“Are you afraid, princess?”
He posed the question directly into her ear, and he had to admit, perverse bastard that he was, frightening her brought him pleasure. More pleasure than he would have imagined. Or perhaps it was not her fear but the feeling of her body pressed once more against his that had his cock at half-mast. Difficult to believe a woman he hated with all the fury of his black soul could also make his prick hard.
But when had he ever been a normal man?
Never.
His past sins were proof of that. The many women he had bedded. The wildness of his youth.
“Strangle me if you wish,” she said, her voice bold and brazen as you please.
Stubborn to the last. Had he expected any less? Ever since he had uncovered the true author of the memoirs which had ground his already dark reputation so far into the mud, it could never be retrieved, Sin had been studying her. Watching from afar. Planning. He knew she had her brother, the Duke of Westmorland, wrapped around her pinky finger. He knew she had all London on its knees for her.
Not many unwed ladies could return from Paris in a swirl of rumors and yet move freely amongst the crème de la crème of society. The famed painter Moreau was rumored to have been one of her lovers. A distasteful thought. When they married, she would have to wait until she provided Sin with an heir and spare before cuckolding him the way his last wife had done. But then, Celeste had proven herself a vengeful bitch with relative ease.
Suiting that he was about to bind himself to another woman who appeared to be cut from the same cloth.
“If I strangle you, darling, I cannot make you my wife,” he murmured, giving her throat a gentle squeeze.
Just one flex of his fingers. Nothing more. Nothing that would cause her pain. Contrary to what she believed of him, he had never harmed another, whether beast or man. He did not even enjoy the hunt.
She trembled beneath his touch. He felt her inhalations. Fast and shallow. She was afraid.
Good. Let her know some fear. Some desperation.
“I have told you, I will never marry you, and you cannot force me to do so,” she bit out.
“Fortunately for both of us, I will not require force.” He released her throat and stroked it.
She was soft and warm and feminine. He liked the way her skin felt beneath his questing fingertips. And despite his rage toward her, part of him had to acknowledge that bedding her would not be a chore.
What the devil was wrong with him? He ought not to be enjoying this in the way he was. Nor ought he to be enjoying her, his enemy.
How long had it been since he had last shagged a woman senseless? Too long. He had been attempting to win the prim Miss Mary Vandenberg and her American father’s fortune. He had been on his best behavior. But it would seem playing the saint was not good enough for Mr. Vandenberg when rumors of the murders his potential future son-in-law had committed were being bandied about London drawing rooms. Miss Vandenberg had cried off with all haste.
“I am already betrothed,” she bluffed then.
It was a futile ploy on her behalf. He knew everything there was to know about her.
“Lord Simon Montbatten,” he said calmly. “Difficult indeed to marry a dead man, is it not?”
Lord Simon had been of frail constitution. Two years ago, he had gone to Italy to aid his ailing lungs and take the waters. And he had never returned. From all accounts, Lady Calliope had been devastated by his death. Theirs had been a love match. Lord Simon had been the heir to Viscount Suttworth, an old title that hailed to the times of the Conqueror, much like the Dukes of Westmorland. The perfect dynastic union.
Lady Calliope stiffened, inhaling sharply. “How dare you?”
He stroked her pulse, reluctant to stop touching her. “How dare I speak truth?”
She resumed her struggles. “How dare you speak of him so callously? He was a wonderful man, a true gentleman. Your better in every way.”
“I have no doubt he was, but he will not save you, princess.” He dared to nip her ear, just to show her which of them held all the power in this odd dynamic. “Dead men cannot play Sir Galahad. No one can save you now.”
She fought him harder. “I do not need anyone to save me. This is madness, my lord. I did nothing to provoke this.”
What a liar she was.
“Nothing indeed?” He spun her about so she faced him at last, careful to keep his hold upon her tight enough that she could not escape or strike him.
Her dark eyes met his. She was pale. Her lips were the red of summer roses in bloom. Parted. He thought about how soft they had been beneath his. And then he banished the notion.
“I did not write Confessions of a Sinful Earl,” she said.
But her eyes drifted to a point over his shoulder as she issued the denial.
He shook his head. “This is all fruitless, Lady Calliope. I know you wrote those bloody serials. Your publisher admitted it. I saw your mad scribblings on your writing desk in your chamber. You may as well acknowledge the truth.”
Her eyes returned to his, blazing with fury. Wild. “I wrote them. Every word. There. Is that what you want from me, Lord Sinclair? It matters not in the end who wrote those memoirs. The truth is, you murdered my brother, and then you murdered your wife.”
Now they were getting somewhere.
“That is the truth as you see it, is it not?” He searched her gaze. “You think it was perfectly acceptable to ruin me because I am guilty. You believe I hurt you, and so you sought to hurt me in return. But you went beyond hurt. You ruined me, utterly.”
Her jaw tightened. “You ruined yourself. If you were not such an insufferable ogre, your wife would never have gone to my brother for comfort.”
“My wife was a manipulative whore,” he bit out, fury vibrating through him.
Celeste had torn him apart. He had fancied himself in love with her, once. She had been the woman who had tamed London’s most notorious rake. A flaxen-haired siren come to tempt mere mortals into perdition. He had fallen for her. Fallen for her schemes. Believed she loved him. But when he had inherited the earldom, she had changed.
In the end, all she had done was lie to him, spend the little of his funds that remained upon her vast, ever-mounting gambling debts. And cuckold him. She had seduced him into marriage and turned into a monster, taking everything from him.
By the time he had realized the depths of his foolishness, it had been too late. They had been inextricably bound. After their daughter had been stillborn, she had only grown bolder. Collecting the hearts of men had been one of Celeste’s prized entertainments. The former Duke of Westmorland had merely made himself one more of her victims.
“My brother said she was a goddess among women,” Lady Calliope snarled, her lip curling.
“Your brother was duped by her the same way so many other poor sods were, myself included,” he ground out.
“I do not believe you.” Her eyes were wide, desperation making her voice quake.
She was afraid.
Very afraid.
The knowledge ought to please Sin, and yet, it did not.
“You do not have to believe me,” he told her. “It is the truth even if you refuse to acknowledge it.”
“You want me to think you so innocent in all this,” she spat. “But yet, you have abducted me. You have threatened me with a knife. You have bound my wrists. Put your hands on my throat. Your story speaks for itself.”
“And what of you, princess?” he asked, unwilling to allow her to continue playing the innocent. “Do you imagine I would have even noticed you, had you not meddled in my life? I was betrothed. Do you think I would have pursued a selfish, vainglorious chit such as yourself to this extent if you had not ruined me with your outlandish, false tales?”
“Prove to me they are outlandish and false!” Her voice rang through the empty kitchens, echoing off the stone walls.
Suddenly, thunder roared overhead, seemingly out of nowhere. One violent crack. The flash of lig
htning followed not long thereafter, brightening the room with a flash of light for an instant.
“Prove to me you did not write Confessions of a Sinful Earl,” he countered.
After all, she had not truly admitted she was the author of those infernal memoirs. Those vicious, insidious serials of utter tripe. The entirety of it was so salacious, so ludicrous…and yet, it barely skimmed the surface of his true sins. Imaginary sins had been heaped upon him—murder, opium eating, all manner of horrible tales. But the truth of it was, his sins were of a different variety than those which Confessions depicted. The memoirs were clearly the product of an overeager imagination of a woman who had not witnessed the darkness in life that he had.
There was a reason he was called Sin. But it had nothing to do with murder and everything to do with pleasure.
“I wrote it,” she admitted at last, her tone defiant as ever. “You are correct, my lord. I wrote every word. And I can assure you that the latest serial I delivered today is even more depraved than the previous editions. If you were ruined before, you will be decimated now.”
How smug she sounded.
His nostrils flared.
He tightened his grip on her. “You are playing with fire, Lady Calliope.”
But she remained as unrepentant as ever. “Then let it burn me, Lord Sinclair.”
He had a feeling she was going to regret those words and her defiance both.
“Oh, it will, princess,” he warned her grimly. “It will.”
“This is where we will spend the night. Make yourself comfortable as you must and then settle in,” the Earl of Sinclair informed Callie as he finished tying the knot on her wrist, leaving her bound to the headboard of an imposing old bed.
Her restraint was long enough to give her freedom of movement, but short enough to prohibit escape. As she stood on the threadbare carpet before the bed, however, her bindings were the least of her worry.
We, he had said.
The Earl of Sinclair still expected Callie to share a bed with him.
An answering frisson of dread mingled with something else rolled down her spine. It was the something else that troubled her every bit as much as the idea of spending the night in a bed with him.
Alone.
“I will not sleep here with you,” she vowed.
“Yes,” he told her calmly, “you will. This is the only bed. I am tired after our journeys. And I need to keep an eye on you.”
“This is the height of impropriety.” She could not seem to wrest her gaze from that big, imposing bed. “You cannot expect me to…”
She could not bring herself to say the words aloud. Could not bear to think them. Surely he was not so depraved that he was going to attempt to force himself upon her.
“Do you think I will ravish you, princess?” he asked, sounding darkly amused.
His query sent a strange sensation blossoming through her. Her heart raced. Unbidden, the memory of his lips on hers returned, bringing with it an unexpected flare of heat.
“Is that your intention?” she returned, forcing her gaze to his.
His mouth quirked into a dangerous smile. “No. A cossetted duke’s sister who spreads filthy lies about me is the last woman I would ever want to bed.”
His words stung. He was a conundrum, this man. If he loathed her, why did he want to marry her? What were his plans? How long would he keep her in suspense?
“Good,” she managed. “But forgive me if I find that hardly reassuring. I will not share a bed with you, regardless of your intentions.”
“Yes, you will.” Calmly, his stare never wavering from hers, he removed his coat.
Alarm skittered through her. Along with that unwanted something else once more. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick. He was so very tall and well-formed. He tore at his neck cloth, then removed that wicked-looking blade once more, laying it upon the bed as he began undoing the buttons on his waistcoat.
Another roar of thunder cracked through the night. The late-spring storm was raging in full force. Lightning followed not long after, filling the room with false brightness before plunging it back into shadows. Lord Sinclair was pulling the buttons on his shirt from their moorings now, toeing off his boots.
He raised a challenging brow, eying her in a fashion that was far too familiar. “Like what you see, Lady Calliope?”
Her cheeks went hot. “Of course not. I am merely horrified you would dare to disrobe before me in such shocking fashion. You are repugnant to me.”
And he was, she reminded herself. His beautiful exterior could not abate the evil festering within him. She had heard all the vile stories of his past. All London had. He had not been meant to be the earl. According to common fame, his mother had been the concubine of a German grand duke before suddenly marrying his father. Rumor suggested he was the product of that illicit affaire. The death of an obscure cousin had left him next in line to the earldom. But it was not the murk of his ancestry which caused the most wagging of tongues. Rather, it was the manner in which he had chosen to live his life.
Orgies.
Depraved parties.
He ruled over a club of decadent lords who devoted themselves to pleasure. Voluptuaries, wicked sinners. How easy it had been to believe his wife had fled from their marriage into the arms of another man, given the shocking stories Callie had heard. Her wild days in Paris may as well have been spent in a nunnery by comparison.
“It is just as well that you find me repugnant,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the night as another crack of thunder rapped in the distance. “I would hate to think you would ravish me.”
Her lips compressed. How dare he make light of her in the midst of this wretched situation?
She was not certain which was worse—the severity of the muddle in which she now found herself, or the knowledge that no one would even miss her. Perhaps the servants would? Her lady’s maid?
She thought of her brother Benny, and his new wife Isabella. They were on their honeymoon, happily in love, off to the countryside. Aunt Fanchette was supposed to have arrived from Paris to act the duenna, but she had failed to appear, in true Aunt Fanchette style. Callie had not minded, as it meant she had run of Westmorland House whilst her brother was gone.
Now, her freedom had proven her downfall.
The sound of Sinclair shedding his shirt filled the chamber. She remained where she was, on the opposite side of the bed, wondering how she could escape. The knot on her wrist felt as final as a noose.
“Nothing to say, princess?” he taunted.
She inhaled slowly, attempting to gain control over her anger. “I will sleep on the floor if you will not at least pretend to be a gentleman.”
“You will share the bed with me, and that is final.” His voice was closer. Without his boots to warn her of his approach, his footfalls had been damningly silent.
She jerked toward him, startled to find him right behind her, within reach. Without a shirt, his entire chest and abdomen were on display. She promised herself she would not look, but focus upon his eyes instead. “The floor shall be more than sufficient. Indeed, it is preferable to compromising myself in such fashion.”
“Your protests are rich, coming from a lady who was painted in the nude by Moreau,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice.
Callie had heard that rumor herself more times than she cared to count. Philippe had been a true gentleman. And the truth was, he was in love with the incredibly talented watercolorist, Monsieur Claude Bisset. He had eyes for no one else. But that was not her secret to tell. Philippe and Claude’s love had oft caused her a stab of envy. It was what she should have had with Simon, but she was happy for her friends, that they had each other, even if her other half was forever lost to her.
“I was wearing a robe de chambre,” she corrected the earl coolly, tearing herself from her thoughts.
“As much as you have familiarized yourself with all the rumors concerning me, I have also had ample time to learn about you, my lady
.” His stare was upon her, undeniable. Impenetrable.
She could not look away. “Oh? And what do you think you know about me, Lord Sinclair?”
“Turn,” he told her.
She swallowed. “No.”
“You cannot sleep in all your layers,” he pointed out.
She could not deny the truth of that. Sleeping in a corset was deuced impossible. To say nothing of her cumbersome gown, petticoats, and chemise. Stockings, impractical shoes…she was weary and tired after their hours-long journey from London. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that all she wanted to do was slip into fresh bedclothes wearing nothing more than her chemise.
But not with the man before her.
Never with him.
“I would die before I lie down in a bed with you,” she told him.
His hands seized her waist. She flinched at the touch. Not violent, but possessive. As if he had every right to command her with such familiarity. He spun her around with ease.
Of course he did. He out-muscled her. And she was bound to the bed. There was only so far she could travel.
His fingers were on the buttons at her nape, plucking them one by one. She moved away from him, but he caught her, hauling her against him once more. Never had she felt so inconsequential. So incapable.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling against him, though it was futile.
“Playing lady’s maid.” There was a hint of amusement in his baritone.
She did not like it.
“How dare you?” She fought against him with greater furor, attempting to kick his shins and tear herself from his grasp.
All to no avail.
Her bodice was gaping.
And he laughed, the devil.
“Take care, princess. If you incite me too much, I may be tempted to hasten our wedding night,” he warned grimly.
She stilled, believing him. Thunder clapped with ferocious intent. Lightning flashed almost instantly afterward. Rain lashed the windowpanes.
“Do what you must,” she told him.
She would suffer what she had to suffer. Lord knew there was only one man she would ever love, and he was forever lost to her. To find vengeance for her beloved brother, she was willing to endure anything.
Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1) Page 4
