Instead, he had spent the night in the arms of his former mistress. When he had returned to his own townhome that afternoon, it had been to discover his wife had already taken her life. Admittedly, he had lost control after that. Hisaffairewith Tilly had ended abruptly, and he had been adrift. He supposed he could see how his subsequent flight from London, to the Continent, could have made him appear guilty.
Instead of mourning Celeste, he had celebrated his freedom from her. A fortnight of overindulgence in drink and quim. He had fucked his way through Paris. And then he had fucked his way through Italy, too.
But those memories were hazy. Nothing more than ghosts.
He could prove his innocence to Lady Calliope if he gave a damn.
Which, of course, he did not. Let her think what she wished. Let her believe the worst of him. Let her think him a monster. Some parts of himweremonstrous. Most parts, in fact. He had earned his reputation the hard way.
He would not allow his conscience or his attraction to her to get the better of him. His plans would not be compromised. Far too much depended upon his ability to secure her fortune. Thanks to Lady Calliope Manning, she was his last chance to save himself.
Most importantly, she was his last chance to save the only person who mattered to him.
His mother.
On an irritated growl, Sin turned, rolling to his belly. His cock was rigid as stone, burrowing into the mattress. It was going to be one hell of a long night.
Callie woke toa numb hand and a furnace at her back.
A hard, citrus-and-musk scented furnace.
And an arm banded around her waist.
And a mouth upon her bare shoulder, soft, smooth lips kissing her there.
Truly, it would not have been an unfortunate manner in which to wake, except for her hand.
Early morning light streamed into the chamber, brightening all the shadows from the night before, reminding her she was in a strange place. With a strange man. She could not be farther from her cozy bedchamber at Westmorland House, where she kept fresh roses on her writing desk and had chosen every stick of furniture and picture on the wall.
Remembrance hit her.
The Earl of Sinclair had forced his way into her carriage, and he had brought her to some crumbling ancestral ruins hours away from London. He had discovered she was the author ofConfessions of a Sinful Earl. Worst of all, he had informed her of his intentions to force her to marry him.
She was tied to the bed.
And she wasinthe bed.
How was she in the bed? She had fallen asleep on the floor, just to spite her captor. At first, it had been deuced uncomfortable, but then she had been so exhausted by travel and the accompanying fear of being unexpectedly absconded with by her mortal enemy…
It washisarm around her waist. Andhewas the source of the heat. To say nothing of the delightful masculine scent filling her senses. Or the mouth.
He kissed her skin once again, reminding her she was clad in nothing more than her undergarments. Her chemise had shifted in her sleep, sliding down to bare her shoulder.
“Cherie, vous séduisez,” he muttered.
A shiver trilled down her spine, sending an unwanted surge of desire to the apex of her thighs. She pressed her legs together to stay the ache. Forced herself to recall she did not like this man.
In fact, she loathed him.
He was responsible for Alfred’s death.
For her numb hand. For her presence in this bed. For so much pain and sorrow.
His hand slid from her waist, gliding over her chemise until he cupped her breast in his palm. Her traitorous nipple stiffened instantly. His thumb traced over the peak, sending a spark of unwanted flame shooting through her. A natural reaction, she reassured herself. It would have happened had any man’s hand been upon her.
“Je veux faire l’amour,” he whispered, his voice a low rasp.
She was certain he was asleep. Whispering to her in French. More proof of his depravity. He could fall asleep with a woman he professed to loathe and then attempt to seduce her.Good God, he had not bedded her, had he? Surely she would have remembered such a thing.
