How to Sin Successfully
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Bronwyn Scott
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Prologue
May 1835, London—the official opening of the Season
Rumour held that Riordan Barrett could bring a woman to climax at fifteen feet using only his eyes. At close range, the possibilities were endless, just like the lush curves of Lady Meacham’s delectable body. Riordan rested a light hand on the small of said lady’s back, contemplating those possibilities as he ushered her through the throng gathered at Somerset House to mark the beginning of the Season with the annual Royal Academy art exhibition.
Lady Meacham tossed him a coy glance that left no doubt she was thinking the same. He knew what she wanted, what they all wanted; she wanted the rumours to be true. She wanted to experience the pleasure he was reputed to offer. He wanted it, too, wanted to lose himself in it for a little while. He was good at that—losing himself in pleasures. Cards, wagering, racing, drinking, the usual vices of a gentleman—he knew them all. He was no stranger to the debauches of the demi-monde or the bedchambers of other men’s wives. He and the Lady Meachams of the world both knew why. ‘Pleasure’ was just another word for ‘escape’, a less-desperate word.
Desperate already and the Season had only just begun. When had the glitter of a London spring full of balls and beautiful women lost its shine? Riordan shook off the thought and manoeuvred Lady Meacham in front of Turner’s latest: a depiction of the burning of the House of Lords and Commons which had taken place last October. If this went well, he’d spend the afternoon immersed in Lady Meacham’s voluptuous charms, sprawled in his bed, forgetting.
Riordan bent to Lady Meacham’s ear and began the game in earnest. ‘Note how Turner’s brush conveys the energy of the flames, how the use of yellows and reds depicts the molten temperatures of the inferno.’ The light sweep of his fingers against her arm suggested he was stoking a different fire. Lady Meacham’s perfume filled his nostrils with its expensive, heavy scent. He preferred something sweeter, fresher.
‘You’re quite the expert on, ah, stroke technique,’ Lady Meacham murmured, her body angling subtly so that her breasts brushed the sleeve of his coat in discreet invitation.
‘I’m an expert at a great many things, Lady Meacham,’ Riordan replied in private tones.
‘Perhaps you should call me Sarah.’ She tapped his sleeve playfully with her furled fan. ‘You’re so well informed. I must ask, do you paint, yourself?’
‘I dabble a bit.’ He’d painted with more aspiration than dabbling once upon a time. But somewhere between then and now, painting had stopped occupying a central place in his life, much to his regret and to his surprise. He couldn’t recall how it had happened, only that he no longer painted.
Lady Meacham, Sarah, looked up at him from beneath long lashes, a smug smile playing on her lips. ‘And what is it that you paint?’ This conversation was going precisely where they both intended it. Riordan had his response ready.
‘Nudes, Sarah. I paint nudes. They tell me it tickles.’ Lady Meacham gave a throaty laugh at his naughty innuendo, the final confirmation she was willing to forgo Somerset House’s over-heated Great Room for a more comfortable address off Piccadilly and his brushes.
Her hand lingered overlong on his sleeve in a communication of familiarity. ‘There really is no speck of decency in you, is there?’
Riordan covered her gloved hand with his, his voice a low leonine rumble for her alone. ‘Not a scrap, I’m afraid.’
Her eyes lit at the possibilities the phrase invoked, a coy, knowing smile on her kissable mouth. ‘I find that quality positively delicious in a man.’
She was more than willing and less than a challenge. It was somewhat disappointing she’d been caught so easily. Still, he should feel more excitement over the conquest, more desire. Sarah Meacham was a prize indeed. Her husband was out of town with his mistress and gossip at White’s had it she was looking to take her first lover since the birth of the ‘spare’ last autumn. There’d been bets laid as to who that lover would be.
He’d come up to town specifically to win that wager, in case anyone doubted there wasn’t a redeemable bone in his body. He couldn’t have it be said Riordan Barrett was losing his touch, that his brother, Elliott, had finally talked some sense into him. The fates had decreed that Elliott, the heir, was to be good, so very good, and Riordan, the spare, was to be bad, so very bad, a natural juxtaposition to his beloved brother’s goodness. So here he was, up to town early, cutting short a visit with his brother in Sussex, to swive another man’s wife and prove to everyone Riordan Barrett was as wicked as rumour reported.
It was all very sordid if one dwelled on the details long enough or if one didn’t have enough to drink. Over the last year, Riordan had discovered it was taking more and more of the latter to keep himself from doing the former. His silver flask was ever-present in his coat pocket and, right now, he was too sober for his preference.
Riordan reached for the flask, only to be interrupted by the approach of a footman bearing a silver salver and a sealed letter. ‘Milord, pardon the intrusion. This arrived for you with the utmost urgency.’
Riordan studied the letter with curiosity. He didn’t have an interest in politics or any business investments that required his attention. In short, he was definitely not the sort of man people sought out with any of the urgency implied by the footman. He broke the seal and scanned the four short lines scribed in inky precision by Browning, the family solicitor, then re-read them in the hope that repetition would make the note any less fantastical, any less horrifying.
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Lady Meacham enquired, her hazel eyes wide with concern, proving he looked as pale as he felt.
Not bad news—the worst news. The news would be all over London within a day, but London wouldn’t hear it from him. He wasn’t ready to dissemble to his latest affaire in the midst of the Academy art show. Riordan gathered his remaining senses and fixed Lady Meacham with a rakish smile to mask his roiling, rising emotions. ‘My dear, I regret my plans have changed.’ He gave a short, sardonic bow. ‘If you’ll excuse me? It seems I have become a father.’
He’d reach for his flask, but there seemed little point. There wasn’t enough brandy in the world to ease this. He was going to need help. He’d take any he could get.
