Chapter 7

My rapacious hunger for conquests became a dangerous obsession, dear reader. The more I reveled in the depths of my depravity, the more I sought it, like a true satyr. Imagine, if you will, a chamber filled with dozens of men and women, all of them nude, writhing in their shared, forbidden passions…

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

Callie was bedraggled, tired, and wretched. Not necessarily in that order.

Her captor, however, was dozing comfortably on the Moroccan leather squabs opposite her, his long legs stretched out across the interior of the carriage, his booted ankles crossed. The deep, even sound of his breathing suggested he was slumbering without a hint of conscience, now that he had gotten what he wanted and they were en route back to London.

In repose, he looked somehow less menacing. Less like an angry god. More like a mere mortal. Still more handsome than sin.

She was going to marry this man.

Callie could hardly credit the knowledge. The last day seemed more like a horrible nightmare from which she would wake safe in the comfort of her bed at Westmorland House than reality. The man she had spent the last year believing responsible for Alfred's death, the man she had ruined, the man with the blackest reputation in London, was forcing her to become his bride.

How she hated him.

She thought suddenly of his blade. Now that she had agreed to Sinclair's demands, she was no longer bound like a prisoner. Mayhap it was not too late to escape him after all. She had no wish to truly hurt him with the knife—indeed, she did not think she could stomach it. But if she could somehow get her hands upon it…

Slowly, she made her way across the carriage, until she had settled herself beside him on the bench seat. He continued sleeping as the carriage went over a rut in the road, jostling them both. She held her breath, praying he would not wake, and then she slid her hand inside his coat, to the hidden pocket where she had seen him secret it earlier.

His heat seared her fingertips. Gently, she searched his lean form, seeking the blade. All she felt was hard, male chest. Another bump in the road made the carriage sway, knocking her into him. She froze, studying his face for any sign he had awoke.

His expression remained serene. His dark lashes were long, fanned on his cheeks. Almost too long for a gentleman. His cheekbones were proud slashes. His nose was a sharp blade bisecting the handsome symmetry of his face. His jaw was proud and wide, his lips full.

But she was not meant to be admiring him. She was meant to be divesting him of his weapon. She moved at last, searching once more for the blade.

His lips twitched. Before she could remove her hand, he snagged her wrist in an iron grip. His eyes opened, his gaze almost obsidian, shockingly alert. There was not a trace of slumber in them.

"Are you attempting to seduce me, princess, or were you hoping to kill me in my sleep?" His rich baritone was undeniably amused.

"Neither," she said on a gasp as he yanked her into his lap. "Lord Sinclair, please…"

"Such pretty protestations," he said, his gaze flitting to her lips. "I like it when you beg me."

Resistance rose within her. She struggled to remove herself from his lap, but her actions only served to mire her more firmly against him and twist her skirts around her. How neatly he had trapped her once more. She wondered if he had even been sleeping at all.

Her pride would not allow his comment to go unanswered. "I would never beg you for anything."

Another of his rare smiles curved that wicked mouth. "I would not be so certain of that if I were you, sweet."

She had not found his blade, and now instead of outwitting him at his own game, she had failed abysmally yet again. "I am more certain than I have been of anything else."

She would beg him for nothing.

Ever.

Not even for mercy.

"More certain than you are that I am a murderer?" His smile had disappeared now, but his stare was still upon her lips.

She licked them, wishing she could not still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. "Do you have proof of your innocence?"

His stare flicked back to hers at last. "If I told you I do?"

Her heart pounded faster. "If you do, then I demand to see it."

"Such a brazen creature," he said, his thumb tracing over her wrist in slow, lazy circles.

Belatedly, she realized he was no longer holding her wrist in a manacle-like grasp. Instead, he was caressing her. And she was not unaffected by that touch, regardless of how desperately she wished she was not.

What was the matter with her?

She yanked herself free of him, reminding herself she must think of Alfred. "What is your proof?"

"My mistress," he replied easily. "I was with her the night your brother and my wife died."

His mistress.

Of course he had a mistress. She ought not to be surprised by his admission. He had legions of them. That was what all the rumors suggested, was it not? That was the reason he was known as Sin—his love of debauchery and the pleasures of the flesh.

But somehow, the notion of the Earl of Sinclair having a mistress made her feel strangely perturbed.

"Why did you not say anything in your defense, if that were true?" she asked him.

"My mistress was a married lady, and she had no wish to be drawn into my scandals lest there be repercussions with her husband," he told her calmly. "I respect her enough not to involve her purely for my own gain."

She searched his expression for any indication he was lying. But he met her gaze as boldly as ever, his regard unrelenting. Several things occurred to her simultaneously: firstly, that she had never even considered he may have been elsewhere that awful night, that someone else could vouch for him. She had never supposed he was innocent. She had always believed him hopelessly, irrevocably guilty.

Furthermore, he had said his mistress was a married lady. Did that mean his mistress was no longer married? Or that she was no longer his mistress? Also, why should she care?

She told herself she should not. That he was sinful and amoral. That she loathed him.

"What is the matter, princess?" he taunted. "Does the realization that I could not have committed murder disappoint you?"

"I would have to trust your word," she countered, trying to scramble from his lap.

He caught her waist, holding her still. "You would also have to admit that your campaign of vengeance was all for naught. That you ruined an innocent man for no reason at all."

She did not want to think about that. "Release me."

"Make me," he challenged.

How could she? He was stronger than she was. She had been fighting him for the past day and losing at every turn. Even now, she was still losing. And she would continue to lose. She was going to have to marry him, this man she loathed.

What if her reason for loathing him was all wrong?

What if she had been all wrong?

"You know I cannot make you," she admitted at last, defeat tasting bitter on her tongue. "You have won, my lord. I have agreed to marry you for my brother's sake. What more do you want from me?"

His smile returned. "Your surrender, princess."

"You cannot have that."

He lifted her effortlessly to the opposite squab. "We shall see about that, Lady Calliope. We shall see."

Sin was not about to take any chances that his future wife would attempt to break her promise to marry him, which was why he had accompanied her into the vast mausoleum that was Westmorland House, despite all her protestations to the contrary. The house was every bit as imposing as he recalled, a rambling Mayfair palace and a testament to the vast Manning family wealth.

The butler had been obviously relieved to see Lady Calliope returning safely.

Her aunt had been most distressed with her failure to return the day before, the servant had announced, casting a disapproving glare in Sin's direction. For Sin's part, he was not certain he cared for the tender manner in which the domestic had fretted over his future wife.

"Callie darling!" exclaimed the aunt now, sweeping into the lesser salon where the butler had shepherded Sin and Lady Calliope.

Westmorland was, conveniently, on his honeymoon with his new wife. Which meant that the woman with the French accent, dressed in a billowing silk dressing gown, had been tasked with acting the part of duenna.

A task which she had failed at.

The aunt smelled of violet perfume and powder. Her dark hair cascaded down her back, unbound. It was rather familiar and odd. In all his life, the only women who had ever greeted him clad in their dressing gowns had been those he had taken to bed.

"Tante Fanchette!" Lady Calliope threw herself into the elder woman's arms, quite as if she were being rescued from the gaping maws of a fire-breathing dragon. "You have arrived after all!"

"Ma chère," crooned the aunt, casting a suspicious glance toward Sin. "Where have you been? According to the servants, your coachman returned with a splitting headache, claiming he had no recollection of what had happened. I am so sorry I did not arrive as planned. When I made it to Westmorland House and you were nowhere to be found, I was about to contact Scotland Yard. What have you been doing? And who is this gentleman?"

Sin took that as his invitation.

He stepped forward, offering his best attempt at a bow. "The Earl of Sinclair, madame. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

It occurred to him that he did not know much about this aunt. He knew the former Duchess of Westmorland had been of French ancestry, but that was about the sum of the information he possessed about the family. That and their hideous wealth.

Oh, and the fact that the last duke had been fucking his faithless wife.

One dare not forget that salient bit of information.

"It is mademoiselle, Lord Sinclair. I am not married." The aunt frowned at him. "Your name is familiar, but I am afraid I do not recall why."

He smiled grimly. "I am sure I know the reason, but it hardly matters."

The aunt withdrew from the embrace with Lady Calliope, taking a step back and examining her. "What is the meaning of this, my beloved niece in such tatters?"

In truth, Lady Calliope did look as if she had just returned from war. Her hair was plaited into a messy braid she had fashioned herself. One of her sleeves was missing. Her elegant gown was wrinkled and torn.

She looked thoroughly compromised.

He cleared his throat and jumped in before Lady Calliope could explain away her disheveled appearance. "I witnessed Lady Calliope's carriage being overtaken by footpads yesterday. They delivered a vicious blow to her driver's head. I gave chase, but in the crush of the street traffic, I was unable to reach her. Rather than seek the authorities and sound the alarm, I deemed it best to chase after her myself. By the time I was able to overtake her carriage, the brigands had reached the countryside."

His betrothed's eyes widened at his subterfuge. The excuse was rather silly, he had to admit, but he had not bargained upon an interfering aunt when he had formulated his plan.

Her aunt gasped. "Footpads! Mon dieu, I cannot believe it. How fortunate that you were there, my lord, to come to her rescue."

"I managed to scare the villains off, but a violent storm was rolling in," he continued, warming to his cause. "I was left with no choice but to remain with Lady Calliope on one of my estates, overnight, rather than travel in the storm with no coachman. Knowing that I have compromised her, I have offered Lady Calliope my hand in marriage, and she has graciously accepted."

"My lord, I am eternally grateful to you for rescuing my beloved niece! But I cannot help but to think a marriage is precipitate," her aunt said. "After all, Westmorland is on his honeymoon. No one even knows Callie was alone with you."

"Unfortunately, I was unable to act the gentleman," Sin added, hoping the maiden aunt would understand what he was intending to convey without too much detail.

The aunt frowned. "Do you mean to say…"

"Yes," Lady Calliope interrupted, glaring at him. "It was all rather…hasty and sudden. The drama of the moment overcame us both."

He grinned back at her, enjoying her irritation, the orchestration of her ruin. "My love for Lady Calliope blossomed overnight. I have long admired her from afar, but since the fates have so conspired to throw us together, I find myself unable to live without her. I was so pleased when she confessed she feels the same way about me. I realize this is all highly irregular, of course. My lapse in propriety was egregious, and I will be pleased to rectify the matter with as much haste as possible."

"You are in love?" the aunt asked, her gaze flitting between Sin and Lady Calliope.

"It is a new love," his betrothed said with a pained smile.

"Desperately in love," he added.

"Well, our family is known for our eccentricities. I cannot say I am pleased with you for violating propriety in such a shocking fashion, but I do understand the temptations of being alone, overnight, especially given the horrors the two of you had been through. I am so thankful to you for saving her." The aunt paused to beam at him. "All is forgiven, my dear boy, as long as you promise to take very good care of our beloved Callie."

Bloody hell.This was going better than he had imagined.

Of course, if Westmorland were here, he would likely have resorted to fisticuffs. Sin and Westmorland were acquaintances, but not friends. However, he knew the man well enough to know he would not be impressed with Sin having absconded with Callie overnight, only to return with her wearing a tattered gown. Nor would he have swallowed Sin's flimsy tale so readily.

How obliging of him, getting married and leaving on his honeymoon.

This eccentric French aunt was no match for Sin.

"I promise to take excellent care of Lady Calliope," he told the aunt. "It will be my greatest honor to make her my countess."

And to use her dowry to save myself from ruin.

Wisely, he refrained from adding that bit. She owed him, after all, Lady Calliope. She was the reason for his desperation. She was the one who had forced his hand.

The aunt pressed a hand to her heart, looking overjoyed. "Oh ma chère! Your brother will be overjoyed when he hears you are marrying after all."

"Yes, I imagine Benny will be pleased." Lady Calliope's voice was wan, her smile unconvincing.

"When does Westmorland return from his honeymoon?" Sin prodded now. Because he was running out of time. He needed to get married within the next few days, not within the next few weeks.

Nor could he afford to wait for Westmorland to drag his heels or otherwise attempt to wrest his sister from Sin's grasp. He fully expected Lady Calliope to do everything in her power to extricate herself from her promises. The less time she had to achieve her goal, the better.

"Not for over a month's time," Lady Calliope answered.

"How much time have we to prepare the wedding?" the aunt asked, clapping her hands.

"One week," Sin said.

"A few months," Lady Calliope said simultaneously.

Her gaze was alarmed when it flew back to his. "One week?" she squeaked.

He grinned. "Since I have compromised you, my darling, I am afraid we must get married as soon as possible."

"Oh yes, you must," agreed the aunt quite helpfully. "This is all my fault, for arriving late. But do not worry, darling girl. Tante Fanchette is here now!"

And thank fuck for that, Sin thought to himself.

The first part of his plan had been accomplished. Next, he was going to pay a call to the offices of one J.M. White and Sons. He had a manuscript to collect.

Confessions of a Sinful Earlwas at an end, and so, too, were his problems.

He hoped.

Callie hated lying to her beloved aunt.

But short of confessing everything, including her role in writing Confessions of a Sinful Earl to Aunt Fanchette, she did not know what she could do. To make matters worse, in true fashion, her aunt had decided that Callie was madly in love with the Earl of Sinclair and that spending the night alone with him had been très romantique.

Callie did not have the heart to correct her assumptions. Fortunately, her aunt was of a far more liberal persuasion than her brother. If Benny were here, he would beat the Earl of Sinclair to a pulp and then he would lock Callie in her chamber for the next month. Then again, the earl was frightfully strong and well-muscled. Perhaps Benny would not defeat him with such ease.

Better that Benny was not here.

Better that he was instead enjoying his honeymoon with Isabella.

When he returned, it would be too late for him to embroil himself in her problems, and that was precisely how she wanted it to be. It was precisely how it must be. For she had gotten herself into this disastrous predicament, and she was the one who must pay the forfeit.

With her life.

How horrifying a prospect.

"You will need a dress," Aunt Fanchette was saying. "I daresay it is too late to commission one. A Worth gown would have been most agreeable. I do know a modiste here in London who hails from Paris. Perhaps she will have something that can do, in a trice."

Callie blinked. Her mind was still awhirl from everything that had happened. Her entire life had changed forever in the span of one day. Although the Earl of Sinclair had taken his leave at last, the tension had yet to drain from her. Because what loomed before her—marriage to him—seemed akin to a prison sentence. Even if his protestations of innocence were true and she had been wrong about him, she did not even know him. He was a stranger to her. And after she had lost Simon, she had sworn to herself she would never become another man's wife…

"Lace and satin would be just the thing, do you not think?" her aunt asked.

"I do not care what manner of dress I wear, Tante," she said grimly.

That much was the truth. Her nuptials to the earl would not be a happy occasion.

"We must send word to Westmorland at once," Aunt Fanchette continued. "Undoubtedly, he and the duchess will want to be in attendance, even if it means interrupting their honeymoon."

"No!" Callie bit out with more force than necessary.

Her aunt flinched and gave her a curious, searching look. "But of course, we must send word to your brother. I know you have long since reached your majority, but Westmorland will want to be present."

Callie could not bear for that. If Benny returned before her marriage, he would interrogate her until she revealed the truth. And she was doing everything in her power to keep the truth—and scandal—from tainting him.

"I…" She faltered, struggling to find a plausible excuse for keeping her beloved brother from her own nuptials. "I am ashamed, Tante Fanchette. Benny will be very upset with me for being so reckless with Lord Sinclair and spending the night alone with him. I do not dare wait."

"Oh my darling," said her aunt with such sympathy and tender caring that Callie felt a corresponding rush of guilt all over again. "Pray do not believe you are the only lady who has found herself in such a position. And look at what happened—Lord Sinclair is a hero, rescuing you from those brigands! I am certain Benedict would be understanding."

"I am not," Callie countered, and that, too, was grounded in veracity. "But more importantly, I could never forgive myself if I were to interrupt his honeymoon because of my own lapse in judgment. It took him weeks to recover after he was shot, Tante Fanchette. He deserves this time of unfettered happiness with his bride."

Callie could not hide the earnest feeling from her expression or voice. She meant that, even if marrying the Earl of Sinclair was essentially a prison sentence for her. She had already lost her chance at happiness when Simon had died. The least she could do was make certain Benny and Isabella were unaffected from her actions.

Her aunt nodded. "Very well, darling nièce. Are you certain this is what you want?"

No, she wanted to cry out again.

Anything but this.

Her smile felt tight and insincere. "Yes, of course. Now do tell me what you have in mind for a dress, if you please."

"Something burgundy, perhaps," Aunt Fanchette continued. "Or scarlet. Crimson? Cerise? Hardly ivory, I should think. Warm shades complement your lovely dark hair. You must wear my diamonds, I insist!"

Although Aunt Fanchette had never married, she was an incurable romantic.

"Whatever you decide shall be fine," Callie said.

Though mourning black would be the most fitting for the occasion. How to explain such a choice to dear, fawning Aunt Fanchette?

"We will need flowers as well," Aunt Fanchette said. "Lilies of the valley, do you think? No, roses. Red roses, and your lady's maid will entwine some in your hair the way she did in Paris when you met Moreau and he decided he must paint you…"

Callie gave herself over to her aunt's excited plotting even as desperation unfurled deep within her.

One cursed week.

How could she save herself?