He ruled over a club of decadent lords who devoted themselves to pleasure. Voluptuaries, wicked sinners. How easy it had been to believe his wife had fled from their marriage into the arms of another man, given the shocking stories Callie had heard. Her wild days in Paris may as well have been spent in a nunnery by comparison.
“It is just as well that you find me repugnant,” he said, his deep voice cutting through the night as another crack of thunder rapped in the distance. “I would hate to think you would ravish me.”
Her lips compressed. How dare he make light of her in the midst of this wretched situation?
She was not certain which was worse—the severity of the muddle in which she now found herself, or the knowledge that no one would even miss her. Perhaps the servants would? Her lady’s maid?
She thought of her brother Benny, and his new wife Isabella. They were on their honeymoon, happily in love, off to the countryside. Aunt Fanchette was supposed to have arrived from Paris to act the duenna, but she had failed to appear, in true Aunt Fanchette style. Callie had not minded, as it meant she had run of Westmorland House whilst her brother was gone.
Now, her freedom had proven her downfall.
The sound of Sinclair shedding his shirt filled the chamber. She remained where she was, on the opposite side of the bed, wondering how she could escape. The knot on her wrist felt as final as a noose.
“Nothing to say, princess?” he taunted.
She inhaled slowly, attempting to gain control over her anger. “I will sleep on the floor if you will not at least pretend to be a gentleman.”
“You will share the bed with me, and that is final.” His voice was closer. Without his boots to warn her of his approach, his footfalls had been damningly silent.
She jerked toward him, startled to find him right behind her, within reach. Without a shirt, his entire chest and abdomen were on display. She promised herself she would not look, but focus upon his eyes instead. “The floor shall be more than sufficient. Indeed, it is preferable to compromising myself in such fashion.”
“Your protests are rich, coming from a lady who was painted in the nude by Moreau,” he said, a sharp edge to his voice.
Callie had heard that rumor herself more times than she cared to count. Philippe had been a true gentleman. And the truth was, he was in love with the incredibly talented watercolorist, Monsieur Claude Bisset. He had eyes for no one else. But that was not her secret to tell. Philippe and Claude’s love had oft caused her a stab of envy. It was what she should have had with Simon, but she was happy for her friends, that they had each other, even if her other half was forever lost to her.
“I was wearing arobe de chambre,” she corrected the earl coolly, tearing herself from her thoughts.
“As much as you have familiarized yourself with all the rumors concerning me, I have also had ample time to learn about you, my lady.” His stare was upon her, undeniable. Impenetrable.
She could not look away. “Oh? And what do you think you know about me, Lord Sinclair?”
“Turn,” he told her.
She swallowed. “No.”
“You cannot sleep in all your layers,” he pointed out.
She could not deny the truth of that. Sleeping in a corset was deuced impossible. To say nothing of her cumbersome gown, petticoats, and chemise. Stockings, impractical shoes…she was weary and tired after their hours-long journey from London. If she were honest with herself, she would admit that all she wanted to do was slip into fresh bedclothes wearing nothing more than her chemise.
But not with the man before her.
Neverwith him.
“I would die before I lie down in a bed with you,” she told him.
His hands seized her waist. She flinched at the touch. Not violent, but possessive. As if he had every right to command her with such familiarity. He spun her around with ease.
Of course he did. He out-muscled her. And she was bound to the bed. There was only so far she could travel.
His fingers were on the buttons at her nape, plucking them one by one. She moved away from him, but he caught her, hauling her against him once more. Never had she felt so inconsequential. So incapable.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, struggling against him, though it was futile.
“Playing lady’s maid.” There was a hint of amusement in his baritone.
She did not like it.
“How dare you?” She fought against him with greater furor, attempting to kick his shins and tear herself from his grasp.
