Chapter 9

I write these memoirs, dear reader, as a warning to you. Our world is rife with villains. Most of their crimes are never exposed.

~fromConfessions of a Sinful Earl

Callie had told Aunt Fanchette she was going for a drive with Lord Sinclair.

That much had not been a lie.

She had neglected to mention, however, that the earl was taking her to meet with his mistress. Strike that—his former mistress. Or so he claimed.

"I will have your word that after today, you will not give me further trouble," Lord Sinclair said as he deftly guided his barouche down Rotten Row.

The conveyance was not new. Its benches were in need of repair, and the whole affair seemed as if it had belonged to a previous decade. His horseflesh was adequate, but could hardly compare to the equine snobbery of their fellow lords and ladies parading through the fashionable part of Hyde Park. The state of his barouche, along with the state of his townhome—sparsely decorated, pictures missing from the faded wallpaper, threadbare carpet, and a minimal staff—suggested how impoverished he truly was.

"If I find this day satisfactory," she said, blotting out a stab of guilt at the last thought.

After all, it was hardly her fault that the Earl of Sinclair had depleted all his funds. He had done so before she had begun publishing Confessions of a Sinful Earl, surely.

Had he not?

"You will find it satisfactory, or I will find it satisfactory to tell the world what a vicious, scheming harridan you are," he returned.

She stifled her umbrage, telling herself she did not care what this man thought of her. "We shall see, my lord."

He made a noncommittal sound low in his throat, part growl, part grunt.

He said nothing for a few clops of the horses' hooves, forcing her to study his profile. His jaw was tense, his lips tight. The memory of his swift kiss the night before returned, along with a most unwanted tingling in her own lips. She wondered if hating him would be easier if he were less handsome. Was she so shallow, so incapable of controlling her baser reaction to him, that she was allowing him to alter her perception?

Because something had shifted between them in the past few days. The glimpses of him which proved he was not entirely evil had perhaps aided in that. Still, how was it possible that she was so drawn to a man she had so recently viewed as her nemesis?

She pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the throng of fashionable carriages around them. "I fail to see how being in the midst of so many people will afford us an opportunity to speak with your mistress alone."

He cast a look in her direction, his dark gaze searing. "Who said anything about speaking with my mistress?"

"You did," she shot back.

"No," he said slowly, giving her a long, thorough perusal that made something melt inside her stomach and slide between her thighs. "I did not."

The bounder. "Of course you did."

How she would like to launch herself back at him in the same manner as she had when he had absconded with her in her own carriage. Yet, she did not dare, for they were surrounded by hundreds of sets of curious eyes.

Leisurely, he returned his gaze to the track ahead of them, eyes upon the horses once more. "I said nothing of the sort, Lady Calliope. What I said was to be prepared for me to call upon you at three o'clock. As expected, you were half an hour tardy."

Her lateness had been intentional. The notion of making him wait had held infinite appeal. The frustrated rage emanating from him had been worth every minute she had paced the carpet in her chamber, consulting the ormolu mantel clock with each pass.

"A lady needs time to prepare herself," she said.

"You are wearing trousers, madam," he bit out. "I hardly think such a fashion choice required much preparation."

"Divided skirts," Callie corrected him once more. "These are all the rage in Paris."

"Pity we are not in Paris." His voice was dry.

If he disapproved of her divided skirts, he could take his opinion—as unwanted as his kisses and his forced marriage—elsewhere.

Mayhap not his kisses.

She plucked at the drapery of her silk divided skirts. They raised eyebrows, it was true. But for ease of movement, divided skirts were ideal. "London would be better served to ease its fusty ways."

Such as this promenade of the wealthy and the well-known.

The purpose was to see and be seen. Which was why concern prodded her anew, along with his denial that he had agreed to her demands the previous evening.

"London changes for no one," he said grimly. "Not even a duke's daughter descended from one of the wealthiest families in England."

He was right about that, in some ways. Since her return from Paris, she had been bold enough to push boundaries which had once seemed forbidden. But there was eccentricity, and there was going too far. She did not doubt he was delivering her a subtle reminder that if her identity as the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl were to be revealed, she, too, would become a pariah. Already, her presence in his barouche was drawing whispers and curious stares from every direction.

"I shall endeavor to weather the tide," she snapped at him. "I grow weary of this incessant parade. Too many people are watching us. When are you taking me to your mistress?"

"Former mistress," he corrected quietly. "And I told you, I never agreed to do so."

She thought over his words from the previous evening.

I will come for you tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock. Do not be late.

That last demand had been her reason for dawdling. But…damn him. He had not agreed at all, had he? She had been so deuced flustered from the sudden press of his mouth to hers—that brief, chaste, hated, wondrous kiss—that she had simply taken his words as accord.

"What is the matter, beloved future countess?" he drawled, sounding amused. "Nothing to say?"

He was toying with her. Enjoying this.

She glared at him. "Are you taunting me because I made you wait half an hour for me?"

"Moi?" He cast a smug glance in her direction, grinning. "Never."

She had suffered quite enough of his games and his presence both. "No more of this nonsense. I demand you give me the audience I requested, or I will not marry you."

"Do not shout, princess." He turned away from her once more. "Everyone is watching the most notorious man in London and society's darling, traveling together in the same barouche. How shall we convince them of our love match if you do not gaze upon me as if I have just descended from the heavens?"

"More like dredged up from the fiery depths," she grumbled.

"I beg your pardon?" His lips compressed.

"You heard me." Her vexation increased by leaps and bounds with each passing moment.

"Tsk, princess." He clucked his tongue in admonishing fashion. "Being a brat will not get you what you want."

"I am not a brat." She scowled at him.

"Only a brat would invent such ruthless, damaging lies about a man the way you did," he countered coldly. "Did you think your chicanery would not bring about the utter ruination of my reputation? Did you not think labeling me a murderer who would seek to profit off his own sick acts would be the end of me in this unforgiving society of ours?"

Of course she had thought she would ruin him. That had been her intention.

What if you were wrong about him?

That same, uninvited voice returned. Her conscience, she supposed.

What if he can prove his innocence?

She sent the voice to the devil. Because she needed answers first.

"Spare me your endless games, my lord." She pinned a false smile to her lips when she noted everyone around them continued to watch.

Of course they were watching. All London thought he had killed his wife and her brother. Thanks to her.

At least they were finally reaching the end of the promenade. She wondered if he had any intentions of taking her to meet his former mistress after all.

"And spare me your theatrics," he returned. "As I have warned you before, you are not in control any longer. You may have begun writing this farce, but I am the one who will end it, and we will do so in my way, as I see fit. Now smile for all your admirers, and then laugh as if I have just delivered the cleverest sally you have ever heard."

The truth hit her then. He had orchestrated this drive through the park, on Rotten Row, at the fashionable hour, specifically so they would be seen together. He was further entrapping her.

Because he did not trust her to hold to her word.

Fair enough. She had no reason to trust him either.

If she had to play by his rules to get the reassurance she needed, then she would. Callie beamed at him. Then she laughed. Loudly, while holding a hand to her heart. He cast a suspicious glance in her direction, and then something else crossed his face. An emotion she could not define.

He clenched his jaw and inclined his head. "Better. We will pay our visit on our return trip to Westmorland House. I will have your promise, however, that you never write a word about her."

She detected a roughness in his voice, a note of caring she had never before heard.

Her curiosity was instantly piqued. "Why are you so protective of her?"

"I owe you no explanations, Lady Calliope," he snapped. "You will be my wife, not my jailer. Your promise or I will take you directly home instead."

"Fine," she bit out, for he was leaving her with little choice in the matter. But her quarrel was not with the woman who had once shared his bed. Rather, it was with him. "You have my promise."

He nodded.

The rest of the drive was marked with silence.

Sin and Lady Calliope seated themselves in the private salon where Tilly always greeted visitors. No stranger to Haddon House or the Duchess of Longleigh's private apartments, Sin had left his barouche in the mews and entered through the rear with his reluctant betrothed, no formal announcement—Tilly expected him. Although he had not visited her in months, it all was so familiar to him that he was beset by an eerie sense that no time had passed since he had last been a welcomed guest in Tilly's life. In her bed.

But that had been a lifetime ago, and so much had changed.

Tilly was gracious as ever, ethereally beautiful with her golden tresses styled in a thick knot at her crown with ringlets falling down her back. She was dressed in green silk, which complemented her vibrant, emerald eyes. But there was a difference in her now—a maternal beauty that could not be denied, along with the full roundness of her belly.

"Lady Calliope," Tilly greeted, smiling in that slight, elfin way of hers. "Lord Sinclair. You will forgive me if I do not rise? My feet are quite swollen at the moment, in my ungainly state."

Sin chanced a glance in Lady Calliope's direction. Her eyes were wide, her pallor pronounced. She swallowed. "Of course you are forgiven, Your Grace. A lady in such a delicate condition takes precedence over social niceties."

He knew what his betrothed was thinking. He could practically see the wheels inside her mind churning. She thought Tilly's babe was his.

"Thank you for your understanding, my dear." Tilly's gaze flicked between Sin and Lady Calliope, a question in her eyes.

His note to her had been brief and circumspect, lest Longleigh intercept it. The duke was a desperately jealous man. Tilly had suffered enough in her marriage; Sin had no wish to be the cause of further pain.

"Lady Calliope has agreed to become my betrothed," he explained, treading carefully. "However, she is in need of some reassurance from you."

Tilly stiffened. "Reassurance? I am not certain how I may provide such comfort."

Regret sliced through him at involving her. He and Tilly were old, trusted friends. Their bond had begun well before their relationship had become physical. Before her marriage to Longleigh as well. He knew, better than most, how private she was, and how she guarded her secrets. Her life with Longleigh depended upon it.

"Forgive me," he entreated softly, hating this. Hating the depths to which he had been forced to sink. "I would not come to you were it not imperative."

He was well aware how out of the ordinary this call was. How beyond the depths of propriety. Affaires were conducted in privacy, behind closed doors. The notion of introducing his future wife to his former mistress was beyond the pale, even by Sin's standards. But Lady Calliope had left him with no choice. He only hoped Tilly could forgive him.

"Your secret is safe with me, Your Grace," Lady Calliope added, avoiding Sin's gaze. "You have my word that whatever you are willing to share with me will not go beyond these walls."

Tilly's lips parted, as if she were weighing her next words with care. "What became of Miss Vandenberg?"

He was surprised Tilly had been aware of his efforts to woo the heiress and their short-lived betrothal. He and Tilly had parted ways amicably, but he had been in a dark place after Celeste's death, and the decision had been Tilly's. Sin could see now how right she had been—they made better friends than lovers. Sadly, however, friends who had once been lovers could never truly return to being friends once more. Still, Tilly was the only woman Sin trusted aside from his mother.

"Miss Vandenberg's father took exception to the serials being published," he said, choosing to keep Lady Calliope's authorship to himself. "Perhaps you have read them."

"I would never read such vicious tripe about you, Sin," Tilly said earnestly. "You ought to know that."

Gratitude swept over him. He had not utterly ruined her opinion of him.

"Thank you, Tilly." He inclined his head.

Lady Calliope's gaze settled upon him, searching. A frown furrowed her brow.

"You need not thank me for knowing you are a good man and for honoring our friendship," Tilly told him, before turning to Lady Calliope. "Pray tell me you have not read that horrid drivel, my lady, and believed it?"

Ha! The vixen had authored the horrid drivel in question. The irony was not lost upon Sin. Lady Calliope looked as if she had swallowed a fishbone.

"I was rather hoping you could help me to disbelieve it," Lady Calliope said. "Lord Sinclair assures me that when my brother and the former Lady Sinclair died, he was with an acquaintance of his. An acquaintance who cannot be named but who would be willing to vouch for his presence with her."

Tilly's full lips tightened in obvious displeasure. "Sin was with me, all night long."

Relief joined the gratitude. He had not been certain Tilly would be willing to make such an admission to anyone. He knew how tenuous her marriage with Longleigh was.

"Thank you," he told her. "I have no wish to cause trouble with you and Longleigh."

"Longleigh is happy for the moment, as he has gotten what he always wanted." Her hand rested on her swollen belly, which not even the clever drapery of her French gown could hide.

Sin swallowed against a rush of bile. He hoped to God Longleigh had not forced himself upon Tilly. "If there is anything I can do for you, please, do not hesitate to contact me."

She gave him a sad smile. "You and I both know there is nothing you can do for me at all. But I made my choice, and I alone can live with it." She looked to Lady Calliope then. "Sin was with me when the former Lady Sinclair chose to poison herself and end her life. She chose her fate, and after the horrors to which that wretched woman subjected him, it was the least she could do to give him his freedom at last."

The vitriol in Tilly's ordinarily calm, tender voice took him by surprise. He had known she had no love for Celeste, but he had not realized the depth of her emotion. Still, it was not public knowledge that his wife had ended her life by her own hand.

Lady Calliope's shocked gasp echoed through the small salon. "She drank poison?"

"She was an unwell woman, Lady Calliope," Tilly said. "I do hope you will be a better wife to Sin. Lord knows he deserves it. He has been through more than most men can even fathom."

"As have you, Tilly," he could not resist pointing out.

Though their contact had been sparse, he cared for her as much as he ever had. He knew how much she had longed to be a mother, and when she had written him with the news, he had been happy for her. He had also hoped she had not made too great a sacrifice to achieve what she wanted.

"I shall do my utmost, Your Grace," Lady Calliope said, stealing his attention away from Tilly. "Thank you for your confidence. I promise you nothing but my greatest discretion."

Sin had to squelch a bitter laugh at her pronouncement. In his experience, the bloody woman had no discretion. But he dared not admit it before Tilly. She had enough worries ahead.

"We should take our leave now," he said then. "Thank you for seeing us. And please remember what I said. If you should need anything at all?—"

"Thank you, Sin," Tilly interrupted. "I do appreciate the offer. It was wonderful seeing you again. You look well. Lady Calliope, it was a pleasure making your acquaintance."

His betrothed rose from her seat and dipped into an elegant curtsy, her countenance unreadable. "The pleasure was mine, Your Grace."

Sin and Lady Calliope took their leave from Tilly in grim silence.

It was not until they had returned to the barouche and were once more on their way to Westmorland House that she finally spoke. "Is the child yours?"

His grip tensed on the reins. "No."

There was no point in prevarication to make her squirm; he would only add further injury to Tilly's reputation, and he had no wish for that.

"Are you in love with her?" she asked next.

He was not in love with Tilly. He never had been. But he did care for her, and deeply.

"Of course not," he bit out. "Love is a chimera."

"Hmm," was all she said in response.

He cast her a glance. "Are you still holding a candle for your dead betrothed?"

She looked away, breaking the connection of their gazes. "That is none of your concern, my lord."

"Just as the Duchess of Longleigh is none of yours," he countered. "You have had your call with her and you have heard what she said. I will hold you to your promise to never utter an ill word about her."

"Contrary to what you think of me, Lord Sinclair, it is not my pleasure in life to go on spreading lies about others."

Her voice was quiet, with a sharp, accusatory edge.

As if he had been the one who had wronged her.

"You promise you will not speak of this again?" he demanded, needing her concession. Tilly had appeared the most contented he had ever seen her today, and he would not have that ruined for all the world.

"Of course not," Lady Calliope said. "I have no quarrel with the duchess. She seems like a kind woman."

"She is infallible," Sin agreed. "We have known each other since our youths. She has never wavered."

"Is it true, what she said, that the previous Lady Sinclair died by her own hand?" she prodded.

Her question took him back to that long-ago day. Although he had been desperate to gain his freedom from Celeste, nothing could have prepared him for the discovery that she had killed herself. Too much laudanum. She had left him a letter, and it had been convoluted and twisted as her mind had been. Even in death, she had been beautiful.

Deceptively innocent.

"It is," he bit out, trying to shake himself from the painful ghosts of his past.

"There was no mysterious illness, then?" Lady Calliope prodded.

"Her mind itself was ill," he admitted tersely. He did not like to speak of Celeste. Not to anyone. But he supposed this acknowledgment was necessary if he meant to follow through with making Lady Calliope his bride.

And everything depended upon making her his wife.

Everything depended upon her, the woman at his side.

The one who wanted vengeance against him.

Silence reigned between them once more, until the vast, imposing fa?ade of Westmorland House loomed within sight.

"Why did you not tell me?" she asked.

"Would you have believed me?" Sin countered, already knowing the answer.

"No."

He glanced at her once more, taking in her beauty. "And do you believe me now?"

"I am not certain." Her dulcet voice betrayed her confusion.

At least she was being honest.

He believed her answer. But it was not the answer he needed.

"You have five more days to persuade yourself to see common sense and reason, princess," he hissed, frustration rising, along with the same old rage. "Because like it or not, you are going to become the next Lady Sinclair."

She said nothing, merely turned her gaze to the street ahead.

Damn her.