Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  He was so smug.

  So horrid.

  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 somewhat unexpected, 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 Times has 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 of Confessions 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 to The 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.

  But if it became common fame that she had written Confessions of a Sinful Earl, her reputation would not be salvageable. In truth, she did not care for herself. Callie’s heart belonged to Simon, and he was forever lost to her. She had no intention to marry. However, it was not herself she was concerned for.

  Benny and Isabella…their marriage was so new, so hard-fought, so well-deserved. Isabella and Benny had nearly been killed by a Fenian in her typewriting school. It had only been Benny’s bravery and timely intervention which had saved her. And now, they were married, on their honeymoon, savoring each other and their love.

  If Benny returned to Callie’s ruination, he would be devastated.

  And he had just found his happiness.

  The woman who was meant to be his wife, just as Simon had been meant to be Callie’s husband. If she could not have the life she had dreamt of, she would be damned before she would allow anyone to take that from Benny. She loved her brother. Fiercely and devotedly.

  Worse, this black mark against her, if it were to be made known, could do far more than cause Benny and Isabella upset and worry. It could harm them as well. Sinclair was correct, damn him. There had been a great deal of rumors surrounding Benny and Isabella. With Isabella’s life in danger, Benny had diverted Scotland Yard agents to her protection. If scrutiny were to be placed upon him because of her…

  “I see your devious mind at work, my future countess.”

  The earl’s voice cut through her wildly spinning thoughts.

  She met his gaze. “What manner of despicable villain would seek to hurt a man who is courageous and good, a man who has devoted himself to keeping us all safe from danger? A man who has nothing to do with any of this?”

  He inclined his head. “A man who has nothing left to lose, princess. A man you ruined.” He took a lingering bite of his strawberry. “Me.”

  Sin watched as understanding dawned on Lady Calliope’s expressive face. For a fleeting moment, her countenance took on that same haunted quality of a wild creature facing down her hunter. He knew a moment of guilt at what he was doing, but then he ruthlessly squelched the inkling.

  She deserved this.

  She had destroyed his reputation—not that it had required much effort on her part—with Confessions of a Sinful Earl. And she had not stopped after that. Rather, she had enjoyed her vengeance. She had continued.

  Only now, too late, did she realize that in so doing, she had made herself vulnerable to him. Oh, so very vulnerable. Yes, she had brought this on with her madcap scheme to decimate his chances at making a match. Before she had disseminated her tripe, he had been about to secure the hand and vast dowry of Miss Vandenberg.

  Never mind that Miss Vandenberg paled in comparison to the delectable, dark beauty of Lady Calliope. He did not need to desire his wife. Lord knew, by the end of his marriage with Celeste, he had been so repulsed by her, he had not been able to touch her.
>
  “This is blackmail,” Lady Calliope accused then.

  Quite accurately, as it happened.

  “You are damned right it is.” Smiling, he nibbled at another strawberry.

  She was looking rather pale at the moment, his future countess. Likely because she was still refusing his offer of food and drink. He could outlast her in a battle of stubbornness, however. Perhaps she was also feeling bilious at the notion of being forced to marry a man she erroneously believed had caused her brother’s death.

  Again, a stab of something akin to guilt prickled at his conscience.

  Again, he sent it to the devil.

  “If I agree to this…this horrid plan of yours, how do I have any proof you will not still reveal I am the author of Confessions just to spite me?” she asked next.

  He swallowed his bite of strawberry, his grin deepening. “Why would I want to harm my own wife?”

  Her pallor grew even more heightened. “Why indeed?”

  Ah yes, she believed him a wife murderer as well as a brother murderer. How could he have forgotten? The creature certainly had a wild imagination. But then, he knew from his own experience that having someone to blame always felt better than the realization that one was completely and utterly at the mercy of the universe.

  “You have my word as a gentleman that I will take your secret to my grave,” he reassured her, keeping his tone light. “I have had enough scandal to last a lifetime. It will be an even exchange—you marry me, and in return, I will never reveal the truth, and nor shall the younger Mr. White. When we return to London, I will pay a call to your publisher on your behalf, explaining to him that he is no longer permitted to publish the next installment of the serial, and further, that no more shall be forthcoming. I will instruct him to deliver the manuscript to me, for safekeeping. You are amenable?”

  “Amenable as I must be,” she allowed. “However, I will not share your bed.”

  Still imagining she possessed the power to bargain, the foolish chit.

  He chuckled. “Yes, you will. I cannot very well get an heir on you if I do not bed you, my lady.”

  “You cannot possibly expect me to suffer your attentions.” Her lip curled, as if the notion of his touch disgusted her.

  And mayhap, in a sense, it did. But her body had been most responsive to his earlier. Her mind may be convinced he was a heartless devil, but her body could easily be persuaded otherwise. He knew the feeling—after all, he loathed Lady Calliope Manning. Yet kissing her and touching her and waking with his prick nestled against her feminine curves had given him a cockstand just the same.

  “Only until my heir is secured,” he told her. “After I have my heir and spare, I will never return to your bed.”

  Her lips compressed. “Do you swear it?”

  He raised a brow. “Madam, I have no wish to share a bed with a conniving jade. If it were not for your dowry, I would ruin you in the blink of an eye. I need your funds, and I need an heir. You can give me both, and then you can go to the devil for all I care.”

  Her stomach growled once more, reminding him she had yet to eat.

  On a sigh, he rose and dragged his chair nearer to hers.

  She stiffened, eyes going wide. “What are you doing, my lord?”

  “Plotting your murder,” he told her wryly.

  Her expression said she believed him.

  “Bloody hell,” he swore, snatching a strawberry from her plate and holding it to her lush lips. “I am feeding you before you perish from starvation, you wrongheaded virago. Take a bite.”

  She rolled her lips inward and shook her head.

  He shoved the strawberry into her mouth with less finesse than he would have liked. But he nevertheless achieved the desired goal—there was food in her mouth.

  “Chew,” he told her as if she were a child.

  Her countenance was mulish as ever, but she chewed slowly, then swallowed.

  “Good.” He held the half-eaten fruit to her lips once more. “Another bite.”

  This time, instead of attempting to seal her lips, she opened her mouth. He slid the strawberry inside and the bloody harridan bit him. Pain shot up his arm as those pretty teeth of hers clamped on the fleshy pad of his thumb before releasing him.

  He ground his molars to stave off an exclamation of pain. He would not allow her even a moment of triumph. “That was not very nice, my dear. Or particularly wise.”

  “I was obeying your orders.” She blinked at him, her expression one of contrived innocence.

  He brought his throbbing thumb to his own lips and sucked, easing the sting. “Fair warning, princess. Next time you bite me, I will bite you back.”

  He would start by nibbling on her creamy throat. Then catching her lower lip between his teeth. Then, he would work his way lower. Bite those pretty nipples he had felt through her chemise…

  Damnation.

  Desire pounded through him, reminding him it had been far too long since he had last bedded a woman. That was the only reason he was attracted to the woman he had spent the last few weeks despising and plotting against.

  “Forgive me,” she said, her voice radiating with insincerity.

  Never, he vowed inwardly. Forgiveness was for fools. Lady Calliope Manning would be his enemy forever. He had learned that particular lesson thanks to his former countess, and it was one that would serve him well in the next loveless union he faced. If there was one source of solace he could find in this hellacious mess, it was that this time, he was too wise to fancy himself in love with his wife.

  It would be a marriage of convenience in the truest sense.

  No danger to his heart. No betrayal. No pain. No lies.

  “Eat your breakfast, beloved betrothed,” he told her. “The sooner we can get back to London and you are my wife, the better.”

  After all, he did not just have himself to fret over.

  Chapter Seven

  My rapacious hunger for conquests became a dangerous obsession, dear reader. The more I reveled in the depths of my depravity, the more I sought it, like a true satyr. Imagine, if you will, a chamber filled with dozens of men and women, all of them nude, writhing in their shared, forbidden passions…

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl

  Callie was bedraggled, tired, and wretched. Not necessarily in that order.

  Her captor, however, was dozing comfortably on the Moroccan leather squabs opposite her, his long legs stretched out across the interior of the carriage, his booted ankles crossed. The deep, even sound of his breathing suggested he was slumbering without a hint of conscience, now that he had gotten what he wanted and they were en route back to London.

  In repose, he looked somehow less menacing. Less like an angry god. More like a mere mortal. Still more handsome than sin.

  She was going to marry this man.

  Callie could hardly credit the knowledge. The last day seemed more like a horrible nightmare from which she would wake safe in the comfort of her bed at Westmorland House than reality. The man she had spent the last year believing responsible for Alfred’s death, the man she had ruined, the man with the blackest reputation in London, was forcing her to become his bride.

  How she hated him.

  She thought suddenly of his blade. Now that she had agreed to Sinclair’s demands, she was no longer bound like a prisoner. Mayhap it was not too late to escape him after all. She had no wish to truly hurt him with the knife—indeed, she did not think she could stomach it. But if she could somehow get her hands upon it…

  Slowly, she made her way across the carriage, until she had settled herself beside him on the bench seat. He continued sleeping as the carriage went over a rut in the road, jostling them both. She held her breath, praying he would not wake, and then she slid her hand inside his coat, to the hidden pocket where she had seen him secret it earlier.

  His heat seared her fingertips. Gently, she searched his lean form, seeking the blade. All she felt was hard, male chest. Another bump in the road made th
e carriage sway, knocking her into him. She froze, studying his face for any sign he had awoke.

  His expression remained serene. His dark lashes were long, fanned on his cheeks. Almost too long for a gentleman. His cheekbones were proud slashes. His nose was a sharp blade bisecting the handsome symmetry of his face. His jaw was proud and wide, his lips full.

  But she was not meant to be admiring him. She was meant to be divesting him of his weapon. She moved at last, searching once more for the blade.

  His lips twitched. Before she could remove her hand, he snagged her wrist in an iron grip. His eyes opened, his gaze almost obsidian, shockingly alert. There was not a trace of slumber in them.

  “Are you attempting to seduce me, princess, or were you hoping to kill me in my sleep?” His rich baritone was undeniably amused.

  “Neither,” she said on a gasp as he yanked her into his lap. “Lord Sinclair, please…”

  “Such pretty protestations,” he said, his gaze flitting to her lips. “I like it when you beg me.”

  Resistance rose within her. She struggled to remove herself from his lap, but her actions only served to mire her more firmly against him and twist her skirts around her. How neatly he had trapped her once more. She wondered if he had even been sleeping at all.

  Her pride would not allow his comment to go unanswered. “I would never beg you for anything.”

  Another of his rare smiles curved that wicked mouth. “I would not be so certain of that if I were you, sweet.”

  She had not found his blade, and now instead of outwitting him at his own game, she had failed abysmally yet again. “I am more certain than I have been of anything else.”

  She would beg him for nothing.

  Ever.

  Not even for mercy.

  “More certain than you are that I am a murderer?” His smile had disappeared now, but his stare was still upon her lips.

  She licked them, wishing she could not still feel the imprint of his mouth on hers. “Do you have proof of your innocence?”

  His stare flicked back to hers at last. “If I told you I do?”