Blast him.He likely had. She was starving.
She pasted a false smile to her lips. “I am sure you heard nothing of the sort. I have no wish to eat the food of my captor. Therefore, I am not hungry.”
“This is the food of your future husband.” He lifted a bite of chicken to his well-sculpted lips. “I am not your captor, Lady Calliope.”
She tried not to watch him chewing, tried not to allow her gaze to linger upon his lips. Upon those lips that had so recently been moving over hers. And she most definitely banished any lingering tingling sensations caused by the memory.
“Youaremy captor,” she reminded him as much as herself. “You took me from London, against my will. If I am free to go, why did you bind my wrists and threaten me with a blade? Why do we not return to London now?”
“I prefer to think of myself as your host. The man to whom you will bind yourself in holy matrimony.” He took a generous sip of wine.
She watched the bob of his Adam’s apple, nettled at his lack of concern. Irritated by his blatant masculinity, too. “I prefer to think of you as a madman.”
“You may as well eat,” he told her. “There will be nothing until breakfast.”
“I will not eat your food.” She compressed her lips and pinned him with a glare.
Her stomach growled again.
He gave an indolent shrug. “Suit yourself, princess.”
And then he continued to eat.
Each clang of his cutlery upon the simple plate irked her. How could he be so unaffected? So cool? Part of her was frightened, part confused, part terrified. And another part? Intrigued.
“You truly suspect I poisoned your food?” he asked suddenly, reaching across the table and spearing a hunk of chicken on the tines of his fork before bringing it to his own plate. “Witness: I will prove to you it is perfectly safe to eat.”
She watched him tuck into the thieved chicken with the same enthusiasm he had shown the rest of his meal. “Why do you care if I eat or not?”
His jaw tensed. “I do not give a damn about you, Lady Ruthless. You are a means to an end. But if you starve yourself before I can make you my wife, you will be of little use to me.”
Lady Ruthless.
She did not like that sobriquet any more than she likedprincess.
She tilted her chin up in defiance. “Perhaps I shall starve myself, then. It seems the most palatable solution.”
If only her stomach agreed. She was desperately hungry. So hungry, she was beginning to feel ill. She ought to have eaten something more significant when she had the chance. Ordinarily, she did. But she had been so preoccupied with stealing away to the publisher with her friend Jo’s newest pamphlet for the Lady’s Suffrage Society and her own latest installment ofConfessions of a Sinful Earl.
It was the wickedest part of the serial to date. And even she could admit to herself that by now, the character she had created—the Earl of Sinfulness—had taken on a life of his own. Nothing in what she had written had a basis in truth. It had been written with all the rancor in her heart. The words were meant to hurt the man before her. To cut him deeply. To ruin him.
He raised another bite of chicken to his lips, catching it between his teeth. Even the way he consumed his dinner was sinful. She had never seen a gentleman dine in such a blatantly carnal fashion. He was aiming to shock her, she suspected.
Her cheeks warmed in spite of herself as she watched his mouth move. As she stared at his tongue gliding over his upper lip. She told herself to look away, but somehow that seemed like surrender. She was determined to win this battle between them.
“Starving is a better option than marrying an earl?” he asked, before biting into a hunk of bread.
Her heart was beating fast again. Faster than the wings of a hummingbird, it seemed. “When the earl in question is you, yes.”
“You may change your mind, darling.” The smile he flashed her was darkly amused.
“Never,” she vowed bitterly. “And do not presume to call me your darling.”
“Never is a long time.” He raised a brow, then took another calm sip of his wine. “At least have a drink, princess. You must be thirsty.”
She was, blast him.
Callie swallowed. “I would prefer tea.”
