Chapter 11

If you feel pity for the Countess of Sin, dear reader, pray try to banish it. She is not worthy of your concern. She earned her death by daring to desecrate our marriage vows with the Duke of W. I would kill them both again if I could.

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

"You look as if you are being sent to the gallows," observed the Earl of Sinclair.

Callie kept her gaze upon the hands in her lap, which clenched the silken skirts of her wedding gown. There was a thin, golden band upon her finger that felt more like a prisoner's irons than a lifelong promise to love and obey. Her white gloves hid the ring. But she felt it there, burning her as if it were a brand.

She was too numb to speak, to even offer a response.

Earlier that morning, she had spoken her vows in the drawing room at Westmorland House. The occasion had been presided over by Aunt Fanchette, Lady Jo, and a small handful of other friends from the Lady's Suffrage Society, followed by a small wedding breakfast. There had not been time to arrange for a church, and it had seemed fitting to Callie to marry in the only place she had ever felt truly at home. Fitting, too, to begin her new life in a place of familiar comfort.

She had the sinking feeling that comfort would be the last she would know for some time.

"It is going to be an awkward marriage indeed if you do not deign to speak to me," Lord Sinclair added, his tone wry.

She rolled her lips inward and held her tongue, saying nothing. What could she say? The days had blurred together, passing by too quickly, until she had collided, headlong, with her unwanted fate.

She was married to the man seated opposite her in the Westmorland carriage. Her new husband had not possessed the funds to provide an adequate conveyance. He had nothing more than the dilapidated barouche and one mount. Ironically, it was Lewis, the coachman he had left with the splitting headache back in an alleyway near her former publisher's office, who was driving them to Sinclair's townhouse.

Her new home.

Not that it would feel like home.

Lord Sinclair gave an irritated sigh to accompany the sound of him strumming his long fingers upon his thigh. "Have you nothing to say, wife?"

Wife.

Yes, she was that. To him. To a man she still did not dare trust. A man who had once been her nemesis. A man she did not know, beyond the span of a week and a few, turbulent kisses. To say nothing of a forced carriage ride and an overnight abduction…

She stifled a shudder. She would be damned before she would show him a single weakness.

"Damn you, speak to me," he growled.

She met his gaze at last, startled by the intensity she saw reflected in his countenance. His jaw was rigid, his dark eyes sparkling. "What would you have me say, my lord? You have gotten what you wanted. You will have my fortune, such as it is. I must bear your touch until I present you with an heir. There seems hardly anything worth speaking about."

His expression shifted. "You must bear my touch?"

Suggesting she was unaffected by him was a lie, and she knew it. But she did it to spite him. "Yes. Just as I said."

"Come here," he told her in a voice of silken menace.

Molten heat pooled between her thighs. She pressed them together, doing her utmost to banish the unworthy sensation. She could not afford to want the Earl of Sinclair. Not when she could not be sure she could trust him.

"No," she denied, fixing him with a challenging stare.

She was not his to order about.

His nostrils flared, the sole indication of his irritation. For a few moments, the carriage swayed over the congested London street, the only sound between them the jangling of tack and the noises of the city beyond the enclosure of their conveyance.

And then, he struck. Fast as lightning, his hands clamped upon her waist. He hauled her across the carriage. The voluminous skirts of the gown Aunt Fanchette had chosen for her and the petticoats beneath tangled as she landed in his lap.

His hand curled around her neck, holding her still. "Your defiance is futile, darling."

Her hands settled upon his broad shoulders as the carriage hit a rut and swayed, nearly sending her sprawling. "I am not your darling. Release me."

"Kiss me first."

His order stole the breath from her. She stared down into the harsh planes of his handsome face, certain she had misheard him. "I beg your pardon?"

"No." He gave her a grim smile. "I beg yours. You said you must bear my touch. Prove how detestable you find me. Kiss me now and show me you feel nothing at all."

The sensation between her thighs flared into something bigger, bolder, brighter, hotter. She was pulsing. Aching. All from his nearness, his body beneath hers, the mere suggestion of a kiss. His scent hit her—citrus, musk, man.

Sin.

No. She refused to think of him as that.

He was the Earl of Sinclair to her. Enemy. Captor.

Husband.

The last word shook her more than she would ever admit, even to herself. Enough of his foolish games. She had married him, but she was not his chattel. He could not order her to do his bidding.

"I do not want to kiss you," she told him stiffly, pushing at his chest in an effort to slide from his lap and return to her side of the carriage.

Where it was safe.

"Liar," he accused softly.

His lips quirked into a knowing smile. She could not seem to keep her stare from them. From that perfectly sculpted mouth, that broad jaw. Merciful heavens, even the delineation of his philtrum was perfection.

She wetted her own lips. "You are acting the boor."

"Perhaps I am a boor." He cocked his head, watching her with a heavy-lidded gaze that did strange things to her insides. "Or perhaps you are afraid to kiss me, Calliope. Mayhap you are afraid you will like it."

Of course she would like it.

She had every time thus far.

Not that she would admit it to him. She hated even admitting it to herself, for it still felt like a betrayal to Alfred. To everything she had spent the last year believing.

"I am not afraid of you, Lord Sinclair," she denied.

And yet, she remained oh-so-very aware of his muscled frame beneath her. The haste of his movements had meant that she was seated in most unladylike fashion, her bottom wedged against the thick ridge of his manhood.

She squirmed, trying to get away. The action was instinctive, and yet it only served to grind her down upon him.

"Keep moving," he gritted, "and see what happens."

Her cheeks went hot. Indeed, she was reasonably certain that every part of her had been spontaneously engulfed in carnal flame. What was the matter with her? She had no right to feel an ache deep in her core. Her breasts were heavy, her nipples sensitive and hard against the stiffness of her corset. And his breath fanned over her lips. His eyes threatened to devour her whole.

She went still. "Lord Sinclair, you must release me."

"Sin," he said in that deep, wicked baritone of his.

It was gruff and yet smooth as velvet, all at once.

She felt it like a caress. Her tongue flitted over her suddenly dry lower lip, and his gaze followed the movement.

"What about sin?" she asked, breathless, even though she knew what he was asking of her.

She had merely blindly seized upon an excuse to delay the inevitable. Or to invent a distraction. A means by which she could escape.

You do not want to escape, taunted a wicked voice inside her.

Oh, how she hated the voice. Because it was right.

"That is my name," he said. "I would hear it on your lips. There is no need for formality now that we are husband and wife. Indeed, I dare say there was never a need for formality between us."

There was every need. Formality made it easier for her to cling to her defenses. The Earl of Sinclair was the man she had believed guilty for so long, the man she had loathed, the man against whom she had plotted her revenge. But Sin? Well, Sin was a different man entirely. The word itself was tempting. Wrong. Wicked.

She forced herself to recall that his former mistress, the beautiful duchess, had called him Sin.

"No," she countered, "that is not your name. No one is named Sin."

"It has been mine for as long as I can recall. Say it, princess."

"Justin," she said. For she knew his Christian name now. She had watched him sign it in his slanted, distinctive scrawl.

He tensed beneath her. "No one calls me that."

"Justin or Lord Sinclair," she said stubbornly, somehow feeling as if the distinction mattered, even if she did not know why. "Which would you prefer?"

"Sin," he repeated.

"Sin," she spat. "There, are you satisfied? Now let me go."

"Not until you kiss me."

The carriage rocked to a halt.

"We have arrived at our destination," she argued, pushing at his chest again. "This is unseemly. Let me go."

"Too afraid?" he asked calmly, lifting a hand from her waist to stroke her cheek.

Curse him.She could not bear to allow him to believe he scared her, or that she did not possess enough control to kiss him and feel nothing. Even if both were, in part, true.

"Never," she vowed.

He ran the backs of his fingers over her skin. Although he wore gloves, there was something about the caress that stole her breath. Gave her pause. There was a surprising tenderness in that touch. In his expression. She did not know what to do with it.

But he had left her with little choice. With a deep inhalation, she lowered her head and sealed her lips to his.

Her defiance.

Her mouth.

Fuck, the weight of her in his lap.

Those dark, flashing eyes, that cloud of mahogany hair.

Everything about her was driving him to the brink. Sin had never wanted a woman more than he wanted Lady Calliope Manning. Strike that—Calliope, Countess of Sinclair.

His wife.

How surreal it seemed. Today was a day of victory. The culmination of the battle he had waged with her. He had won. But she was not about to surrender. He knew that much. Strangely, he found the notion of her fighting him erotic as hell.

Mayhap that was why lust was crashing over him like waves on a storm-tossed sea. That, and her lips. They moved over his, soft and hard at once. He could almost taste her rebellion. He remained still, allowing her to kiss him, waiting for her to retreat.

But she did not.

Instead, she kissed him harder. Deeper. She was the one in control. The hands on his chest slid around his neck. She knew how to kiss, his new wife. And well. The thought had occurred to him before, at Helston Hall, but it returned to him now, along with a sharp stab of something akin to jealousy. Someone had taught her.

And that someone had not been Sin.

Perhaps she was not even a virgin.

The possibility had occurred to him before. There were all the rumors about her and the artist in Paris, to say nothing of her former betrothed. He would worry about that later, when he came to her chamber.

For now, he simply allowed her to kiss him, careful to keep his lips still. Careful not to respond. The fight to win her as his bride was over, but a greater war was about to begin. And Sin had every intention of winning this one as well.

Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, seeking entrance.

With a kittenish sound of frustration, she broke the kiss, staring down at him. "You are not kissing me back."

"Make me," he challenged her.

Her eyes widened. "What manner of game is this, my lord?"

"Sin," he reminded her. "No game. If you want me to kiss you back, you will have to do better than the tepid effort you have put forth thus far."

How he loved taunting her. In truth, there was nothing tepid about her perfect mouth on his. Nothing tepid about her. She set him on fire.

The driver gave a discreet knock on the door.

"Not yet," Sin called, keeping his gaze locked upon Calliope's.

For a moment, she remained as she was, frozen in his lap, and he thought she would retreat. Suddenly, she caught his face in her gloved hands and slanted her lips over his. This kiss was as skilled as the others that had come before, but it was aggressive. Almost forceful. She bit his lower lip.

His cock twitched.

This time, she did not draw blood as she had done at Helston Hall when she bit him. Rather, she exercised sensual precision. He opened, and her tongue swept inside his mouth. His restraint fled, as did his ability to resist her.

Sin kissed her back with all the burgeoning need inside him, the need that had begun as a spark in this very carriage and had grown into a raging inferno. Her tongue glided against his. He sucked on it, drawing it deeper into his mouth.

His hands were in her hair, cupping the base of her skull. He was no longer keeping her imprisoned in his lap. Instead, he was angling her so he could devour her back with every bit as much ferocity. He poured all his fury and his pent-up desire into this meeting of mouths.

A groan tore from him when she writhed on his lap. Her bottom, separated from him by her underpinnings and gown, was still a delicious temptation against his raging cockstand. She kissed him harder, knocking his hat off his head and sinking her gloved fingers into his hair.

He wanted nothing more than to lift her skirts and ram his cock deep inside her.

But he could not do that.

With great reluctance, he broke the kiss, gratified at Calliope's ragged breaths and the dazed expression on her lovely face. Her lips were swollen from kissing him, her cheeks flushed, her pupils huge in her gold-flecked eyes.

"I suppose that shall do," he drawled. "For now."

His gibe stole the sensual stupor from her countenance. "You are an arrogant oaf."

Yes, he was. And he was going to enjoy having her beneath him later.

"You had better get off me, darling," he said. "Unless you want me to consummate our union right here in this carriage for the first time? I do hate to keep the servants waiting, however."

The scarlet flush on her cheeks deepened, and it blossomed down her creamy throat. He would have liked to open her bodice and see if it reached her pretty breasts. But that, too, would have to wait until this evening.

"Scoundrel," she hissed, sliding from his lap and attempting to straighten her skirts into some semblance of order.

He wanted to haul her back into his lap and kiss her senseless. Her discomfiture was bloody adorable.

The thought left him bemused. Since when did he find anything to do with the woman who had done her damnedest to ruin him adorable? Since when had he been this desperate to sink his cock inside a woman?

Never, taunted a voice within.

A voice he stifled as he leaned forward and rapped on the carriage door. "We are ready to disembark."

Feeling grim, he slammed his hat back atop his head. He would have to steel himself against this rampaging desire he felt for her. He must not lose sight of the reason for their marriage—her ruthless act of vengeance against him for sins he had never committed. He could not trust her. Did not dare want her too much.

She was a means to an end.

He would have her dowry and her body. That was all he required.

The door to the carriage opened to reveal that the ominous-looking clouds which had been hanging overhead since dawn had decided to open up and vent their fury at last. There was a raging downpour flooding the streets. Somehow, he had been too caught up in Calliope to even take note.

"Your new home awaits you, Lady Sinclair," he told her mockingly.

It was fitting, he thought, to be greeted by a deluge.

"I can hardly wait," she said, her voice as grim as her countenance.