Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  Her gown and all her undergarments save her chemise were gone in mere minutes. Swept away as if they had never been. The sole issue had been in the sleeve of her gown. Because he had already tied her to the bed, he had not been able to remove it, and had instead used his wicked blade to slice it from her arm.

  “I will have nothing to wear tomorrow,” she said, when at last he had finished and released her.

  She was breathless.

  From fighting him, of course.

  And she was also irritated by her own susceptibility.

  “Perhaps I shall keep you in your chemise and nothing else.”

  He was still near. Too near.

  She spun about to face him, heart pounding. “What do you intend?”

  He gave her a faint smile. Thunder cracked again. Wind railed against the exterior of the old pile of rubble. “Sleep.”

  And then, much to her surprise, he left her, standing there in nothing but her chemise, drawers, and her stockings. He skirted the bed, returning to the opposite side, and shucked his trousers. Standing there in nothing more than his smalls, he met her gaze.

  “Good night, Lady Calliope. Our business shall resume in the morning.”

  He slid into the bed and drew the counterpane over his beautifully masculine form. She had done her best not to look, but there was no denying the sheer strength of the man, the corded muscle, the sinew. He was as flawless as any sculpture she had ever seen. A god come to life.

  An evil god. A wicked god.

  A demon, more like.

  “Are you intending to stand there all evening?” he asked, settling himself comfortably, the bedclothes round his ear. He even sighed, then yawned.

  She wondered what he had done with the knife.

  Wondered how she could escape him now.

  “The blade is beyond your reach,” he said, as if he had read her thoughts.

  She stiffened. There was a chill in the room. Her nipples were hard. Gooseflesh pebbled on her arms. The heaviness low in her belly, pooled between her thighs, was tension, she was sure. Anxiety. Hatred. Despair.

  Mercifully, the bonds tying her to the bed were slack enough she could lower herself to the worn carpets. They were woolen and scratchy and dusty, but they would have to suffice.

  She would not even ask for a pillow. Her pride would allow for no concessions from this man who had taken her as his prisoner. This man who had murdered her brother, she reminded herself.

  “Suit yourself, princess,” he said, curt. “Sleep well with the mice and the spiders.”

  He extinguished the lamp, bathing the chamber in darkness.

  The booming of thunder punctuated his edict with a chilling finality. A reminder of how small she was in the world, of how little control she possessed over her own future and wellbeing.

  Slumber proved elusive for quite some time.

  Chapter Five

  I forced my mouth upon hers, dear reader. Her trembling fear did not slow my desire to ravish her. It only made me want her more…

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl.

  Fucking hell.

  Sin could not sleep.

  He told himself it was the storm and not the fact that his beautiful captive had chosen to bed down on the rug with nary a pillow or blanket for comfort that kept him up. But he lied to himself.

  There was an odd sensation prodding at him, all sharp angles from within: guilt.

  Not that he ought to feel even a modicum of it. Lady Calliope had brought this on herself. She had started this war, not him.

  The storm was rumbling on now, moving farther away. He was weary to the bone. He ought to be happily slumbering. He turned onto his side, peering into the darkness, in her direction. She was sleeping on the floor. The hard, dusty, cold floor. Though it was nearly summer, nights in Helston Hall were damp and draughty. They had been even before it had fallen into such an appalling state of disrepair.

  On a growl, he threw back the bedclothes and rose. He stalked around the bed and found her on the floor, curled in a ball rather reminiscent of a cat. Sin scooped her into his arms with ease.

  “What are you doing?” her voice was sleepy, and it lacked the vehemence of her previous protestations.

  Had she fallen asleep after all? She was warm and soft in his arms. All woman. Damn, but the lack of her feminine trappings meant his arms were filled with lush, sweet-scented curves. He fought back a swift rush of desire.

  “I am seeing you settled for the night,” he snapped, irritated with himself for the hoarseness in his voice. “You are too stubborn for your own good.”

  “Mmm.” With a throaty sigh, she nuzzled his throat.

  Bloody hell, the woman was definitely half-asleep. And he was half-erect.

  He swallowed and lowered her to the bed, settling the bedclothes over her. Cursing himself, he skirted the bed once more. She made a sleepy sound that should not have made his cock twitch.

  You hate her, he reminded himself.

  She is a deceitful witch.

  But as he made his way back to his side of the bed, his inner protestations did not do one whit of good. Gritting his teeth, he slid beneath the bedclothes, attempting to get comfortable. Her even breathing filled the silence of the chamber. She was asleep.

  Of course, she was.

  How was it that she had been the one to bed down on the unforgiving floor and yet he, in the comfort of the bed, had been unable to find peace? How was it that he was still, even now, being assailed by the twin sensations of guilt and desire?

  Perhaps she possessed no conscience.

  That would certainly explain it. How else could she write such blatant falsehoods about him?

  The air was filled with the soft, faint sounds of Lady Calliope’s snores. Good God, could the woman sleep through anything? Her wrist was bound to the headboard. She had been on the floor with no blanket, no pillow. He had lifted her from the floor and settled her on the bed, and still, she had scarcely stirred.

  Again, a twinge of guilt returned. He had spirited her away from London and brought her to this dilapidated hovel. She was frightened of him, that much he could plainly discern. And he had every intention of persuading her of the necessity of their marriage, whatever that took. He was not going to allow her to leave until he had secured her agreement.

  Still, alone with his thoughts and the distant rumble of thunder, his mind swirled with unwanted questions. What if she believed what she had written? His reputation was black, and he knew it. He was at fault for that. Guilty of most of the sins ascribed to him.

  But not the worst.

  He had never committed murder. Celeste had died by her own hand. And he could hardly say what had befallen the last Duke of Westmorland. He had heard it was a fall, a broken neck, and Lady Calliope herself had claimed he had fallen down the stairs. Regardless of the means by which Westmorland had met his end, Sin had been nowhere near the man when it had happened.

  Instead, he had spent the night in the arms of his former mistress. When he had returned to his own townhome that afternoon, it had been to discover his wife had already taken her life. Admittedly, he had lost control after that. His affaire with Tilly had ended abruptly, and he had been adrift. He supposed he could see how his subsequent flight from London, to the Continent, could have made him appear guilty.

  Instead of mourning Celeste, he had celebrated his freedom from her. A fortnight of overindulgence in drink and quim. He had fucked his way through Paris. And then he had fucked his way through Italy, too.

  But those memories were hazy. Nothing more than ghosts.

  He could prove his innocence to Lady Calliope if he gave a damn.

  Which, of course, he did not. Let her think what she wished. Let her believe the worst of him. Let her think him a monster. Some parts of him were monstrous. Most parts, in fact. He had earned his reputation the hard way.

  He would not allow his conscience or his attraction to her to get the better of him. His plans would not be compromised. F
ar too much depended upon his ability to secure her fortune. Thanks to Lady Calliope Manning, she was his last chance to save himself.

  Most importantly, she was his last chance to save the only person who mattered to him.

  His mother.

  On an irritated growl, Sin turned, rolling to his belly. His cock was rigid as stone, burrowing into the mattress. It was going to be one hell of a long night.

  Callie woke to a numb hand and a furnace at her back.

  A hard, citrus-and-musk scented furnace.

  And an arm banded around her waist.

  And a mouth upon her bare shoulder, soft, smooth lips kissing her there.

  Truly, it would not have been an unfortunate manner in which to wake, except for her hand.

  Early morning light streamed into the chamber, brightening all the shadows from the night before, reminding her she was in a strange place. With a strange man. She could not be farther from her cozy bedchamber at Westmorland House, where she kept fresh roses on her writing desk and had chosen every stick of furniture and picture on the wall.

  Remembrance hit her.

  The Earl of Sinclair had forced his way into her carriage, and he had brought her to some crumbling ancestral ruins hours away from London. He had discovered she was the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl. Worst of all, he had informed her of his intentions to force her to marry him.

  She was tied to the bed.

  And she was in the bed.

  How was she in the bed? She had fallen asleep on the floor, just to spite her captor. At first, it had been deuced uncomfortable, but then she had been so exhausted by travel and the accompanying fear of being unexpectedly absconded with by her mortal enemy…

  It was his arm around her waist. And he was the source of the heat. To say nothing of the delightful masculine scent filling her senses. Or the mouth.

  He kissed her skin once again, reminding her she was clad in nothing more than her undergarments. Her chemise had shifted in her sleep, sliding down to bare her shoulder.

  “Cherie, vous séduisez,” he muttered.

  A shiver trilled down her spine, sending an unwanted surge of desire to the apex of her thighs. She pressed her legs together to stay the ache. Forced herself to recall she did not like this man.

  In fact, she loathed him.

  He was responsible for Alfred’s death.

  For her numb hand. For her presence in this bed. For so much pain and sorrow.

  His hand slid from her waist, gliding over her chemise until he cupped her breast in his palm. Her traitorous nipple stiffened instantly. His thumb traced over the peak, sending a spark of unwanted flame shooting through her. A natural reaction, she reassured herself. It would have happened had any man’s hand been upon her.

  “Je veux faire l’amour,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp.

  She was certain he was asleep. Whispering to her in French. More proof of his depravity. He could fall asleep with a woman he professed to loathe and then attempt to seduce her. Good God, he had not bedded her, had he? Surely she would have remembered such a thing.

  How had she come to be in this bed?

  So many questions, so few answers. Only one man knew, and he was sleeping, holding her tight. He would never be able to anticipate what was coming to him.

  Good. It would serve him right, the rotter.

  Using her unbound arm, she sent her elbow into his solid midsection with as much force as she could muster. The breath fleeing his lungs was as hot as he was, coasting over her bare skin in a sudden rush.

  He coughed into her back, sputtering awake. “What the devil?”

  His arm tightened on her waist, dragging her backward, so that she was pressed against his frame. There was an unmistakable ridge prodding her lower back. Even as he cursed her and reacted to her abrupt attempt to sever their connection, he held her closer still.

  She was not as innocent as some unwed ladies in her acquaintance were. She knew what portion of his anatomy was so rudely making itself known against her back. And she also knew why.

  He desired her. His body was reacting to hers, the same way that hers had been affected by his proximity and warm strength radiating against her back. The same way her nipple had tightened when he had cupped her breast.

  Instinct. Nothing more. Had not Aunt Fanchette said all men suffered similar maladies in the morning?

  It mattered not. All that did matter was that Callie herself was not attracted to the odious Earl of Sinclair.

  “Release me, you scoundrel,” she gritted, struggling to free herself of his grasp.

  “Sheathe your claws, woman,” he ground out. “I told you last night, I have no intention of ravishing you.”

  “You were kissing my shoulder and being crude in French,” she accused, wriggling to free herself.

  Unfortunately, the action only served to wedge her backside more firmly against his manhood, which seemed to have grown even larger. Good heavens. Her cheeks went hot, and that alarming sensation between her thighs would not stop blossoming.

  “I assure you, I am crude in every language.” He laughed then, the oaf, and the sound lacked the bitterness of the night before. “I can hardly be held responsible for imagining myself somewhere far more pleasant in my sleep, with a bedmate of my choosing.”

  His implication nettled, she had to admit, in spite of herself. But then she remembered the mystery surrounding the manner in which she had wound up in the bed.

  “I fell asleep on the floor,” she reminded him coolly. “How did I end up here?”

  “Perhaps you wanted to be closer to me,” he suggested, his tone wry.

  He was responsible for her presence in the bed, she was sure. “Never!”

  She moved some more, but the devil was still disturbingly near. And firm. So very firm. She attempted to scoot from him, and he groaned.

  “Devil take it, woman. Cease moving about.”

  “Let me go, you vile wretch,” she returned, increasing her struggles.

  “Stop wriggling,” he gritted in her ear. His hand had settled upon her hip. His manhood was still nestled against her bottom, firm and insistent and hot.

  So hot.

  So wrong.

  She stilled, swallowing past a knot in her throat. The knowledge that he was affected by her proximity was unsettling. Displeasing, she told herself. Vexing. Horrifying.

  Intriguing.

  No! She struck the unwelcome notion from her mind. His desire for her was not what she wanted. He was an evil monster. His protestations of innocence aside, he was most definitely guilty of forcing his way into her carriage and spiriting her away. And he was also guilty of binding her. Of insisting upon a marriage between them…

  “Mayhap I should ravish you after all, princess,” he suggested, tracing a lazy pattern on her hip.

  His lips grazed her flesh as he spoke.

  Her heart was pounding fast. With fury, of course. Not with…anything else. She was not attracted to this odious villain. Decidedly not.

  “Stop this madness,” she ground out, shifting again, to no avail. “I will not marry you, and nor am I attracted to you in the slightest.”

  “Then I suggest you cease bloody moving, because it is damned difficult for a man to think straight with your bottom rubbing all over his cockstand,” he growled.

  If her cheeks had been hot before, they were positively scalding now. Dear heavens, had he just said what she thought he had said? The man was an unrepentant rogue. Scandalous and horrible and evil.

  “Lord Sinclair,” she chastised past her own shock. “How dare you speak to me with such vulgarity?”

  “Do you truly fancy me a murderer?” he asked then, taking her by surprise with his query.

  She blinked. “Yes.”

  But within her, deep within her, confusion reigned. She was not entirely certain, now that she had met him at long last. Oh, he was a villain. That much was clear. But her brother, Benny’s, words returned to her now, suddenly.

&n
bsp; Our brother’s death was an accident.

  Benny was wrong, because he had been too lost in his work for the Special League to investigate the truth. She could hardly blame him. He was weighed down with so much responsibility—Fenian bombers running rampant all over London, attempting to blow up the London Bridge and the Tower and even Parliament itself.

  But after her mind had cleared from the terrible grief infecting her in Paris, she had seen the answer with such shocking clarity, it had stolen her breath. Alfred had been in love with Lady Sinclair. Lord Sinclair was a devious scoundrel. Of the three, only one of them remained. Logic suggested the culpability of one man and one man alone.

  Alfred had fallen down the stairs at his home in St. Johns Wood. But only after Lord Sinclair had paid him a call there, argued with him, and threatened him over his illicit relationship with Lady Sinclair. She must not forget that the man holding her captive was the last who had seen her beloved brother alive, aside from the servants. Or that his wife had died that same night. Two problems, gone from the earl’s life.

  Forever.

  “I have never killed anyone or anything,” the earl told her solemnly, his lips far too near to her ear. “Not even a damned pheasant. I hate to dispel you of your notions that I am a murderous monster, princess, but I am not.”

  She thought about the evil-looking blade he kept upon his person. And his abduction of her.

  “Do you truly believe I will accept anything you say as truth?” she demanded.

  “Suit yourself.” He released her at last, rolling away. She tried to ignore the sense of loss, as unwanted as his presence had been. “But I have never harmed another soul. I did not kill my faithless wife. I did not kill your foolish brother.”

  She turned toward him, stymied by the binding on her left wrist, which held her captive as surely as he did. “My brother was not foolish. He was one of the most intelligent, good-hearted men alive.”

  Indeed, she had never known anyone better, aside from Benny and Simon.

  Her mouth went dry as the Earl of Sinclair slipped from the bedclothes, revealing his bare back to her. He was all muscle and sinew. Broad shoulders, lean waist. And the way his smalls clung to his firm bottom was… Positively sinful. That was what it was. She could not entirely banish the effect he had upon her.