths of your tight channel. I can fuck you better than Sinclair.”
She was still reeling at his appalling pun. “I think not. That boat will not float,” she muttered. It was time to get away.
Hastily, she turned and collided into a broad chest. Her heart just about stopped as she feared a man was about to give her another proposition, when she looked up and met Sinclair’s deep, beautiful coffee-brown eyes.
He gripped her wrist and dragged her away to one of the drawing room windows, where they were away from the gathering of other guests. His eyes blazed. They might be dark, but they were obviously burning with great emotion.
“What were you doing with him?” he growled.
“Questioning him, if you must know.” She had actually been delighted when he’d dragged her away, but she wasn’t going to admit it. It would be admitting weakness to a man who would use that as reason to lock her in a bedroom. Alone. For her own good. “Why do you look so troubled? Sandhurst’s death was tragic—”
“His heart might not have given out. He might have been poisoned.” Sinclair spoke softly, so only she heard.
She stared at him, openmouthed. “Why would you think such a thing?”
“I’ve seen it before. Just like this. But I’m not sure.”