He tossed back the rest of his whisky. “Show me.”
Decker rose and stalked across the library, returning with a small, unframed canvas depicting a man standing alongside a woman. At first glance, it looked as if the two were not even touching. But upon a closer look, the woman’s dress was not a dress at all, and the man’s hand was claiming her in full, carnal, primitive possession.
“What do you think?” Decker asked.
It made him think of his wife. His conniving jade of a wife. The one he could not stop thinking about or wanting.
Fuck.
“I think I need more whisky,” Sin said, raising his empty glass.
That was the most honesty he could manage at the moment.
Callie told herself she ought to be overjoyed that her husband had not returned.
She had eaten her bland supper in silence.
And now, she was lying in the darkness in her new chamber, staring into the murky shadows, telling herself she would not be bothered if he continued staying away. Forever.
But that was a lie, and she knew it.
Well, Callie? What did you expect? That he would fall madly in love with you and fawn over you like a lovelorn suitor after one day of marriage?
On a sigh, she rolled over. How foolish she was. She had allowed the earl’s lovemaking to rot her mind. Theirs was not a happy marriage. It was a marriage of convenience.
Sinclair had what he wanted now—her dowry, her silence, and the consummation of their union. Having secured that, he had gone off to do whatever he wished, not even bothering to inform her where he had gone or when he might deign to return.
Where had he gone? To his illicit club?
Did he have a mistress? He had claimed he did not, but Callie was not certain he was to be believed. His sobriquet was Sin, after all. After last night, she could attest to the reason for it.
At the memory of his wicked caresses and kisses, her traitorous body heated up and a new awareness burned between her thighs. She promptly squelched the sensations with the reminder that her husband could, for all she knew, currently be visiting those same kisses and caresses upon another woman.
Or, worse, other women.
Feeling ill, she rolled again, onto her stomach.
And that was when she heard a thud from the chamber next door.
Apparently, her errant husband had returned.
Another thump echoed through the silence of the night.
Callie sat up in bed, scowling in the direction of the earl’s apartments. How dare he return in the midst of the night and then proceed to make so much noise? Had he no respect for her?
Sadly, she suspected she already knew the answer to that question.
Callie’s dudgeon would no longer be ignored. She slid from her bed, not even bothering to find her dressing gown. Her nightdress—long and high-necked and modest—would suffice. She made her way through the shadows, narrowly avoiding crashing into a chair, until she reached the door joining their chambers.
Light shone beneath it like a beacon.
Without bothering to knock, Callie swept the door open.
Her husband was seated on the edge of his bed, fully clothed save his boots, which she gathered were the source of the noise. They lay on their sides, half a dozen feet from him, as if he had launched them there. His neck cloth was loose, and his dark eyes devoured her as she hovered on the threshold. Somehow, the sight of him—dissolute yet handsome as ever—filled her with trepidation.
“You look like a bloody governess in that night rail,” he said, breaking the silence.
How insufferably rude.
“Where have you been all day and evening, my lord?” she demanded, although she had promised herself she would not ask.
Would not act as if she cared.
She did not care.
Who are you trying to fool? whispered an insidious voice inside her. Stupid voice.
“I was visiting a friend,” he said.
A friend.
Instantly, the beautiful Duchess of Longleigh rose to her mind.
“All day and night?” she pressed.
Curse you, Callie. What are you doing? Return to your chamber.
But she lingered, there at the threshold, awaiting his answer. The caring lover of the night before was gone. He seemed different this evening, but she could not quite define how or why.
“Did you miss me, wife?” he mocked, that sensual mouth of his quirking into a taunting smile.
Yes.
“No. There were merely some matters which arose I wished to discuss with you,” she said, careful to keep her voice as even as possible.
“Matters?” Holding her gaze, he shrugged out of his coat and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
She ran her tongue over her lips, thinking she ought to flee for certain now. “Household matters. What manner of friend were you visiting?”
His grin deepened, damn him. “Not a female friend, if that is what you are asking, princess.”
The relief sweeping over her nettled.
She tamped it down. “Your affairs are none of my concern. Forgive me the interruption. I will speak with you tomorrow. Good evening, my lord.”
“Wait.”
She paused when she would have spun about and returned to the safety of her chamber, as was wise.
He crooked a finger at her. “Come here, little wife.”
Little wife.
She did not know why the phrase, uttered in his silken voice, sent a rush of heat to her core. She also did not why her feet were moving. Padding across the threadbare rug. Obeying him.
What was wrong with her?
Callie stopped just beyond his reach. “What do you want of me, my lord?”
“My name on your lips for a start,” he drawled, his gaze dipping to her mouth.
She was sure she ought to deny him. “You would have heard your name on my lips quite a bit had you not been absent all day and night.”
Her tone was tart. Drat him. He was getting the best of her. She did not want him to see a weakness.
“You are angry with me,” he observed.
“Not any angrier with you than I was before,” she lied, not sure why it mattered so much.
Her pride, she supposed.
“Since you are still awake, you may as well play valet for me.” His brooding gaze was still upon her lips. “Help me with my shirt, will you?”
She swallowed. “You seem more than capable of disrobing yourself.”
“Perhaps.” His dark stare flicked back to hers, searing. “Or perhaps I merely want your hands on me.”
Her heart pounded. “I do not want to play games with you. The hour is late.”
“Who said anything about games?” His eyes lowered, settling upon her breasts. “Why the devil are you buttoned to the neck?”
She fidgeted with her night rail, acutely aware of his nearness and knowing gaze. “Why should you care, my lord?”
“Sin.”
He was only saying his name, and she knew it, but she could not seem to quell the effect that wicked word, spoken in his deep voice, had upon her. “I prefer my lord.”
“You even sound like a bloody governess,” he said, pushing away from the bed and sauntering toward her.
She stifled the instinctive urge to move backward and maintain the distance between them. “What is wrong with governesses?”
“Not a cursed thing.” His hands settled on her waist, and he yanked her into his tall, hard body. “Except when you frown at me and you get all proper and stubborn and you are wearing that virginal white nightdress, it makes me want to do wicked things to you.”
Wicked things.
Her hands settled on his chest, but she could not, for the life of her, make herself push him away. What if she wanted him to do those wicked things to her? His warmth and sculpted muscle were deliciously tempting with only the thin layer of his shirt to keep her from touching his bare flesh. His scent invaded her senses: citrus, musk, and the fa
intest hint of spirits.
“What wicked things?” she dared to ask, though she knew it was a dangerous question to pose at this time of night when she was alone with her new husband and he was watching her as she imagined a predator did his prey.
The grin he gave her did strange things to her insides. “Help me with my shirt like a good little wife, and mayhap I will show you.”
“I am not your valet,” she protested weakly.
But something—some part of her that was entirely foreign and previously unknown—made her want to pull each button from its mooring. Made her want to divest him of his shirt.
Made her want to kiss him.
Oh dear.
“But you are my wife now.” The hands on her waist caressed, then slid to her bottom.
Filling his hands with her, he pulled her more firmly against him. She could feel the thick ridge of his manhood against her belly. An answering surge of molten heat pooled in her core.
“What are you doing?” she asked, irritated with herself for the breathlessness in her own voice and the way she could not seem to control her reaction to him.
“Persuading you to undress me,” he said, and then his mouth was upon hers.
Chapter Fifteen
I am a wicked, sinful man, dear reader. A man you should never, ever trust.
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
Her lips were so soft and giving and warm beneath his. Her rump was two delicious handfuls. Her curves melted into him.
Kissing her should not feel so good.
Sin had been determined to avoid his new wife for the entirety of the day. Decker’s taunts had kept him from returning. Instead, he had spent his time dining, drinking, and playing billiards with his old friend. Keeping himself from returning to his wife’s side like a well-trained mongrel.
He was a mongrel.
But he was not trained, by God.
Except, the moment he had seen Callie standing on the threshold in her simple white nightdress, looking deliciously innocent, all his good intentions had fled. She had wondered where he had been. Had she been jealous? Had she cared? Worried after him?
Why should he give a damn?
He did not know, other than that he did. He gave a damn about her. He liked her. He wanted her. He had been hungering for her all day. Even as he had distracted himself with drink and good company and Decker’s collection of erotic art, she had never been far from his mind.
He feasted upon her lips now as if he could devour them. And the darkness within him wanted to. He wanted to tear her virginal night rail off her luscious body, carry her to his bed, and fuck her all night long.
But she was likely sore, and he could not treat her as if she were no better than a common strumpet. Instead, he would have to settle for kissing her. And for making her come. He wanted her in his bed again tonight, and Decker could go to the devil. Nothing was going to stop him from taking what he wanted.
Taking what was his.
Her lips moved, kissing him back. Her tongue glided against his.
Her head drew back, ending the kiss before it had properly begun, a frown marring her forehead. “You taste of whisky.”
“How do you know what whisky tastes like?” he demanded, though he knew he should not be surprised.
His new wife was no ordinary English rose. She wore trousers and had been painted in dishabille by Moreau.
“In the ordinary way,” she returned. “By drinking it.”
“I had some whisky after dinner,” he admitted.
And before dinner, as well, but she need not know that. He was not a souse, and he did not often over-imbibe. Indeed, the last time he had done so had been in the wake of Celeste’s death over a year ago.
“You had dinner and whisky with your friend,” Callie said, emphasizing the word. “Whilst I remained here alone, uncertain whether or not you would return?”
“Jealous, love?” he asked, unable to refrain from taunting her. In truth, he had supposed she would be relieved to be rid of him.
After all, she hated him, even if her body responded to his quite well.
She bit her lower lip. “No. Of course not. Why would I be?”
He groaned. “Stop torturing your lips, woman.”
Her frown deepened. “I am not yours to order about.”
“You are mine now, and if you do not cease nibbling at your lips, I will have to give them quarter the only way I know how.”
His cock was ridiculously hard. He ought to have drowned himself in whisky. Perhaps then he would not be so desperate to be inside her again.
Before she could say anything, he kissed her. Why was she so irresistible? Why could he not keep his distance? Exercise some restraint?
She had spent the previous night in his bed. He would be lying if he said he had not known a stab of disappointment when he had entered his chamber this evening and found she was not waiting for him. His reaction to her did not make sense, and he knew it. He had shared a bed with lovers before her. There was nothing special about the act, about the woman.
And yet, he had found her presence oddly comforting. Pleasant.
He kissed her with bruising force, wanting to punish her for the way she made him feel. But all he succeeded in doing was heightening his own desire for her. She kissed him back with equal abandon, her tongue gliding foraying into his mouth. Good God, he was not sure which of them was teaching the other a lesson.
The need to pleasure her rose within him, surpassing all else. Consuming him.
He released his grip on her tempting derriere and scooped her into his arms, intending to get her into his bed before she could attempt to escape him. Her mouth jerked from his, ending the kiss.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “Put me down at once.”
He made it to his bed in three strides. “As you wish, princess.”
Sin tossed her lightly. Manhandling her was pathetically easy—she was so damned small compared to his hulking frame. She landed in the center of the bed with a feminine squeak.
“I am not…giving you husbandly rights this evening,” she protested, scrambling to her knees.
She intended to put up a fight. He was not surprised. Anticipation jolted through him. The hem of her night rail was trapped around her thighs, baring her knees. She was creamy perfection. Not helping his cockstand to abate at all, that sight. Her hair was a wild, dark halo of riotous curls around her face, streaming down her shoulders and back.
He remembered how it had felt in his fingers, silken and cool. How it had felt wrapped around his fingers, too.
“Calm yourself, Callie,” he told her with a composure that belied the fire coursing through his veins. He began slipping the buttons on his shirt free, one by one. “I have no intention of bedding you tonight. You are likely sore, are you not? Do you think me an unfeeling cad?”
Her cheeks darkened to a pretty shade of pink. “My lord!”
He grinned. Her embarrassment was strangely endearing.
“Sin,” he reminded her as he shed his shirt.
Stripping it off was likely unfair, he knew. He had not failed to note the manner in which her brown-gold gaze had lingered previously upon his chest. He could not deny he found her interest pleasing.
“Sin, I must insist you not speak of such personal matters aloud,” she said, her prim governess voice returning.
The dichotomy of proper Callie with the flushed cheeks and the wild woman who kissed him with such skilled ferocity intrigued him. He had supposed their union would be bloodless and cold and marked with their mutual hatred.
But their hatred had sparked flames of a different sort.
And this was one particular inferno he did not mind being scorched by.
He unbuttoned the fall of his trousers next. “There is my prudish governess once more. Will you not undo a few buttons, love? I fear your night rail will choke you in your sleep, that endless line all the way up your throat.”
“There is nothing wrong with
my nightdress,” she argued, fingering the lacey frills at her throat. “Aunt Fanchette said husbands prefer their wives to be clothed modestly when they sleep. She chose this herself.”
He could not stifle his laugh. “How the devil does Aunt Feather-wit know what husbands prefer from their wives when she has never had a husband herself?”
Her little white teeth emerged yet again, nibbling at her lip. “You must not call her that dreadful name. It is disrespectful. Aunt Fanchette is the only female relative I have to guide me, with my brother and his wife still on their honeymoon.”
True. But he would be damned if he would allow himself to entertain even a drop of remorse for denying her the chance to receive wifely guidance from her new sister-in-law. Had they tarried, Westmorland would have done something to interfere with the wedding. Of that, Sin had no doubt.
He removed his trousers in one swift move, and then bent to pull off his stockings as well. “Do me a favor, wife? Cease relying upon the advice of Aunt Featherbrains, will you?”
“Aunt Fanchette,” she snapped, her gaze traveling down his chest to his torso.
When it dipped lower still, his cock twitched. His erection was tenting his bloody smalls, and he knew it. If he were a gentleman, he would turn away or adjust himself. Do something to ease her discomfit. Think about kittens and puppies and elderly dowagers to kill his cockstand.
Instead, he whipped his smalls away as well, standing before her nude, his prick at attention. He ached to stroke himself. To take himself in hand while she watched. To do everything wicked with her. But this was only their second night as husband and wife. No need to debauch her entirely just yet.
They had time.
The rest of their lives.
“Do you truly want to talk about Aunt Fanchette at the moment?” he asked politely as he turned down the gas lamps.
“What are you doing?” she sputtered.
So full of objection and shocked outrage this evening, his little wife. Last night, she had been naked and wanton in his bed, wet and sweet beneath his tongue.
Bathed in darkness, he settled into the bed.
“Going to sleep,” he told her. “The hour is late.”
Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1) Page 17
