Earl of Every Sin

by Scott, Scarlett

  She swallowed, knowing he was thinking of his wife.

  Missing her.

  Catriona resented the intrusion of the past, of the ghost who was never far from his thoughts. But then, the resentment was chased swiftly by shame. She had no right to envy a dead woman.

  “What if we can be more than our lives have made us?” she asked quietly.

  It was the closest she could bear to asking him if there was ever a hope he may find love again. With her.

  “Impossible, my lady,” he told her flatly. “The sooner you accept it, the happier you will be.”

  Well, that rather explained his stance on the matter in crushing clarity. It had been a foolish longing on her part, anyway. She did not know where it had emerged from. Likely the shock of the day and the lateness of the hour.

  “Or you can continue to have hope and faith,” she offered anyway.

  “And be endlessly disappointed.” His voice was hard yet smooth, like a stone from a river bed. “Milk? Sugar?”

  His change of subject was so abrupt, she blinked, struggling to find her way in their dialogue. Ah yes, he referred to the tea. “Both, if you please.”

  With efficient movements that seemed at odds with his large hands, brawny body, and aura of danger, he prepared a cup of tea for her. When he held the finished product out to her, their fingers brushed.

  Neither of them wore gloves.

  She almost shook at the contact. Nothing much, just the brush of his callused fingers over hers. As it was, her heart pounded with so much force, she feared he would hear it, seated as he was on the adjacent settee. His skin was hot. He made her hot.

  And flushed. “Thank you, my lord.”

  And clumsy. Her composure was badly shaken by her reaction to him, even after such an obvious rejection. She fumbled her saucer, then made an effort to right her cup, which only resulted in her spilling her tea all over her gown.

  “Oh dear,” she muttered, looking about for a napkin and finding none. She lifted her skirt away from her thighs, where the dark stain had begun to spread on her pale muslin.

  “Cristo,” Rayne bit out in his decadent voice.

  She could not be certain what he had said, but she could easily venture a guess.

  Likely, she had disgusted him with her late-night dash to his townhome, followed by the buckets of tears she had cried into his shirt. Now this. She could not even have a proper cup of tea without dumping it into her lap.

  All because the Earl of Rayne’s fingers had grazed hers.

  What was the matter with her? It was true he was the most gorgeous creature the Lord had ever fashioned—so beautiful he made her ache—but he was also the Earl of Rayne. He was cynical, detached, in love with a dead woman, set upon getting her with child and then leaving her…

  But then, he was on his knees before her, a snow-white linen handkerchief in hand, dabbing at her drenched skirts. His head was bent.

  “Maldición, the tea was hot,” he growled. “Did you burn yourself, querida?”

  Dear.

  Why did he insist upon calling her that? It made resisting his obvious charms so very impossible. She was staring at his thick, dark hair now, noting how it glistened in the candlelight, wondering what it would feel like, ever so tempted to tunnel her fingers through the wavy lengths.

  Even his hair was handsome.

  Of course it was.

  She ought to answer him, she knew. Indeed, she had meant to, but she was rather distracted by his sudden nearness, the way he called her querida in his velvet-gruff voice…

  “Are you injured?” he asked again.

  Her mouth opened to tell him no, that the tea had not been scalding, that her gown was merely sodden and stained and her pride tattered, but his hands—those elegant hands—were sliding beneath the hem of her gown. Beneath her chemise, too. Over her stockings, up her calves. Caressing her knees.

  She could not speak.

  His hands traveled all the way to the tops of her thighs, lingering there. His touch was gentle. Hesitant. No lighter than the landing of a butterfly on a flower. But oh, how she felt it. She felt it to her core. Felt an answering ache pulse to life there.

  Even the air around them seemed to change, growing heavy. Thick with possibility, with suppressed desires. Her every inhalation was of him, his scent, bay and spice and man.

  Him.

  Breathing became an erotic art with his fingers skimming over her damp flesh.

  “Lady Catriona?” At last, he tipped back his head to meet her gaze.

  She fell headlong into his eyes, his brooding beauty.

  “Yes,” she managed to say. It was the answer to every question he could possibly ask her, she was sure of it.

  May I keep touching you?

  May I kiss you?

  May I raise your skirts higher?

  Her wild imagination conjured up an endless number of questions he might pose, all of which would have received the same response, a resounding yes.

  He did not ask her any of those questions, however.

  “Does it hurt?” he asked, his gaze roaming hungrily over her face.

  Yes, but not where you think it might.

  She swallowed. “No.”

  His hands stilled in their gentle exploration. “The tea did not burn you? I can have a servant fetch you a soothing salve if it did.”

  The tea had not burned her. But his fingers on her skin most assuredly did.

  “I am…” Dear heavens, what was it about the earl that made it so impossible for her to maintain her wits? She scrambled for something to say. The truth would be best, if only she could force her tongue to cooperate. “I am perfectly fine, my lord. The tea was not hot enough to do damage. Indeed, the only damage inflicted was upon my pride.”

  His concern for her wellbeing did not go unnoticed. With any other man, she may have suspected an impure motive for such a personal inspection of her body. With Rayne, she had no such concern. Of course, within a few hours, he would be her husband anyway, and her body would be his to touch as he liked.

  Whenever he liked.

  She hoped it would be everywhere and frequently.

  “Good. That is very…that is excelente. I am relieved if you were not injured, my lady.” He removed his hands from beneath her skirts with the haste of a man who had been caught committing a crime. Her hem was flipped back down once more, and he was on his feet in no time, returning to the settee.

  “Forgive my carelessness,” she said, still embarrassed by her lack of grace.

  His gaze bored into hers, his countenance once more impenetrable. “If you wish to postpone our nuptials tomorrow, given the unfortunate events of today, I understand, Lady Catriona.”

  What? He did not want to marry her after all?

  “No.” Her response fled her before she could rethink it. Or form it into something more elegant, more refined. It was simply how she felt.

  “No?” he asked, a raven-black brow raised. “Are you telling me no, you no longer wish to marry me, or no, you do not wish to reschedule the nuptials on a different day?”

  “The latter,” she answered with ease. Too much ease, she knew, and far too quickly as well. “What I am telling you, Lord Rayne, is that I want to marry you tomorrow morning, just as we have discussed. I do not wish to tarry any longer.”

  His sensual lips flattened into a thin line of determination. “And yet, you initially objected to the abbreviated nature of our betrothal. What has changed, my lady?”

  Everything.

  You.

  Me.

  The way you make me feel. Your hands beneath my skirts.

  She blinked. “Nothing has changed, and that is the reason why we ought to carry on as planned. I have prepared myself according to the nature of our agreement, my lord. I do not wish to wait any longer. Doing so would not benefit either one of us. We both are eager to move on with our lives.”

  Deny it, she begged him inwardly. Tell me you have no intention of moving on without me.
Tell me your intentions have altered.

  Instead, he nodded. “This is true, my lady. The sooner you are with child, the sooner I can return to Spain.”

  She suppressed a flinch at his words. She had known, all along, what he wanted from her. Why had she dared to think he might change his mind? Because he had shown her a modicum of concern? Because he seemed to care? Because he had run his delicious hands over her thighs?

  “Of course,” she forced herself to say brightly, as if the reminder of his plan to callously abandon her and his child were not the verbal equivalent of sinking a dagger deep into her heart. “If we marry tomorrow as planned, we will both be much nearer to accomplishing our goals.”

  “Our goals,” he repeated.

  Ah. He believed he was the only one in their marriage with goals. How very man-like of him.

  “Yes,” she said. “Our goals, my lord. You wish to return to Spain, assured of an heir who will keep your odious cousin from inheriting your estates and title. I wish to secure my freedom and to hold my head high in society. To never again have to suffer banishment. I will admit, I am most eager to return to my friends and the social whirl.”

  His jaw had tensed. She did not miss the signs. Something about what she had just said had displeased him. But she could not fathom what it would be.

  “Which friends are you eager to return to, Lady Catriona?” he asked coolly. “I will remind you that you are a reflection of me. And further, that you will remain faithful to me until you produce me a healthy heir. Not a moment sooner.”

  How dare he suppose she only wanted to marry him so she could take a lover or otherwise bring scandal and condemnation down upon him? When he was the one who was so hell-bent upon returning to Spain and abandoning her and their child in England?

  Catriona’s first instinct was to rail against him and such an unwarranted judgment.

  She forced her indignation aside, however, for the night had been a long and trying one for the both of them. And she was still thankful for the way he had come running to aid her, Monty, and even Torrington.

  “I am more than aware of the responsibilities I will be undertaking as your countess, Lord Rayne,” she informed him, her voice equally frigid. “I may have been ruined, but I have no intention of flouting the vows we speak.”

  She could only hope he would not.

  He nodded. “Thank you, Lady Catriona. I will take you at your word.”

  “And I will thank you for honoring my word,” she said, even though she was certain he doubted her. Perhaps few people in his life had ever been worthy of his trust, or something had happened to make him so quick to be suspicious.

  At odds with the sudden vein of their conversation, he proceeded to pour her a fresh cup of tea, adding sugar and milk accordingly. He offered it to her with a wry smile. “Tea, Lady Catriona?”

  “Thank you.” This time, when she accepted the cup and saucer, she took great care to keep her fingers from brushing his. Spurred by a persistent voice inside her, she continued. “You promised me freedom, Lord Rayne. After I bear your heir, I am to have free reign over my own life. You assured me that much when you asked me to become your wife, and if you are seeking to rescind the offer now, please say so.”

  He poured himself a tea—no sugar, no milk—with effortless elegance. “One life in exchange for another,” he said. “That is what I promised you, my lady. I trust you are still willing?”

  One life in exchange for another.

  How cold it sounded.

  How emotionless.

  He had no wish to meet his child or have a role in his upbringing. She must not forget that.

  She met the gaze of the man who would become her husband in a few hours’ time. “I am still willing, Lord Rayne.”

  The tension seemed to ease from him before her eyes. He nodded. “Bueno.”

  Catriona sipped her tea, forcing a smile she did not feel. “Bueno.”

  She could only hope it was a promise which would come to fruition.

  Chapter Eight

  The wedding was going to be delayed.

  Alessandro understood this undeniable, unwanted fact the moment he received a missive from Hamilton House, before he even bothered to open it and scan its contents. The Duke of Montrose, foolish bastardo that he was, had moved in the night, no doubt attempting to find some liquor to pour down his worthless gullet, and had ruined the setting of his bone. Another attempt would need to be made this morning.

  But worse news still, Viscount Torrington had yet to regain consciousness.

  Alessandro’s betrothed wrote prettily, in the unhurried scrawl of a lady who had learned from a governess and who had never needed to worry over the cost of paper or the time penning such a note would take from her day. Of all the things he was to fixate upon, the penmanship of Lady Catriona seemed the most unlikely.

  And yet, it was another reminder of how different the woman he was about to marry was from the first woman he had married. Maria had not been born to the life of an elegant lady. Her scrawl had been small and concise, the hallmark of a woman who needed to conserve both her paper and her time. Her father had been a wealthy merchant, but drink and the loss of his wife had caused him to lose everything. Maria had been tossed from her home with no means of supporting herself save one.

  Alessandro’s hand clenched into a fist, crumpling Lady Catriona’s missive.

  He was not certain which made him angrier; the delay of his nuptials, which would necessarily mean the addition of more time spent in England, or the reminder of what Maria had endured juxtaposed with the gentle life Lady Catriona enjoyed. Even in her supposed banishment and ruination, she had still lived a life of ease.

  “Will there be a reply, my lord?”

  The question snatched Alessandro from his grim reveries. His butler was staring at him, expressionless.

  “No tengo respuesta,” he said.

  “Are you certain there shall be no answer, Lord Rayne?” his butler asked, his tone mild.

  Dios. What did the man do, sit about in his butler’s pantry studying Spanish? Alessandro would sack him, but he had no intention of remaining in England long enough to care. The man would be Lady Catriona’s problem.

  If she and Alessandro ever managed to wed, that was.

  His eyes narrowed on the domestic. “Estoy seguro.”

  The butler bowed. “If you are sure, my lord, I will take my leave.”

  No, damn it, he was not sure. He was not sure of anything any longer. He had believed he had decided upon an excellent solution to the problem of having shot the Duke of Montrose and also keeping his loathsome cousin from inheriting.

  Take a bride. Even a ruined one. Even an English one. Even one he wanted to touch.

  But he could not seem to wed Lady Catriona, no matter how hard he tried.

  He had believed he could stave off his servants by speaking to them solely in his preferred language.

  But his butler had learned Spanish.

  Said butler was departing the study where Alessandro had been pacing, fretting over the day’s nuptials and his inconvenient attraction to his impending bride both.

  “Johnstone,” he said. “Wait.”

  His butler paused, then turned to face him, his countenance still as placid as a pond at dawn. “Yes, Lord Rayne?”

  “See that a carriage is brought round,” he directed, entirely against his will. “I will be paying a call to Hamilton House.”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  His butler bowed again and then made a hasty retreat.

  Alessandro watched him go, bemused by the situation in which he now found himself. He had a betrothed to worry about now. A plan. A plan which had been set in motion by the same man who now seemed hell-bent upon destroying it all with his reckless, insatiable desire for debauchery. Could the duke not have waited one more sodding day to drown himself in drink and race his equally foolhardy friend?

  In truth, he wanted nothing more than to let Montrose wallow in pain an
d learn from his stupidity. But he also wanted his wife. He wanted to make her his wife. And each day spent without Lady Catriona as his countess, in his bed, was another day he would have to wait.

  The longer he tarried, the more time passed. His men in Spain needed him. Though his second in command was capable, a formidable guerrilla soldier in his own right, he was also violent and ruthless. Tomàs had once led their men into a French field hospital and tacked the wounded enemy to trees to bleed to death.

  The memory of that day still haunted him, for while battle was in his blood, Alessandro believed in mercy. He needed to return, to retake command. Warfare was what he knew best. Attempting to find his way in the culture which had never embraced him, the culture which had never felt like his own, was not what he was meant to do.

  Surely that was the source of the restlessness affecting him now.

  Surely that was the source of his anger.

  But it was not, and he knew it. Part of the spark igniting his inner fury was his reaction to Lady Catriona. He wanted her. Badly. And it left him riddled with guilt he could not begin to dispel.

  Still, he required an heir, but to accomplish such a feat, he also needed to wed.

  That much was undeniable.

  Johnstone returned, and it was only then that Alessandro realized he had never moved from the spot where he had stood when the butler had taken his leave. Indeed, he still held Lady Catriona’s missive clenched in his fist.

  Cristo.

  “The carriage is awaiting you, my lord,” his butler announced.

  “Very good,” he said, not even having the energy to bait the man any longer. “Thank you, Johnstone.”

  With that, he stalked toward the front entry, Lady Catriona’s note burning into his palm.

  *

  Catriona’s wedding day was not going to happen.

  She suspected it the moment she woke in the midst of the night to her brother’s incoherent hollering. She realized it when she found Monty on the staircase, sprawled over the steps, groaning in pain, fortunate he had not broken his foolish neck.

  Asking for whisky.