Chapter 6

You may find yourself wondering, dear reader, whether I ever thought about the lives I had so ruthlessly ended. The answer may well shock you, for I did not.

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

Sin's first indication that something was amiss came in the form of Lady Calliope Manning's grumbled curses.

The woman had a filthy mouth.

But of course, he already knew that, having read the drivel she had attempted to pin on him. The bit about the orgy had been most riveting, but now was not the time to reminisce.

The second indication arrived in the form of her squeal and the sound of rending fabric.

Bloody fucking hell.

What was the maddening creature doing now? He did not bother to knock. He threw open the door and was instantly greeted by the sight of the she-devil's rump framed by the window casement. Her gown was torn, having been hooked on the hinges, and she looked as if she were about to jump.

He was not about to have her death upon his conscience. If the fool jumped, she would break her damned neck.

"What the hell are you doing?" he demanded, crossing the chamber to where she dangled herself from the window.

"Getting away from you by the only means possible," she retorted, but her voice was tense.

He did not miss the fear.

She was terrified.

And well she ought to be. There was nothing to break her fall below save a pair of decrepit Grecian urns.

He caught her around the waist and hauled her back into the chamber. "Plummeting to your imminent demise is more like. Have you no wits in that pretty head of yours? There is no way to descend to the ground below save jumping, and jumping from this height will only have one outcome."

She was trembling in his arms as he pulled her away from the window. The skirt of her gown tore more as he shifted her, ripping a strip off it entirely. But he had hacked off one of her sleeves the day before, so the dress was already fit for the dustbin. The proof of her terror left him oddly shaken. And furious.

"Plummeting to my demise seemed a better fate than remaining trapped here with a madman," she bit out, her hands clawing at his as the fight returned to her. "Release me, you oaf. You have ripped my gown."

"You ripped it yourself with your ill-fated attempt at playing a bird," he observed, spinning her about so they were face-to-face.

Her eyes were wide, framed by lashes that were impossibly long. "Return me to London, and I will not tell a soul what you have done."

Did she truly believe she was the one who possessed the bargaining power between them?

His grip on her waist tightened. "I will return you to London after you have agreed to become my wife."

"Then I suppose we shall both remain here for all eternity!" Her gaze flashed with defiant fire.

Even after almost falling to her death, she remained stubborn as ever. He supposed he ought not to be surprised. The woman had been fighting him at every turn. Clearly, his plan was going to require some additional effort. Spiriting her from London had not had the intended effect of forcing her hand.

Instead, she had been all the more determined to flee him.

Her bosom was heaving with her breaths. She was glorious in her ire, in her bravery. He could not deny it. Lady Calliope Manning was a ravishing creature. Infuriating. Wrongheaded. Vicious, too. But there was something about her that fanned the fires of desire within him into raging, blistering flames.

"Eternity is a long time to wait," he told her with a calmness he little felt. "Too long for me to wait to secure a wife."

"Find a different wife," she spat, fighting him with renewed vigor.

"I would have," he gritted from between clenched teeth. "You chased them all away with your lurid tales and heartless lies."

That much was true, lest she had forgotten. She was the reason for this war.

But like earlier when they had been abed, her fight stirred the beast within him. Her spirited rebellion made his cock hard. Preposterous, especially since he detested her and what she had done. Nevertheless, it was true.

Her nostrils flared. "I would never have written those serials if you had not murdered my brother."

"A stalemate once more, my future beloved," he said. "As I have already informed you—ad nauseam—I did not harm your brother. Has it ever occurred to you that he alone was at fault for his demise? Perhaps he was soused or otherwise behaving in reckless fashion when he fell."

"Alfred was not reckless," she insisted.

"Says the woman who was attempting to leap from a window," he observed. "Have you never wondered, in all your fantasies about me, why I would have wanted to kill your brother? He had already been cuckolding me for months, and he was hardly the first to do so."

"The servants said you argued with him," she returned. "They heard raised voices. You left in a rage, they said."

Perhaps he had; in truth, he could not recall. The time after he had realized the depths of Celeste's betrayals remained something of a blur of drinking himself to oblivion and attempting to discover the extent of her debts.

Devastating, as it had turned out. She had sold off every jewel he had ever bought her. Even the Sinclair emeralds and rubies were gone.

"I did not like him, Lady Calliope, but I did not kill him." And then, because she was still squirming and attempting to get away, he did the reasonable thing.

He bent and scooped her over his shoulder.

"Put me down, you brute!" she screeched, pummeling his back with her dainty fists.

He swatted her bottom. "No. We are going to have breakfast, and you are going to listen to me. And no more attempts at jumping out the blasted window."

Callie glared at the Earl of Sinclair from across the battered kitchen table.

"Eat," he told her, gesturing to the plate he had placed before her.

Somehow, he had procured fruit and cheese and some delicious-smelling bread. Perhaps his accomplice, the man who had replaced Lewis as her driver? Whatever their origin, fresh strawberries had never looked more tempting than they did now, mocking her on a chipped piece of crockery.

She crossed her arms even as her stomach growled. "No."

He had even managed to make her what looked and smelled to be a passable cup of tea. Her lips were parched and her throat was dry, particularly after her near-demise earlier. As it turned out, attempting to leap from a second-floor window was not as excellent an escape option as she had supposed when she had been standing safely on the floor. Halfway out the window, she had not only gotten her dress hung up on the hinges of the casement, but she had also been assailed by a troubling burst of dizziness.

It had not been one of her finer moments.

Or one of her better ideas.

And it had ended in the Earl of Sinclair pulling her to safety and then hoisting her over his shoulder as if she were a sack of flour.

Also not one of her finer moments.

"You will eat, damn you," he growled. "I even made you some bloody tea."

Had he recalled her request the night before? It hardly seemed likely he would have gone out of his way to please her. After all, he made no effort to disguise his disdain for her.

"You cannot force sustenance down my throat," she told him brazenly.

In truth, he was wearing her down. Part of her dizziness had been down to the unexpected height of the fall from the window to the ground below. Nary even a tree in which to shimmy onto a branch. But the other part of her faintness was being caused by the lack of food and drink she had stubbornly enforced since the evening before.

"Do not tempt me, oh darling future wife." Grinning at her, he held a strawberry to his own lips and took a bite.

What was it about the sight of his sensual lips moving? Those white, even teeth flashing? There was nothing carnal about eating a strawberry, and the man before her was her sworn enemy. She ought not to be affected by the mere act of him breaking his fast. She ought not to think about those lips claiming hers.

About those kisses…

Those hated, awful kisses…

She frowned. "I am not your future wife."

"You love your brother, do you not?" he asked mildly, before taking another bite of the strawberry.

Callie clenched her jaw. "Of course I loved Alfred. That is why I wrote those memoirs. That is why I have been seeking vindication for his death."

His protestations that he had not been responsible for Alfred's death meant nothing to her. The timing was too suspect. Lord Sinclair's rage and hatred for his dead wife was still palpable, a year later. She would not believe a word that slid from his lying tongue.

"Your other brother, my beloved betrothed. The current Duke of Westmorland." The earl took a sip of his own tea. "Mmm. I do prepare a fine cup if I say so myself. The tea is a bit old, but you would never be able to tell by taste."

Vile man.

She wrinkled her nose, casting a glance around the cavernous, stone walls of the kitchen. Last night, much of it had been bathed in shadows and darkness. By daylight, all its details were plainly visible. Including the fact that it had been abandoned for some time.

"Where did you find it?" She would not be one whit surprised if there had been rodent offal mixed in with the tea leaves if he had found it within the sparse depths of this centuries' old kitchen. "And I love Benny as much as I loved Alfred. They are my brothers, my blood. The three of us were inseparable."

"Fret not, Countess of Sinclair-to-be." He sipped at his tea again, cool and calm as could be. "The tea is safe to drink. No poison or rat droppings, if that is what you suspect."

She cast a longing glance in the direction of her own tea before she could quash the urge. So thirsty. She was so very thirsty, and the tea certainly smelled sweet and inviting. She could practically feel it gliding over her tongue.

But there remained one insurmountable problem: he had prepared it.

"I would sooner leap from the window upstairs than become your next countess," she returned with what she hoped was equal composure.

"Ah, but you had your chance, did you not?" He cast her an amused smile. "Instead, I saved you. You are welcome, by the way. I did not hear you thank me for sparing you the certain fate of the bird who cannot fly."

He was so smug.

So horrid.

She wanted to lunge at him, strike him. Run from him. She wanted to escape him and never again blight her life with his presence.

"You were the reason I was attempting to leap from the window, so I shan't thank you," she bit out.

Her stomach growled again. Quite noisily this time.

His smile deepened, and he picked up another strawberry, holding it to his lips. "These are fresh. So succulent and sweet. You ought to try them, my darling bride. I just heard your stomach revealing you for the liar you are."

Her nostrils flared. "If there is a liar amongst us, rest assured it is you, my lord, and not I. And nor will I be your bride. You shall have to find another woman to force into the loathsome position."

"Westmorland recently married, is that not so?"

His calm query set her on edge.

Why was he so preoccupied with Benny? Her beloved brother had nothing to do with her quest for vengeance against the Earl of Sinclair.

"Yes, he did," she allowed, searching his gaze for answers and finding none.

He was unreadable as ever, the blighter. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he sipped from his tea. "His choice of duchess was somewhat unexpected, was it not?"

She stiffened. Her new sister-in-law, Isabella, had been the proprietress of a ladies' typewriting school when she had first met Benny. Though Isabella's mother was of noble birth, her father had been a merchant, and Isabella had initially been in Benny's employ.

"There is nothing unacceptable about his duchess, if that is what you are implying," she defended.

She loved Isabella like a sister. Isabella was good for Benny—Callie had seen it almost from the start. And she had done more than her share of matchmaking, attempting to throw the two of them together to facilitate that connection.

"I imagine Westmorland has quite a bit of scandal on his hands at the moment," Sinclair continued. "A common wife…"

"Isabella is not common!" she protested.

"Special League matters," he continued as if she had not spoken. "He has stepped down as the leader, has he not? There were rumors, I believe, that he would be removed after the bombings in the House of Commons and the Tower of London. Some said he was too preoccupied with chasing after his new duchess."

She gritted her teeth. She had heard those rumors as well, of course. They were being bandied about. "Benny is a hero. He is responsible for bringing a dozen Fenians to justice and for keeping London safe. The Times has been nothing but effusive in its praise of him, as is well-deserved. He took his duties seriously, and anyone can see that the war against the Fenians is being won thanks in part to his tireless work."

"What would happen, I wonder, if word of his sister's attempts to ruin the Earl of Sinclair were to become public knowledge at such a sensitive time?" the earl asked, stroking his jaw with his long, elegant fingers, his tone contemplative.

Something inside her froze. With fear. Understanding.

Finality.

In her lap, her hands clenched her ruined skirts. "What are you suggesting, my lord? Speak plainly, if you please. I grow weary of this game."

"The Younger Mr. White is willing to attest to the true identity of the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl," he said, his gaze skewering hers. "You, darling betrothed. I have a letter from him, written and signed in his own hand, waiting to be posted to The Times. One word from me, and Young Mr. White will reveal all to every scandal sheet and journal in England."

His calm pronouncement hit her with the force of a fist to the gut, robbing the air from her lungs.

No.

No.

No.

One word—denial—it was all she could think, a litany, a waterfall. Rushing through her mind, obliterating everything else. She had been so careful. Careful to keep her identity a secret. Careful to always use the Lady's Suffrage Society as the reason to visit her publisher's office.

"You appear shocked, princess." The bitterness had returned to the earl's voice, and so, too, the sharp edge. "Imagine, if you will, the impact such troubling information would have upon Westmorland's reputation, which already hangs in the balance. His innocent sister—one who caused tongues to wag with her daring behavior abroad—writing tales of orgies and opium eating. Writing the sort of filth a proper lady never ought to be acquainted with. No one shall be surprised, and with the younger Mr. White ready and willing to swear to the truth of his statement, we both know who will be believed, do we not? I do wonder at your carnal knowledge myself, beloved betrothed, but perhaps it will prove a boon. At least in the procuring of my heir and spare. You certainly seemed amenable earlier this morning."

The bastard.

He had entrapped her. He had outmaneuvered her. If this had been a game of chess, it was checkmate. She knew better than anyone that her place in society was precarious at best. Her reputation was already somewhat tarnished from her days in Paris with Aunt Fanchette.

But if it became common fame that she had written Confessions of a Sinful Earl, her reputation would not be salvageable. In truth, she did not care for herself. Callie's heart belonged to Simon, and he was forever lost to her. She had no intention to marry. However, it was not herself she was concerned for.

Benny and Isabella…their marriage was so new, so hard-fought, so well-deserved. Isabella and Benny had nearly been killed by a Fenian in her typewriting school. It had only been Benny's bravery and timely intervention which had saved her. And now, they were married, on their honeymoon, savoring each other and their love.

If Benny returned to Callie's ruination, he would be devastated.

And he had just found his happiness.

The woman who was meant to be his wife, just as Simon had been meant to be Callie's husband. If she could not have the life she had dreamt of, she would be damned before she would allow anyone to take that from Benny. She loved her brother. Fiercely and devotedly.

Worse, this black mark against her, if it were to be made known, could do far more than cause Benny and Isabella upset and worry. It could harm them as well. Sinclair was correct, damn him. There had been a great deal of rumors surrounding Benny and Isabella. With Isabella's life in danger, Benny had diverted Scotland Yard agents to her protection. If scrutiny were to be placed upon him because of her…

"I see your devious mind at work, my future countess."

The earl's voice cut through her wildly spinning thoughts.

She met his gaze. "What manner of despicable villain would seek to hurt a man who is courageous and good, a man who has devoted himself to keeping us all safe from danger? A man who has nothing to do with any of this?"

He inclined his head. "A man who has nothing left to lose, princess. A man you ruined." He took a lingering bite of his strawberry. "Me."

Sin watched as understanding dawned on Lady Calliope's expressive face. For a fleeting moment, her countenance took on that same haunted quality of a wild creature facing down her hunter. He knew a moment of guilt at what he was doing, but then he ruthlessly squelched the inkling.

She deserved this.

She had destroyed his reputation—not that it had required much effort on her part—with Confessions of a Sinful Earl. And she had not stopped after that. Rather, she had enjoyed her vengeance. She had continued.

Only now, too late, did she realize that in so doing, she had made herself vulnerable to him. Oh, so very vulnerable. Yes, she had brought this on with her madcap scheme to decimate his chances at making a match. Before she had disseminated her tripe, he had been about to secure the hand and vast dowry of Miss Vandenberg.

Never mind that Miss Vandenberg paled in comparison to the delectable, dark beauty of Lady Calliope. He did not need to desire his wife. Lord knew, by the end of his marriage with Celeste, he had been so repulsed by her, he had not been able to touch her.

"This is blackmail," Lady Calliope accused then.

Quite accurately, as it happened.

"You are damned right it is." Smiling, he nibbled at another strawberry.

She was looking rather pale at the moment, his future countess. Likely because she was still refusing his offer of food and drink. He could outlast her in a battle of stubbornness, however. Perhaps she was also feeling bilious at the notion of being forced to marry a man she erroneously believed had caused her brother's death.

Again, a stab of something akin to guilt prickled at his conscience.

Again, he sent it to the devil.

"If I agree to this…this horrid plan of yours, how do I have any proof you will not still reveal I am the author of Confessions just to spite me?" she asked next.

He swallowed his bite of strawberry, his grin deepening. "Why would I want to harm my own wife?"

Her pallor grew even more heightened. "Why indeed?"

Ah yes, she believed him a wife murderer as well as a brother murderer. How could he have forgotten? The creature certainly had a wild imagination. But then, he knew from his own experience that having someone to blame always felt better than the realization that one was completely and utterly at the mercy of the universe.

"You have my word as a gentleman that I will take your secret to my grave," he reassured her, keeping his tone light. "I have had enough scandal to last a lifetime. It will be an even exchange—you marry me, and in return, I will never reveal the truth, and nor shall the younger Mr. White. When we return to London, I will pay a call to your publisher on your behalf, explaining to him that he is no longer permitted to publish the next installment of the serial, and further, that no more shall be forthcoming. I will instruct him to deliver the manuscript to me, for safekeeping. You are amenable?"

"Amenable as I must be," she allowed. "However, I will not share your bed."

Still imagining she possessed the power to bargain, the foolish chit.

He chuckled. "Yes, you will. I cannot very well get an heir on you if I do not bed you, my lady."

"You cannot possibly expect me to suffer your attentions." Her lip curled, as if the notion of his touch disgusted her.

And mayhap, in a sense, it did. But her body had been most responsive to his earlier. Her mind may be convinced he was a heartless devil, but her body could easily be persuaded otherwise. He knew the feeling—after all, he loathed Lady Calliope Manning. Yet kissing her and touching her and waking with his prick nestled against her feminine curves had given him a cockstand just the same.

"Only until my heir is secured," he told her. "After I have my heir and spare, I will never return to your bed."

Her lips compressed. "Do you swear it?"

He raised a brow. "Madam, I have no wish to share a bed with a conniving jade. If it were not for your dowry, I would ruin you in the blink of an eye. I need your funds, and I need an heir. You can give me both, and then you can go to the devil for all I care."

Her stomach growled once more, reminding him she had yet to eat.

On a sigh, he rose and dragged his chair nearer to hers.

She stiffened, eyes going wide. "What are you doing, my lord?"

"Plotting your murder," he told her wryly.

Her expression said she believed him.

"Bloody hell," he swore, snatching a strawberry from her plate and holding it to her lush lips. "I am feeding you before you perish from starvation, you wrongheaded virago. Take a bite."

She rolled her lips inward and shook her head.

He shoved the strawberry into her mouth with less finesse than he would have liked. But he nevertheless achieved the desired goal—there was food in her mouth.

"Chew," he told her as if she were a child.

Her countenance was mulish as ever, but she chewed slowly, then swallowed.

"Good." He held the half-eaten fruit to her lips once more. "Another bite."

This time, instead of attempting to seal her lips, she opened her mouth. He slid the strawberry inside and the bloody harridan bit him. Pain shot up his arm as those pretty teeth of hers clamped on the fleshy pad of his thumb before releasing him.

He ground his molars to stave off an exclamation of pain. He would not allow her even a moment of triumph. "That was not very nice, my dear. Or particularly wise."

"I was obeying your orders." She blinked at him, her expression one of contrived innocence.

He brought his throbbing thumb to his own lips and sucked, easing the sting. "Fair warning, princess. Next time you bite me, I will bite you back."

He would start by nibbling on her creamy throat. Then catching her lower lip between his teeth. Then, he would work his way lower. Bite those pretty nipples he had felt through her chemise…

Damnation.

Desire pounded through him, reminding him it had been far too long since he had last bedded a woman. That was the only reason he was attracted to the woman he had spent the last few weeks despising and plotting against.

"Forgive me," she said, her voice radiating with insincerity.

Never, he vowed inwardly. Forgiveness was for fools. Lady Calliope Manning would be his enemy forever. He had learned that particular lesson thanks to his former countess, and it was one that would serve him well in the next loveless union he faced. If there was one source of solace he could find in this hellacious mess, it was that this time, he was too wise to fancy himself in love with his wife.

It would be a marriage of convenience in the truest sense.

No danger to his heart. No betrayal. No pain. No lies.

"Eat your breakfast, beloved betrothed," he told her. "The sooner we can get back to London and you are my wife, the better."

After all, he did not just have himself to fret over.