Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  “Look at me,” he ordered her. “I am deadly serious when I tell you that if you cause me any more trouble, I will forget all about marrying you and simply shout from the proverbial rooftops what you have done.”

  He was bluffing, of course. Sin had no way of knowing if Miss Vandenberg would reconsider their betrothal if he were to be acquitted of the charges which had been laid at his door by Lady Calliope’s scribblings. Even if she would, Miss Vandenberg had demanded a lavish wedding that would not be accomplished with haste or ease. He could not even last the next month on what little he had remaining.

  “Very well,” Lady Calliope said. “If you will not arrange for a meeting, I shall be left with no recourse other than to find her myself and to pay her a call.”

  “You have no notion whom to pay the call upon,” he countered.

  “I have a list,” she said calmly. “I shall begin with Lady Fonthurst and then I shall move on to Viscountess Lisle. After her, I shall go to the Marchioness of Durham. Then, the Duchess of Pembroke. There is also an actress, I believe, Mrs. Westlake. To say nothing of Lady Jane Carlton—”

  “Enough,” he bit out.

  Where the devil had she gotten so much information about him? When he had read Confessions of a Sinful Earl, some of the accounts had been painfully accurate. But others had been wild flights of fancy. Yet, hearing so many familiar names roll off Lady Calliope’s tongue with such ease was nothing short of alarming.

  She was far more of an opponent to him than he had imagined.

  Yes, he had underestimated the cunning vixen.

  “Is it true that you are also well acquainted with the bawd who owns the Garden of Flora and Fauna?” she asked next, utterly astonishing him by rattling off the name of an exclusive house of ill repute.

  A very wicked, very exclusive, very secretive house of ill repute.

  Or, at least, so he had thought.

  “Where have you come by all this information, my lady?” he asked.

  By God, he would suffer anything before he chained himself to another Celeste. Strangely, however, something inside him told him the petite, dark-haired woman before him could not be further from Celeste than the moon from the sun.

  “Will you have me pay calls to all of them?” Her composure was impeccable. She showed nary a hint of fear. “Or will you tell me which of the many ladies in your acquaintance I must meet?”

  Sin did not know what came over him then. One moment, he was at a complete impasse with Lady Calliope, and the next, he was slamming his mouth down on hers. He told himself it was to shut her up. To stop her sharp tongue from its endless wagging. To remind her which of them was in control.

  But the saddest bit of it was, the moment her lips moved beneath his, he was stunningly, surreally aware of where all the control lay.

  In her power.

  In her bewitching lips.

  He was not kissing her to command her.

  Rather, he was kissing her because he wanted to kiss her.

  This would not do.

  He reared back, ending the kiss before it could deepen. Glaring into her dark eyes, he growled, “I will come for you tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. Do not be late.”

  Her tongue glided over her lips, and it was all he could do to suppress a groan at the sight and not chase it with his. “Tomorrow. That shall do, my lord.”

  He nodded, then moved away from her, needing distance between them. “And Lady Calliope? Do not again put yourself at risk by gallivanting all over London in the midst of the night.”

  She nodded, and he took the jerky motion as her acquiescence as she rose from her chair, her cheeks blossoming with twin patches of scarlet. “Good evening, Lord Sinclair.”

  He watched her flee his study then, cursing himself for a fool.

  Chapter Nine

  I write these memoirs, dear reader, as a warning to you. Our world is rife with villains. Most of their crimes are never exposed.

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl

  Callie had told Aunt Fanchette she was going for a drive with Lord Sinclair.

  That much had not been a lie.

  She had neglected to mention, however, that the earl was taking her to meet with his mistress. Strike that—his former mistress. Or so he claimed.

  “I will have your word that after today, you will not give me further trouble,” Lord Sinclair said as he deftly guided his barouche down Rotten Row.

  The conveyance was not new. Its benches were in need of repair, and the whole affair seemed as if it had belonged to a previous decade. His horseflesh was adequate, but could hardly compare to the equine snobbery of their fellow lords and ladies parading through the fashionable part of Hyde Park. The state of his barouche, along with the state of his townhome—sparsely decorated, pictures missing from the faded wallpaper, threadbare carpet, and a minimal staff—suggested how impoverished he truly was.

  “If I find this day satisfactory,” she said, blotting out a stab of guilt at the last thought.

  After all, it was hardly her fault that the Earl of Sinclair had depleted all his funds. He had done so before she had begun publishing Confessions of a Sinful Earl, surely.

  Had he not?

  “You will find it satisfactory, or I will find it satisfactory to tell the world what a vicious, scheming harridan you are,” he returned.

  She stifled her umbrage, telling herself she did not care what this man thought of her. “We shall see, my lord.”

  He made a noncommittal sound low in his throat, part growl, part grunt.

  He said nothing for a few clops of the horses’ hooves, forcing her to study his profile. His jaw was tense, his lips tight. The memory of his swift kiss the night before returned, along with a most unwanted tingling in her own lips. She wondered if hating him would be easier if he were less handsome. Was she so shallow, so incapable of controlling her baser reaction to him, that she was allowing him to alter her perception?

  Because something had shifted between them in the past few days. The glimpses of him which proved he was not entirely evil had perhaps aided in that. Still, how was it possible that she was so drawn to a man she had so recently viewed as her nemesis?

  She pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the throng of fashionable carriages around them. “I fail to see how being in the midst of so many people will afford us an opportunity to speak with your mistress alone.”

  He cast a look in her direction, his dark gaze searing. “Who said anything about speaking with my mistress?”

  “You did,” she shot back.

  “No,” he said slowly, giving her a long, thorough perusal that made something melt inside her stomach and slide between her thighs. “I did not.”

  The bounder. “Of course you did.”

  How she would like to launch herself back at him in the same manner as she had when he had absconded with her in her own carriage. Yet, she did not dare, for they were surrounded by hundreds of sets of curious eyes.

  Leisurely, he returned his gaze to the track ahead of them, eyes upon the horses once more. “I said nothing of the sort, Lady Calliope. What I said was to be prepared for me to call upon you at three o’clock. As expected, you were half an hour tardy.”

  Her lateness had been intentional. The notion of making him wait had held infinite appeal. The frustrated rage emanating from him had been worth every minute she had paced the carpet in her chamber, consulting the ormolu mantel clock with each pass.

  “A lady needs time to prepare herself,” she said.

  “You are wearing trousers, madam,” he bit out. “I hardly think such a fashion choice required much preparation.”

  “Divided skirts,” Callie corrected him once more. “These are all the rage in Paris.”

  “Pity we are not in Paris.” His voice was dry.

  If he disapproved of her divided skirts, he could take his opinion—as unwanted as his kisses and his forced marriage—elsewhere.

  Mayhap not his kisses.

&
nbsp; She plucked at the drapery of her silk divided skirts. They raised eyebrows, it was true. But for ease of movement, divided skirts were ideal. “London would be better served to ease its fusty ways.”

  Such as this promenade of the wealthy and the well-known.

  The purpose was to see and be seen. Which was why concern prodded her anew, along with his denial that he had agreed to her demands the previous evening.

  “London changes for no one,” he said grimly. “Not even a duke’s daughter descended from one of the wealthiest families in England.”

  He was right about that, in some ways. Since her return from Paris, she had been bold enough to push boundaries which had once seemed forbidden. But there was eccentricity, and there was going too far. She did not doubt he was delivering her a subtle reminder that if her identity as the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl were to be revealed, she, too, would become a pariah. Already, her presence in his barouche was drawing whispers and curious stares from every direction.

  “I shall endeavor to weather the tide,” she snapped at him. “I grow weary of this incessant parade. Too many people are watching us. When are you taking me to your mistress?”

  “Former mistress,” he corrected quietly. “And I told you, I never agreed to do so.”

  She thought over his words from the previous evening.

  I will come for you tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. Do not be late.

  That last demand had been her reason for dawdling. But…damn him. He had not agreed at all, had he? She had been so deuced flustered from the sudden press of his mouth to hers—that brief, chaste, hated, wondrous kiss—that she had simply taken his words as accord.

  “What is the matter, beloved future countess?” he drawled, sounding amused. “Nothing to say?”

  He was toying with her. Enjoying this.

  She glared at him. “Are you taunting me because I made you wait half an hour for me?”

  “Moi?” He cast a smug glance in her direction, grinning. “Never.”

  She had suffered quite enough of his games and his presence both. “No more of this nonsense. I demand you give me the audience I requested, or I will not marry you.”

  “Do not shout, princess.” He turned away from her once more. “Everyone is watching the most notorious man in London and society’s darling, traveling together in the same barouche. How shall we convince them of our love match if you do not gaze upon me as if I have just descended from the heavens?”

  “More like dredged up from the fiery depths,” she grumbled.

  “I beg your pardon?” His lips compressed.

  “You heard me.” Her vexation increased by leaps and bounds with each passing moment.

  “Tsk, princess.” He clucked his tongue in admonishing fashion. “Being a brat will not get you what you want.”

  “I am not a brat.” She scowled at him.

  “Only a brat would invent such ruthless, damaging lies about a man the way you did,” he countered coldly. “Did you think your chicanery would not bring about the utter ruination of my reputation? Did you not think labeling me a murderer who would seek to profit off his own sick acts would be the end of me in this unforgiving society of ours?”

  Of course she had thought she would ruin him. That had been her intention.

  What if you were wrong about him?

  That same, uninvited voice returned. Her conscience, she supposed.

  What if he can prove his innocence?

  She sent the voice to the devil. Because she needed answers first.

  “Spare me your endless games, my lord.” She pinned a false smile to her lips when she noted everyone around them continued to watch.

  Of course they were watching. All London thought he had killed his wife and her brother. Thanks to her.

  At least they were finally reaching the end of the promenade. She wondered if he had any intentions of taking her to meet his former mistress after all.

  “And spare me your theatrics,” he returned. “As I have warned you before, you are not in control any longer. You may have begun writing this farce, but I am the one who will end it, and we will do so in my way, as I see fit. Now smile for all your admirers, and then laugh as if I have just delivered the cleverest sally you have ever heard.”

  The truth hit her then. He had orchestrated this drive through the park, on Rotten Row, at the fashionable hour, specifically so they would be seen together. He was further entrapping her.

  Because he did not trust her to hold to her word.

  Fair enough. She had no reason to trust him either.

  If she had to play by his rules to get the reassurance she needed, then she would. Callie beamed at him. Then she laughed. Loudly, while holding a hand to her heart. He cast a suspicious glance in her direction, and then something else crossed his face. An emotion she could not define.

  He clenched his jaw and inclined his head. “Better. We will pay our visit on our return trip to Westmorland House. I will have your promise, however, that you never write a word about her.”

  She detected a roughness in his voice, a note of caring she had never before heard.

  Her curiosity was instantly piqued. “Why are you so protective of her?”

  “I owe you no explanations, Lady Calliope,” he snapped. “You will be my wife, not my jailer. Your promise or I will take you directly home instead.”

  “Fine,” she bit out, for he was leaving her with little choice in the matter. But her quarrel was not with the woman who had once shared his bed. Rather, it was with him. “You have my promise.”

  He nodded.

  The rest of the drive was marked with silence.

  Sin and Lady Calliope seated themselves in the private salon where Tilly always greeted visitors. No stranger to Haddon House or the Duchess of Longleigh’s private apartments, Sin had left his barouche in the mews and entered through the rear with his reluctant betrothed, no formal announcement—Tilly expected him. Although he had not visited her in months, it all was so familiar to him that he was beset by an eerie sense that no time had passed since he had last been a welcomed guest in Tilly’s life. In her bed.

  But that had been a lifetime ago, and so much had changed.

  Tilly was gracious as ever, ethereally beautiful with her golden tresses styled in a thick knot at her crown with ringlets falling down her back. She was dressed in green silk, which complemented her vibrant, emerald eyes. But there was a difference in her now—a maternal beauty that could not be denied, along with the full roundness of her belly.

  “Lady Calliope,” Tilly greeted, smiling in that slight, elfin way of hers. “Lord Sinclair. You will forgive me if I do not rise? My feet are quite swollen at the moment, in my ungainly state.”

  Sin chanced a glance in Lady Calliope’s direction. Her eyes were wide, her pallor pronounced. She swallowed. “Of course you are forgiven, Your Grace. A lady in such a delicate condition takes precedence over social niceties.”

  He knew what his betrothed was thinking. He could practically see the wheels inside her mind churning. She thought Tilly’s babe was his.

  “Thank you for your understanding, my dear.” Tilly’s gaze flicked between Sin and Lady Calliope, a question in her eyes.

  His note to her had been brief and circumspect, lest Longleigh intercept it. The duke was a desperately jealous man. Tilly had suffered enough in her marriage; Sin had no wish to be the cause of further pain.

  “Lady Calliope has agreed to become my betrothed,” he explained, treading carefully. “However, she is in need of some reassurance from you.”

  Tilly stiffened. “Reassurance? I am not certain how I may provide such comfort.”

  Regret sliced through him at involving her. He and Tilly were old, trusted friends. Their bond had begun well before their relationship had become physical. Before her marriage to Longleigh as well. He knew, better than most, how private she was, and how she guarded her secrets. Her life with Longleigh depended upon it.

  “Forgi
ve me,” he entreated softly, hating this. Hating the depths to which he had been forced to sink. “I would not come to you were it not imperative.”

  He was well aware how out of the ordinary this call was. How beyond the depths of propriety. Affaires were conducted in privacy, behind closed doors. The notion of introducing his future wife to his former mistress was beyond the pale, even by Sin’s standards. But Lady Calliope had left him with no choice. He only hoped Tilly could forgive him.

  “Your secret is safe with me, Your Grace,” Lady Calliope added, avoiding Sin’s gaze. “You have my word that whatever you are willing to share with me will not go beyond these walls.”

  Tilly’s lips parted, as if she were weighing her next words with care. “What became of Miss Vandenberg?”

  He was surprised Tilly had been aware of his efforts to woo the heiress and their short-lived betrothal. He and Tilly had parted ways amicably, but he had been in a dark place after Celeste’s death, and the decision had been Tilly’s. Sin could see now how right she had been—they made better friends than lovers. Sadly, however, friends who had once been lovers could never truly return to being friends once more. Still, Tilly was the only woman Sin trusted aside from his mother.

  “Miss Vandenberg’s father took exception to the serials being published,” he said, choosing to keep Lady Calliope’s authorship to himself. “Perhaps you have read them.”

  “I would never read such vicious tripe about you, Sin,” Tilly said earnestly. “You ought to know that.”

  Gratitude swept over him. He had not utterly ruined her opinion of him.

  “Thank you, Tilly.” He inclined his head.

  Lady Calliope’s gaze settled upon him, searching. A frown furrowed her brow.

  “You need not thank me for knowing you are a good man and for honoring our friendship,” Tilly told him, before turning to Lady Calliope. “Pray tell me you have not read that horrid drivel, my lady, and believed it?”

  Ha! The vixen had authored the horrid drivel in question. The irony was not lost upon Sin. Lady Calliope looked as if she had swallowed a fishbone.