She wanted to lunge at him, strike him. Run from him. She wanted to escape him and never again blight her life with his presence.
“You were the reason I was attempting to leap from the window, so I shan’t thank you,” she bit out.
Her stomach growled again. Quite noisily this time.
His smile deepened, and he picked up another strawberry, holding it to his lips. “These are fresh. So succulent and sweet. You ought to try them, my darling bride. I just heard your stomach revealing you for the liar you are.”
Her nostrils flared. “If there is a liar amongst us, rest assured it is you, my lord, and not I. And nor will I be your bride. You shall have to find another woman to force into the loathsome position.”
“Westmorland recently married, is that not so?”
His calm query set her on edge.
Why was he so preoccupied with Benny? Her beloved brother had nothing to do with her quest for vengeance against the Earl of Sinclair.
“Yes, he did,” she allowed, searching his gaze for answers and finding none.
He was unreadable as ever, the blighter. Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, he sipped from his tea. “His choice of duchess was somewhatunexpected, was it not?”
She stiffened. Her new sister-in-law, Isabella, had been the proprietress of a ladies’ typewriting school when she had first met Benny. Though Isabella’s mother was of noble birth, her father had been a merchant, and Isabella had initially been in Benny’s employ.
“There is nothing unacceptable about his duchess, if that is what you are implying,” she defended.
She loved Isabella like a sister. Isabella was good for Benny—Callie had seen it almost from the start. And she had done more than her share of matchmaking, attempting to throw the two of them together to facilitate that connection.
“I imagine Westmorland has quite a bit of scandal on his hands at the moment,” Sinclair continued. “A common wife…”
“Isabella is not common!” she protested.
“Special League matters,” he continued as if she had not spoken. “He has stepped down as the leader, has he not? There were rumors, I believe, that he would be removed after the bombings in the House of Commons and the Tower of London. Some said he was too preoccupied with chasing after his new duchess.”
She gritted her teeth. She had heard those rumors as well, of course. They were being bandied about. “Benny is a hero. He is responsible for bringing a dozen Fenians to justice and for keeping London safe.The Timeshas been nothing but effusive in its praise of him, as is well-deserved. He took his duties seriously, and anyone can see that the war against the Fenians is being won thanks in part to his tireless work.”
“What would happen, I wonder, if word of his sister’s attempts to ruin the Earl of Sinclair were to become public knowledge at such a sensitive time?” the earl asked, stroking his jaw with his long, elegant fingers, his tone contemplative.
Something inside her froze. With fear. Understanding.
Finality.
In her lap, her hands clenched her ruined skirts. “What are you suggesting, my lord? Speak plainly, if you please. I grow weary of this game.”
“The Younger Mr. White is willing to attest to the true identity of the author ofConfessions of a Sinful Earl,” he said, his gaze skewering hers. “You, darling betrothed. I have a letter from him, written and signed in his own hand, waiting to be posted toThe Times. One word from me, and Young Mr. White will reveal all to every scandal sheet and journal in England.”
His calm pronouncement hit her with the force of a fist to the gut, robbing the air from her lungs.
No.
No.
No.
One word—denial—it was all she could think, a litany, a waterfall. Rushing through her mind, obliterating everything else. She had been so careful. Careful to keep her identity a secret. Careful to always use the Lady’s Suffrage Society as the reason to visit her publisher’s office.
“You appear shocked, princess.” The bitterness had returned to the earl’s voice, and so, too, the sharp edge. “Imagine, if you will, the impact such troubling information would have upon Westmorland’s reputation, which already hangs in the balance. His innocent sister—one who caused tongues to wag with her daring behavior abroad—writing tales of orgies and opium eating. Writing the sort of filth a proper lady never ought to be acquainted with. No one shall be surprised, and with the younger Mr. White ready and willing to swear to the truth of his statement, we both know who will be believed, do we not? I do wonder at your carnal knowledge myself, beloved betrothed, but perhaps it will prove a boon. At least in the procuring of my heir and spare. You certainly seemed amenable earlier this morning.”
The bastard.
He had entrapped her. He had outmaneuvered her. If this had been a game of chess, it was checkmate. She knew better than anyone that her place in society was precarious at best. Her reputation was already somewhat tarnished from her days in Paris with Aunt Fanchette.
