Page 8 of In a Rake’s Embrace (Sins & Sensibilities #3)

CHAPTER 8

T homas gently eased Agatha from his lap, though every fiber of his body resisted the action. The hunger roaring through him felt almost unbearable—six kisses, and he had been reduced to a man of writhing need, every touch of her lips igniting a deeper ache. He could hardly believe that something as simple as the brush of her hand against the front of his trousers would push him to the edge of losing control. A surge of sexual tension gripped Thomas, so intense it nearly unnerved him, forcing every muscle into rigid self-control.

Agatha slipped from him nimbly, looking impossibly sensual in her worn, stretched shift and torn stockings. Her tousled hair, swollen mouth, and flushed cheeks only added to her allure, and for a moment, he had to fight the urge to pull her back onto his lap and keep kissing her.

“What is the next lesson?” she asked, her voice bright and eager, her wide eyes shining with curiosity and determination.

Thomas swallowed hard, forcing himself to regain his composure. The chit would damn likely laugh if she suspected that he, a man who it took a lot to arouse, felt like his cock would burst from his trousers. He stood and walked over to the mantel, his movements measured, though his heart still raced. Reaching for the decanters lined up there, he poured a glass of champagne, then brandy, sherry, whisky, and port, placing each glass carefully on the table before turning back to face her.

“You will need to learn how to drink,” he said. “Yesterday, you said you do not drink.”

She canted her head. “Yes.”

“Many men want their lovers to indulge with them. They feel they cannot do so with their wives. Every private room is stocked with the finest liquor, and you will often be invited to partake by your lover.”

Agatha blinked, her gaze shifting to the array of glasses before her. “I’ve never drunk before,” she confessed, her tone softer now, almost uncertain.

Thomas arched a brow. “Never? Why not?”

Sadness touched her eyes, and Agatha hesitated. “My mother died when I was young,” she began quietly. “My father ... he lost himself in the bottle after that. He drank to drown his grief, and the smell of alcohol has always revolted me since then. Each time I catch its scent, I’m reminded of how my father transformed—no longer a man who laughed, but one quick to anger, treating his own children with chilling indifference.”

A wave of understanding tore through him, and for a moment, he didn’t see her as the woman determined to seduce and conquer but as someone who had known pain and loss. He had already suspected she endured a difficult life, perhaps as painful as many of the women who worked at Aphrodite . A part of him softened, though he masked it quickly.

“When my father died, it was sudden. One night, he was laughing at dinner; the next day, he was gone. I drowned myself drinking for days until the scent of liquor sickened me,” Thomas admitted, stiffening, unsure why he had revealed that glimpse into his life.

“It is painful to lose a parent,” Agatha said softly.

It damn well was . “The drink dulls the ... pain of feeling,” he said, his voice gruff.

“Just a few days, then? Or was it weeks, months ... perhaps years?”

His jaw tightened. “I let myself drown in it for five days.”

She held his gaze, her curiosity unyielding. “Why did you stop?”

Thomas paused, unused to sharing anything so personal. Even his closest friends only knew fragments of his past. Finally, he raked a hand through his hair and said, “My family needed me. That was my reason.”

A shadow crossed her eyes as she looked away. “My father never stopped ... not until he met Gloria years later. That my sisters and I needed him was never reason enough.”

“But he eventually stopped?”

“Yes.”

There was an almost fragile quality in how she turned away as if hiding her far-too-expressive face. Yet, in the proud jut of her chin, a determination shone that belied her vulnerability.

“Do you want to give this up, then?” he asked, studying her closely. “They will push, but this can be established as one of your boundaries.”

Agatha’s chin lifted a fraction higher.

“No,” she said firmly. “I want to try and see how it makes me feel. My mother always said, ‘Fortune favors the daring.’ How can anyone get what they want without venturing into the unknown and taking risks? I know what I want, and I will get it.”

He suspected the woman she lost had sparked that fierce resolve in her gaze. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s drink.”

Agatha reached for one of the glasses on the table, her hand trembling slightly. She lifted it to her lips and took a tentative sip. Thomas watched her closely, admiring her resilience. She was an enigma—a woman who blushed at his crudeness but steeled herself against challenges. As she set the glass back down, he wondered what had driven her to take such a drastic path. What fueled her determination to push through her discomfort and continue down this road?

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice low but sharp with curiosity. “What’s driving you to go so far?”

Startled eyes lifted to Thomas’s, her emerald gaze dark with something he couldn’t quite place. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass as she searched for an answer.

“I have my reasons. I don’t expect a man of your consequences to understand.”

Thomas studied her, his curiosity deepening. For the first time in a long while, he found himself intrigued by more than just a woman’s body. Something beyond the typical ambition of a courtesan-to-be drove her onward—something rooted in family. And that, he understood: love, duty, and loyalty to those who mattered most. He stepped closer, his gaze never leaving hers.

“Your reasons are your own; I am no one to unearth them,” he said quietly.

Her breath hitched, and for a moment, he saw something—perhaps longing—flicker in her eyes before she quickly masked it, lifting her chin in that defiant way she favored. He moved to the mantel, picking up a tightly sealed decanter with a light golden liquid.

“This is champagne,” he said, opening the decanter and pouring some in a delicate flute. “Ladies tend to prefer it, along with sherry.”

She accepted the glass and brought it to her lips. Thomas watched as she drank too eagerly, draining the glass in one swift motion.

His lips quirked into a smirk. “Too quickly, Agatha.”

She blinked in surprise before breaking into a soft laugh. It was unexpected and genuine, and he was caught off guard at its sweetness.

“I feel as if bubbles are tickling my nose, my mouth, all the way to my stomach,” she confessed, pressing a hand lightly to her belly.

Thomas chuckled. “You might find it grows on you.”

She met his gaze, and he noted the wonder in her expression. “I ... I rather like it.”

He handed her the decanter. “Practice sipping throughout the day. The more comfortable you become with tasting champagne, the more natural it will feel when you drink in a man’s company. It will also build your resistance, and you will not become intoxicated so quickly.”

Agatha hesitated briefly before wrapping her fingers around the decanter’s cool glass. “I will,” she said softly, accepting the task.

“Now,” he said, stepping back, “let’s try the others.”

He handed the glass of whisky to her. She took a cautious sip, her face immediately scrunching up in distaste.

“It’s an acquired taste,” he said. “Not for everyone.”

“I can see why,” she muttered, pushing the glass away.

Next came the brandy. She took a sip, and while her reaction was less severe, she still grimaced. “Better, but still too strong.”

“Fair enough,” he replied. “Now, try the sherry.”

Her eyes brightened slightly as she brought the glass of sherry to her lips. After taking a sip, she nodded slowly. “This one is ... sweeter. I don’t hate it.”

He poured a glass of port next. She took a small sip, her brow furrowing. “It’s heavy,” she said thoughtfully, “but I could grow to appreciate it.”

“Port is strong but has a richness,” he explained. “Many men enjoy it, especially after a long night of indulgence.”

She nodded, then poured champagne into the flute. Thomas raised an eyebrow, watching as she took another sip, slower this time, savoring it.

A faint smile tugged at Agatha’s lips. “But this ... this I quite enjoy,” she said, raising the decanter of champagne slightly.

“You have found your choice. Our lessons are finished for the night.”

“I shall bid you a good night, Thomas.”

She stooped to set the decanter on the carpet, then gathered her dress and slipped it over her head before hastily putting on her boots. A dark wave of humor rolled through him—she was clearly doing her best to avoid looking at him. Once her boots were on, she turned swiftly, clutching the decanter to her chest as if it were a prized possession. Her movements were quick, almost as if she were fleeing the room, her emotions tucked tightly behind her polite smile.

“What did you do today?” Thomas asked, indulging his curiosity about her. Surely, learning a little wouldn’t hurt.

Agatha faltered mid-step and glanced over her shoulder, meeting his gaze.

“I read,” she replied, a lightness in her voice.

“For the entire day?”

“It’s one of my most beloved pastimes, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that Madam Rebecca had a small collection of books.” A mischievous smile curved her lips, and her eyes sparkled with something playful. “I also ventured to the second floor. I met Lady Ellen and Bea.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow at that. “How did you find it?”

Her smile deepened. “Well, they were quite welcoming.”

They held each other’s gaze in the quiet that settled between them, and he wanted to ask her more—anything to keep her talkingand close. The need unsettled him, catching him completely off guard. “Good night, Miss Woodville,” he said with chilling politeness.

Her eyes widened. “I ... I shall be going, my lord.”

“I’ll call for you by noon tomorrow, and we’ll visit the modiste.”

Agatha nodded, expression considering, as if she had something more to say. Her lips parted, but after a moment, she seemed to think better of it. With a small shake of her head, she turned again, hurrying through the door and closing it behind her. Thomas stood there, staring at the closed door, his mind still lingering on the way she had smiled—half-playful, half-reserved.

Such rubbish to find her so damn compelling.

Sighing, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his watch, glancing at the time. The hands showed just after ten in the evening. He felt a pulse of restless energy thrumming beneath his skin, the quiet of the night doing little to calm it. Thomas snapped the watch shut and slid it back into his pocket. His lips curved into a faint smile. He needed a change of pace to distract his mind from the intoxicating tension that had gripped him.

He moved toward the door with long, purposeful strides, exiting his private room and descending the staircase to the lower levels of Aphrodite . Soft laughter and music greeted him as he approached the second floor. The hallway was lively, filled with gentlemen and ladies reveling in their evening, indulging in drink, conversation, and pleasures the outside world often forbade.

He passed through the hallway, nodding to a few familiar faces. It surprised him that Agatha had met Lady Ellen and Bea so quickly. He wondered how she was handling it—whether she had faltered in the face of their scandalous talks or if her unyielding determination had continued to carry her through.

Thomas descended the final stairs, arriving at the ground floor. The air here was thick with cigar smoke and laughter, the hum of conversation rising from the gathering of men enjoying their brandy and cigars. Several men had ladies in their laps, and on the chaise longue, Lady Ellen was riding a man’s cock, her head tossed back in sensual abandon, loud cries of pleasure pouring forth. Those who had that dark, voyeuristic hunger watched their display. A part of him wanted to join in, to lose himself in the carefree indulgence for a few hours.

But another befuddling part found his mind wandering back to Agatha. She seemed reservedyet determined, vulnerableyet strong. That contradiction pulled at him, and no amount of distraction could dull the curiosity she stirred.

Bloody nonsense .

As he crossed the floor, his gaze swept the room, taking in the scene, but nothing captured his attention for long. Thomas felt as if his friends had cursed him. Both Oliver and James had warned him that he would soon start feeling dissatisfied with the frivolities of the ton and the licentiousness of Aphrodite . He had laughed, thinking them foolish to have married and even more foolish to claim they loved their women with every emotion in their souls.

Fucking hell .

What was this listlessness plaguing him?