Page 2 of Surrender to Sin

Grace looked over to see the plump form of Nell, her beloved maid-companion, hurrying toward her. Carrington had permitted her employment because she was the spinster sister of a well-bred baronet, and luckily Nell always remembered to mind her naughty tongue around him.

“The worst possible news, Nell.”

The silver-haired woman shot her an alarmed look as she collapsed in a heap of starched, gray-striped cambric. “No. He wouldn’t dare.”

“I’m to marry Lord Baxter on June first.”

“Argh,” spat Nell. “A raging pox on both their hides. What are you going to do?”

“Do? I have very little money. No home of my own. I don’t have a choice in this.”

“Unless old Baxter cried off for some reason.”

“I very much doubt he would.”

“He might. If you forced his hand.”

Grace stilled, a tiny sliver of hope straightening her shoulders. “His lordship is far stuffier than Carrington ever was. What if…what if I were involved in some sort of scandal?”

“Oooh, yes. Wouldn’t take much for his uppity head to explode.”

“Baxter is a prude, and believes he is a catch beyond all,” said Grace slowly, mentally sifting and discarding ideas. “I think…I think my scandal must be with a man. No, not just a man, an utterly wicked, utterly charming rake with a head for intrigue.”

“You need Sin,” said Nell sagely.

Laughter bubbled up inside her. “Sin in general or one sin in particular?”

“Oh my poor pet,” continued Nell, her eyes gleaming. “You’ve been buried in the country far too long. The thoroughly scrumptious Lord Sebastian St. John; everyone knows him as Sin. His late mama was a retired courtesan. He keeps not one mistress but an entire harem, and has been at the heart of several jaw-dropping scandals. Yet he’s most notorious for part-owning Fallen.”

“Fallen?” she repeated in confusion. “Is that a racehorse?”

Nell giggled like a debutante. “Good heavens no, although the amount of riding that probably gets done there… Fallen is a private pleasure club that opened about four years ago, caters to everything sexual, and is so exclusive that only the richest, highest ranking people in England can apply for membership. All the stuffed shirts like my brother are forever crusading to get it shut down and the three owners banished, but another rumor has the Prince of Wales himself as a patron, so it stays.”

“Well,” said Grace, her heart lifting by the moment. “This Sin sounds like just the man I need. And I’ve got an excuse to go to London, since Lord Baxter strongly disapproves of my current strumpet wardrobe.”

Nell snorted. “Good grief. The mourning sacks you wear are practically nun’s habits. But new gown fittings take forever to do properly. Measurements, fashion plates, trims and fabrics…a fortnight at least.”

Their eyes met in perfect understanding. Two whole weeks to hopefully secure Sin’s assistance, then create enough of a scandal that Lord Baxter would run screaming in the other direction. If she could just get rid of him, surely there was some way to petition the courts for earlier access to her mother’s money.

But one thing was certain. Under no circumstances would she be a forced bride again.

…

London

No one ever wanted to leave Fallen.

Leaning against a cream silk-covered wall, Lord Sebastian St. John, fifth Baron St. John but known to all as Sin, smiled and nodded at the masked procession of England’s elite trudging reluctantly out the club’s oak double doors. Dawn always heralded the end of a night’s revelry, the cool, bleak light a harsh reminder that the club was only a temporary respite, but at least their members didn’t have far to go. Fallen was an enormous three-story, red brick townhouse located in fashionable Portman Square, neighbor to several dukes, and a short carriage ride from Hyde Park, Carlton House, Whitehall, and Westminster.

And they would be back, these leading aristocrats of the ton, for nowhere else in London could their specific sexual needs be met so well—and so lavishly. A quick fuck in a darkened corner with a bored lover for hire wouldn’t do. These men and women wanted the very best money could buy—a decadent sanctuary of champagne, brandy, French chef-prepared delicacies, attentive servants, palatial surroundings, no judgement, and above all, absolute discretion. If a lady wished to be plundered by two men simultaneously, she could. If a gentleman desired to be bound and whipped by his “governess,” he was welcome. If married couples decided to swap spouses for the evening, or simply watch others act out a pirate ship or harem orgy fantasy, Fallen was the place.

No request was too much trouble, and for that, membership was strictly monitored, obscenely expensive, and bound by an ironclad contract.

“I say, Sin, jolly good show tonight. Something about a woman between another woman’s thighs that stirs the juices, what? Wonder if Maria could be persuaded. I’d dearly love to watch another lady pleasure her while she took me in her mouth.”

Sin bowed, somehow managing not to strangle the Prince Regent who had yet again broken one of Fallen’s cardinal rules and taken off his club-issued black and white satin demi mask before leaving. Anonymity was critical here; not only did it allow the freedom to fully indulge, but it halted the threat of blackmail. Each mask was individually tailored and numbered; only Sin, and his co-owners Devil and Vice, knew the society leader behind it.

“Should Your Royal Highness and Mrs. Fitzherbert wish it, most anything can be arranged.”