Chapter 12

Of all the vices I have enjoyed, the sins of the flesh are my favorite, dear reader.

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

Callie found herself in the countess's apartments, soaking in warm water up to her chin. She had grown accustomed to the bathrooms at Westmorland House—the height of modern convenience. Warm water at the tap whenever she wished. A chamber specifically designed for the bath, with a water closet. Her new home had no such amenities. The footman and the coachman had hauled the tub into the center of her room and filled it to the brim with buckets of water heated in the kitchens below.

At least her lady's maid, Whitmore, had brought her oils, soaps, and perfumes. And after the exhausting day she had experienced, she was pleased to finally have some time alone. Upon their arrival in the midst of the storm, she had been introduced to the small number of domestics in Lord Sinclair's employ. She had been permitted some time with her lady's maid in her new quarters to settle herself.

And then, Callie had been given a tour of the townhome by the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Lufton. An abridged tour, she thought with a frown as she rested her arms on the lip of the tub and closed her eyes. There was a chamber she had not been shown. When Callie had questioned the reason, Mrs. Lufton had politely informed her that his lordship did not wish for the tour to include that chamber.

With his lordship nowhere to be found, Callie had been forced to accept the odd explanation. Inwardly, she had vowed to find out what was hiding on the other side of the chamber door as soon as possible. Or at the very least to confront her new husband about it.

Following her introduction to the skeletal staff he had retained, Lord Sinclair had disappeared. She had been irked at his abandonment of her. She still could not entirely say why. It ought to have suited her to be free of his unwanted presence.

But by the time he had joined her at dinner, she had been quite cross with him. He had treated her with cool politeness as the servants waited upon them. Dinner had hardly been an impressive affair. His cook was not nearly as talented as Rochelieu, the chef her brother employed at Westmorland House.

Sinclair had accused Callie of being spoiled once. She had not believed herself spoiled in the least. But a few hours into her new life as the Countess of Sinclair, she was beginning to realize just how right the earl had been. His townhome, like the crumbling ancestral pile to which he had spirited her, was in desperate need of repair.

It seemed to have been robbed of everything of value. The missing pictures—evidenced by the squares and rectangles where the wall coverings were new and brilliant rather than faded—were not limited to the main hall. Here in the countess's chamber, the walls were utterly bereft of ornamentation. There was no silver in sight. The carpets were threadbare. There were not enough servants for a house of this size.

Callie sighed. Her work as the mistress of this dilapidated townhome seemed insurmountable. She would need to hire a chef and countless other domestics, replace the carpets and wall coverings…the entire, once-proud edifice was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning, from below stairs to the attics.

To say nothing of the expectations the Earl of Sinclair would have.

She was expected to share his bed.

The night loomed before her, uncertain, distressing.

Tempting.

Her bath water had grown cool. Reluctantly, Callie rose and stepped from the tub. She could not hide within it forever. Reaching for a towel, she thought again of those kisses in the carriage. Callie did not know what had happened to her. His challenge had sent her over the edge, and she had forgotten herself. For those few, wild moments, she had been driven only by desire, by the undeniable attraction she felt for him.

Following dinner, the earl had informed her he had called for a bath in her chamber.

I will give you some time to prepare yourself for the evening, he had said.

The warning in his voice settled between her thighs now as a new pulse of yearning. She was turning into a wanton, and she could scarcely understand why or how. She still considered the Earl of Sinclair her enemy. Her body, however, did not.

Callie wrapped herself in the dressing gown her lady's maid had waiting for her. Simon would have been ashamed of her, if he could see her now. If he could see what she had become.

As she thought of the man who would forever own her heart, tears pricked at her eyes. She swore to herself that she would not allow them to fall. But she was weak, and one slid from her lashes, rolling down her cheek. For the first time since becoming the Countess of Sinclair that morning, she allowed herself to mourn what she had lost.

Her wedding day would have been two years prior. She would have been married before everyone she loved. Alfred would have been there. She would have had a society wedding, filled with laughter and happiness. Perhaps she would have even been a mother by now, had the future she had planned for herself not been so viciously stolen away with Simon's death. Instead, he had gone to Italy to ease his constitution, and he had returned in a coffin.

"Contemplating the rest of your life as my wife, princess?"

The grim drawl at her back took her by complete surprise. Callie spun around, a startled shriek escaping her.

"What are you doing in here?" she demanded, shocked at the sight of him standing before her, clad in nothing more than a dark-blue dressing gown that was belted loosely at his waist.

A mesmerizing sliver of his chest was visible. Strong, muscled, and covered in a smattering of dark hair. She did her best to ignore the pulse of yearning he brought to life within her once more. The arresting sight of his masculine beauty meant nothing to her, she told herself. He was so unfairly handsome, but other men were handsome, too. Simon had been, with his tousled, golden curls and his deep-blue eyes.

The man who should have been her husband and the man she had married could not be more different. The contrast had never been so vivid. The Earl of Sinclair's dark beauty made her heart pound and her breath hitch in her chest.

"I knocked." His searing gaze traveled over her. "You did not answer. I was worried."

She had heard no knock on the door adjoining their chambers. But it was possible that she had been too lost in her tumultuous emotions and musings to hear.

Still, his heated stare reminded her she was naked beneath her dressing gown. She folded her arms protectively over her breasts. Belatedly, the last of his words dawned upon her.

"You were worried," she repeated, disbelief lacing her voice.

"Yes." He sauntered nearer, not stopping until he stood before her.

She did not want his admission of concern to mean anything. It was not as if he cared about her. He had married her for her dowry and to gain revenge against her for Confessions of a Sinful Earl.

Callie raised a brow, clinging to all the calm she possessed. "Did you fear I had attempted to flee through the window again?"

"The notion did cross my mind, I confess." He startled her even more then by reaching out and catching one of her forgotten teardrops upon his thumb. "Why are you weeping, Lady Sinclair?"

"Do not call me that," she bit out. The name felt wrong. As if it belonged to someone else. She did not want it.

He brought the pad of his thumb to his mouth and sucked. "It is your name now. You must reconcile yourself to the choices you made, princess. You, alone, are the reason you are my wife."

Somehow, the sight of his sinful mouth sucking up her sorrow made her core tingle. There was something so very sensual about the Earl of Sinclair. His every move, every stare, word, and touch seemed alive with carnal intent.

"I am hardly alone in the reason," she reminded him pointedly. "If you had not held me captive and blackmailed me into marrying you, I would not be here now."

He inclined his head, watching her with that fathomless midnight gaze. "If you had not told the world I am a murderer and decimated my ability to secure a bride before I lost everything, I would not have had to marry you. No matter how you try to deflect, the paths all lead back to you, darling."

The way he called her darling was so cutting. Part of her knew she ought to fear him. He was a dangerous man. At least, she had spent the last year believing he was. Certainly, his actions thus far—abducting her, threatening her, forcing her into this unwanted union—suggested she had not been wrong.

And yet, he had never been cruel. He had never done her violence. Even when she had attacked him with the porcelain that night in the countryside, he had retaliated by kissing her. What a contradiction he was.

She did not like it. Nor did she like the way she responded to him. Especially when she remained so uncertain as to whether or not she could trust him.

"You are as guilty as I am," she insisted for the sake of her pride, and because she refused to shoulder all the blame for this marriage of inconvenience in which they now found themselves hopelessly mired. "I have yet to complete my preparations for this evening, my lord. Will you not leave so I may call for my lady's maid and finish in peace?"

"No."

She could scarcely believe him. "No?"

He was close enough that she could smell the sweet scent of port on his breath. At this proximity, he stole all the breath from her lungs. "Just as I said. No."

She forced herself to inhale. To speak.

"Do you intend to play lady's maid for me?" she demanded, the idea causing her equal amounts of outrage and titillation.

The consummation of their union loomed. She had never been entirely nude in the presence of a man before. Surely her fear of what was to come was the reason why her heart beat so madly now. Why her mouth had gone dry.

"I intend for you to tell me why you were crying when I entered," he said easily. "And then yes, I intend to assist you myself."

She had not anticipated such a response. So personal, so intimate, both of those answers.

"It is none of your affair," she snapped. "And I do not require your assistance. My lady's maid is more than capable of aiding me."

"Everything about you is my affair," he told her calmly, his stare never wavering. "You are my wife."

She could not look away from him, no matter how much she wanted to. He commanded all her attention. "You married me for my dowry. Why should you care?"

"Tell me."

His demand shook her. As did his presence. There was something about the Earl of Sinclair that was so different from every man she had ever known before him. Something strangely magnetic. Alluring. Her reaction to him outraged her. She needed to put some distance between them. She needed him to return to his chamber and leave her alone until she was ready to face him. He had caught her at her most vulnerable, and she did not like it. Callie would have to chase him the only way she knew how.

"I was thinking of Simon," she told him defiantly. "There. Are you satisfied? I was thinking of the wedding day I should have had. Of the husband I would have loved."

The earl's jaw tensed, but he did not go or fly into a rage as she had hoped he would. Instead, he remained where he was. "Love and marriage have nothing to do with each other, princess. Trust me. I have more than adequate experience in the matter. You shall be better off despising me from the start than had you married your beau. He would have only disappointed you or betrayed you, had he lived."

What a desolate view of marriage he had. "He loved me, and I loved him."

Sinclair's lip curled. "Love is a poison."

"Like the poison your wife swallowed to escape you?" she snapped.

The instant the question fled her lips, she regretted it. She was not a cruel woman; at least, she had not believed she was until this very moment. She had wanted to hurt him. Had wanted to cut him deep, because he had brought her to this point. He had forced her into this unwanted union. He made her want him when she should not. He made her weak. She had precious few defenses against him.

But his sudden pallor made her sick instead of filling her with triumph.

"Forgive me," she hastened to say. "That was unfeeling of me. I did not mean it."

Still, he did not go. "You meant it, Calliope. If you are going to be bold enough to strike, then do not pretend it was an accident."

His low voice shook her. Of the two of them, he was being calm and considerate, and she was the one being the ruthless beast. This was not the way it was supposed to happen.

"Very well." She held his gaze, unflinching. "I meant it. I do not trust you, my lord. I am not certain I ever will."

"Sin," he said. "Give me your comb."

His request took her by surprise. "I beg your pardon?"

"Your comb," he repeated. "Give it to me."

"I am perfectly capable of combing my own hair myself, my lord."

"It is Sin." He stalked past her then, and retrieved her comb himself.

She held herself stiffly as he returned, eying him warily.

"Justin," she said, hating the way the name Sin felt upon her lips, the way it made her tingle all over. Here was a victory she refused to give him. "Return to your chamber, if you please. You may visit me for your husbandly duties when I am ready."

"Is that how you imagined our union would be?" he asked, sounding amused as he stood behind her and began gently running the comb through her wet locks. "That you would snap your pretty fingers, and I would do whatever you wished of me?"

Of course that was not how she imagined their union would be. Nothing about the Earl of Sinclair suggested he was a man who would do her bidding. She maintained her silence as he worked, trying to ignore the unsettled way his commanding presence felt at her back.

When he finished his task, he brushed her hair over her left shoulder, and then his hands settled upon her. His fingers found her muscles, massaging. Good heavens, it was as if he knew inherently how to find all the places where her tension dwelled.

"You never answered my question, princess." Knowingly, he kneaded the tautness from her flesh. "Is it?"

She had forgotten what he had asked.

"Go away," she said without heat. In truth, his ministrations felt delicious. She was conflicted and confused and so very aware of him. Of his masculinity, his intensity, his sensuality.

This was all new. So very, very new.

"I am not going anywhere, darling," he warned, but there was no threat in his voice now. Only pure, wicked seduction. "You seem to be confused, so allow me to enlighten you. You are mine now. You are no longer Lady Calliope Manning. You are Calliope, the Countess of Sinclair. If I want to play lady's maid for you, I will. If I want you to call me Sin, you shall. From this day forward, your life changes, wife."

It already had. From the moment he had first stolen into her carriage, her life had changed. It would never be the same. Nor, she suspected, would she. He expected her surrender, utterly and completely. She was going to fight him. She had to fight him. But she also had to fight herself.

"I am not so easily commanded," she warned him on a gasp as his fingers found a particularly sensitive place near her neck.

"We will see about that," he promised. "Bow your head."

She obeyed, because she did not want to forego his hands upon her. Because she was weak. Her head tipped forward. He continued working the muscles of her neck in slow, steady motions. His long fingers upon her felt good. So good.

Too good.

"Stop fretting," he crooned. "Give yourself over to me, princess."

"How can I?" she shot back, even as she allowed him free reign of her body.

What was the point of denying him? His touch was not at all unwanted, much to her everlasting shame. He worked his way over her shoulders once more with skilled caresses. She found herself exhaling, some of the tension leaving her body. For a long time, there was no sound save her own, relaxed breaths mingling with his. No sensation but his touch.

"You see?" His mouth was devastatingly near to her ear. His lips grazed her as he spoke. "It is easy to give yourself to me. I have no wish to hurt you. Contrary to what you think about me, I am not a beast."

He kissed her ear, and then there was the hot, wet glide of his tongue over her. Dipping behind her ear, to a place she had not even known could appreciate touch. The mellow glow of pleasant sensation hovering over her vanished. Instead, a white-hot rush of longing shot to her core. The place between her thighs ached with unanswered longing. Her breaths emerged in heavy pants.

"I do not trust you," she said.

"Does it feel like I will hurt you, Calliope?" he asked.

She did not dare answer him, lest he stop. Lest she reveal too much. If she had been conflicted before, she was even more hopelessly confused now.

His hands traveled down her upper arms, and then, abruptly, his touch left her momentarily before returning somewhere else. Somewhere far more intimate. He cupped her breasts in both hands. His fingers found her nipples, rolling and plucking through the thin fabric of her dressing gown.

Pleasure washed over her.

"You are going too far," she forced herself to warn.

But she made no move to halt him. Her eyes slid closed once more. She surrendered to feeling. To his masterful touch. He pulled on her nipples and nuzzled her neck. Instinctively, she tilted her head to the side, giving him better access. He required no prodding. In an instant, his mouth was upon the tender cords of her throat, feasting. Kissing, sucking, nibbling.

"Shall I stop?" he asked, his voice husky and laden with the same desire she felt coursing through her veins.

Never, said that traitorous voice within.

"If you wish," she forced out, her pride taking the reins.

"Do you truly want me to stop?" He sucked on her flesh.

She stifled a moan. His hands had stilled on her breasts. Her nipples ached with the need to be touched. Every part of her was alive in a way it had never before been. His presence at her back, his mouth on her throat, his touch upon her body—it was nothing short of glorious. Nothing could have prepared her for this carnal onslaught.

He removed his hands then, his lips, too.

"Answer me," he demanded at her back.

His tone brooked no argument. He was giving no quarter.

"No," she whispered.

"No what, princess? You will have to be more specific. I want to be certain I understand you."

"No, I do not want you to stop," she gritted.

The admission was torn from her.

Her reward arrived in the form of his long fingers expertly opening her robe, leaving it gaping, and his hands, returning to cup her breasts. Bare skin upon bare skin this time. His fingers toyed with her aching nipples. She exhaled the breath she had not realized she had been holding. She liked his hands upon her.

Heaven help her.

"I have been waiting all day to do this," he murmured in her ear, catching the lobe between his teeth.

Simultaneously, his right hand slid down her belly, gliding over her in the whisper of a caress. He paused for a moment, so very near to her center and all the frustrated longing building within her.

And then, his hand settled over her.

The shock of his touch there was electric. She nearly jolted away from him. Her instinctive reaction was to press her thighs together, but all that accomplished was trapping his hand.

"Relax," he coaxed.

How could she do so when he was touching her there? In her most intimate place? When her entire body felt as if it were doused in flame?

"What are you doing?" she asked, breathless. Frozen. Unable to move. His hand remained wedged between her legs.

She should shove him away. Release her grip on him. Flee. But she could not.

"Touching my wife," he whispered in her ear.

His finger moved, gliding through her folds, sending sensation skittering through her. His thumb found an incredibly sensitive place and pressed.

She moaned.

The sound was foreign. Embarrassing.

She wished she could call it back, but the earl—Sin—was doing wicked things to her. Things she had never known she would want.

"I told you, I am not ready," she managed to say.

His other hand remained on her breast, caressing, toying with the hardened peak. His thumb moved again. He licked behind her ear. "Relax your legs for me, sweet. I want to touch you properly."

She swallowed. There was more? She could not even fathom it. Her heart was racing. The ache in her core grew by the second.

"Leave me to prepare myself," she pleaded, even though it was not what she wanted.

He had started a fever within her.

"Relax," he insisted, kissing her neck. His thumb grazed over that delicious place again.

She could not resist. Her body took control of her mind completely. She unclenched her thighs.

He made a low growl of approval, and then he shifted. His fingers found the place where his thumb had been, and he swirled them over her. "Good wife."

His praise should have irritated her. She knew she ought to be putting up more of a fight rather than surrendering with such wanton ease. But the things he was doing to her, the pleasure radiating from the place where he touched her, astounded Callie.

Instead of protesting, she pressed her back to his lean form, resting her head against his chest. She was every bit as much his captive now as she had been the day he had taken her from London.

"Tell me now," he murmured against her throat, "how does it feel? Does it feel like I will hurt you? Does it feel like I am a monster?"

No. It felt…

She searched for a word that could aptly describe the sensations building inside her.

Wicked. Good. Delicious. Sinful.

Somehow, the only word it ought to be—wrong—occurred to her last.

His fingers stilled, remaining on her, but ceasing their magical feats. "I cannot hear you, princess. How does it feel when I touch you here, when I pet your cunny? Do you like it?"

She wanted to tell him she did not like it, but she could not form the words. He resumed playing with her, rubbing harder and faster, and the raw pleasure inside her continued to build. Her breaths were ragged. She felt as if she were seeking something, but she did not know what it was.

He sucked on her skin. "Say the words or I shall stop again. Tell me you like it, and I will make you come."

Callie knew what those vulgar words he had just uttered meant. Or, at least, she thought she did. The fast company she had kept in Paris had left her with knowledge no gently bred lady ought to possess. But there were words, and then there were actions. Nothing could have prepared her for ecstasy. Mere words could not possibly do it justice.

"Justin," was all she could manage.

"Say my name." He kissed her ear, her jaw. "Ask me to make you come."

He was depraved.

But she was desperate. She scarcely even recognized herself. She needed whatever he would give her. Needed more.

"Please, Sin," she forced out. "Make me come."

He resumed where he had left off, but this time, he increased his pace and pressure on her sex. "You are learning, wife. Now kiss me like you did earlier in the carriage."

She turned her head, and there was his handsome, wicked face. There were his beautiful lips. His gaze glittered in the low light. She was going to give him what he wanted. Because she wanted it, too.

Callie slammed her lips on his, kissing him hard. He groaned, the hand that had been on her breast moving to tangle in her hair and hold her still. His fingers tightened, angling her head to where he wanted her, and he deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue into her mouth. He was torturing her, the hand between her legs pleasuring her with insistent, carnal demand.

Everything inside her tightened. She felt as if she was going to burst.

And then she did. The most astounding sensation hit her. Pure, delicious bliss, so fierce it was almost painful. Something inside her clenched. She cried out into their kiss, and he answered her with a groan. The fusion of their mouths became furious.

She wrapped her arm around his neck, holding him to her. She did not care that she was surrendering to his seduction. Did not care about anything other than the exquisite pleasure throbbing between her thighs and the connection of their lips.

Slowly, the desire ebbed. As the last ripples of her pinnacle undulated through her, he gentled the kiss, his pace on her sex slowing. Until at last, he tore his mouth from hers. They stared at each other, their breathing equally ragged.

She wondered what he saw reflected in her countenance. What she saw in his was a man caught in the throes of desire. It made her feel powerful. It made her want more.

"The time has come," he rasped.