Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  No more, he vowed.

  The library door opened when he was within three strides of reaching it. Lady Calliope hovered on the threshold, ridiculously fetching in a day gown of plum and mauve with pale-pink roses trimming the bodice and a flounce of blonde lace on her skirts. She looked like a bloody queen, regal and perfect, her dark hair piled high on her crown and curling tendrils framing her face.

  As with every time he laid eyes upon her, Sin felt as if a fist landed firmly in his gut. And then his prick instantly twitched to life. More reasons to resent her.

  Damn her beautiful hide. Why did he have to want her the way he did?

  He forced himself to bow, recalling that he must maintain civility. At least until she was his in name and deed. “Lady Calliope.”

  She, however, refused to curtsy. Instead, she swept into the library, all elegant poise. She looked upon him as if he were beneath her. As if he were a puddle that had ruined the hem of her gown.

  He would ruin far more than her gown before they were through.

  “Lord Sinclair.” She moved past him in a swish of skirts and the decadent, sweet scent of lavender and tuberose.

  She had left the door ajar. As an ode to propriety? Hardly, he thought. Aunt Featherhead would not even care if he were to throw Lady Calliope over his shoulder and take her home. More likely because Lady Calliope did not trust him.

  Fair enough. He hardly trusted her, either.

  Sin stalked toward the offending portal and snapped it shut before turning on his heel to face the woman who would become his countess in a few days’ time. “You are not pleased to see me, darling beloved? I cannot fathom why not.”

  “I was not expecting you, my lord,” she gritted.

  He moved toward her, drawn by more than an urge to unsettle her. Drawn to her for her, damn it all. She was the opposite of every woman he had known before her, and somehow, it heightened his desire.

  “Do you need to expect me?” he asked. “I am, after all, your betrothed, am I not? A few short days from now, you will take my name and become mine.”

  He would be lying if he said the prospect did not bring his cock to a raging state of awareness. He was the hardest he had been since he had awoke pressed against her at Helston Hall.

  Her defiance was on full display now, her shoulders back, chin up. “I will never be yours, my lord. I will always be my own person, even in the event of our marriage.”

  In the event, she had said, as if their nuptials were not a foregone conclusion.

  As if they were a possibility instead of an absolute.

  “Are you suggesting we will not wed?” he asked carefully, noting the manner in which she withdrew from him.

  For each step he took forward, she took one in retreat. The trouble with her strategy was that in another few feet, she would reach a wall. For a moment, he thought about capturing her there. Pressing his body to hers, pinning her to the dark damask and taking her mouth, then lifting her skirts…

  No.

  He had not come here to seduce her. He had come here to make certain, once and for all, that she would become his bride. He had met with Westmorland’s solicitor earlier that morning. Lady Calliope had reached her majority, as he had already made certain. She could marry without her brother’s approval. Her dowry was unimpeachable.

  And soon, it would be his salvation.

  First, he had to make certain she would not attempt to thwart him.

  “I am not suggesting we will not wed,” she denied, sounding breathless, her eyes wide.

  He had been so caught up in his turbulent thoughts he had failed to realize they had indeed reached the end of the room. There was nowhere else for her to flee. Her back hit the wall.

  Perfect.

  He stalked nearer. “Then what were you suggesting, princess?”

  She licked her lips. “I was suggesting that I am my own person. Now. Always. You will not own me.”

  He knew he should have mercy for her, but he had none. He moved closer still. Until his body was aligned with hers. Until her petticoats and skirts surged into his legs. Until he was so near to her that her warm breath fanned over his lips in the prelude to a kiss.

  A kiss he wanted to take. A kiss he had to take.

  Right bloody now.

  He dipped his head and claimed her lips for his own. Her mouth was soft and supple, giving and hot, so hot. Hotter than the fire in his blood, raging with the need to possess her. She did not resist. Instead, she sighed into his mouth, and her hands settled on his shoulders. Not pushing him away. Her fingers dug into him, spurring him on.

  Everything about her was fierce. Each time they kissed, it was feral. Elemental. They were two wild creatures, madly clashing. He thought of the first time he had taken her lips, of how she had bitten his tongue until she had drawn blood. Oddly, the memory only heightened his driving need.

  His cock pressed against the fall of his trousers with painful insistence, and his ballocks ached. His body cried out with the need to raise that gown and plunge inside her. But he would not do it. Not yet.

  For now, he would mollify his ravenous lust with her mouth.

  He sucked on her lower lip, taking his time, consuming her. She tasted sweet, like chocolate. When he caught that fullness between his teeth and nipped, she made a small mewl. Sin took her face in his hands, holding her still for his onslaught. Her skin was smoother than silk. Her pulse beat a wild pattern.

  She wanted him as much as he wanted her. He was certain of it. What a pair they were—two enemies who despised each other. Together, they were combustible. Who would have thought? Perhaps their marriage bed would not be a cold place after all.

  Still taking his time, Sin kissed the corners of her lips, then the perfectly formed upper bow. Her mouth was gorgeous. Made for sinning. Made for kisses. It was the color of crushed berries and just as succulent. He wondered how it would feel, wrapped around his aching cockstand.

  Groaning, Sin deepened the kiss. His tongue swept inside her mouth slowly. He explored her, running his tongue against hers, the velvet recesses beyond. She tasted even sweeter, even more delicious. And her lips were moving against his. Her tongue slid into his mouth, too. One quick foray. A silken glide.

  Fuck.

  He had not anticipated the surge of overwhelming desire that little flick of her tongue sent through him. He had never expected to want her this much. Her response made an answering pulse of need throb to life. His fingers sank into the sleek upsweep of her dark hair, finding pins and plucking.

  The need to dismantle her careful toilette hit him, full-force.

  He wanted to mark her. To claim her in every way. He wanted her to see her reflection later, in the glass, and remember he was the one who had kissed her senseless, let down her hair. To remember she would be his.

  And soon.

  Not soon enough.

  Pins were dropping, and her hair was falling around her shoulders in thick, luxurious curls. He bit her lip gently and then forced himself to break the kiss. Instead, he kissed her chin, her jaw. He found her wildly flitting pulse, opened his mouth over the creamy skin of her throat. He nipped and sucked, wanting her to see that mark, as well. The evidence he had touched and kissed her, that she had liked it. He scraped her sensitive skin with his teeth.

  She purred like a cat.

  Damn, but that sound nearly undid him. He wanted to hear her make it again and again. He wanted her to cry out his name as he thrust into her. He wanted…

  “Ahem.”

  The loud, pointed clearing of a feminine throat dashed his thoughts of what he wanted. His blood roared in his ears, his heart thundering, lust coursing through him like a flooded river.

  But there was an intruder, and he had gone too far.

  Sin lifted his head and stepped away from Lady Calliope, whose eyes were dazed and so dark they were almost obsidian. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, her hair a tangle of brunette curls around her face, and the creamy flesh of her throat was pink f
rom the abrasion of his whiskers. The roaring in his ears continued. He liked the way she looked, thoroughly ravished and utterly his.

  Turning away from her required summoning all the control he had. But they had an audience, and even a man with a reputation as depraved as his knew he could not make love to his betrothed against a wall whilst someone else looked on.

  Well, he could…

  Grinding his jaw against the wicked thought, Sin turned, taking care to block Lady Calliope from view with his larger body. The aunt stood there, her eyes wide.

  “Mademoiselle Beaulieu,” he greeted, just barely keeping himself from calling her Aunt Feather-wit.

  He offered her as courtly a bow as he could manage whilst sporting a determined cockstand.

  “Lord Sinclair,” she returned, dipping into an abbreviated curtsy. “Forgive me for the interruption. However, it would appear it was rather timely, n’est-ce pas?”

  He raised a brow, attempting to look shame-faced. In truth, he was well-pleased by those kisses. “I am sorry. There is no excuse for my behavior. My sole defense is that I cannot wait to make my betrothed my countess. Pardon me for my lapse in judgment, I beg you.”

  “I understand young hearts all too well,” said the aunt. “I had one, once, long ago now.”

  He took a moment to study her, truly. She had the same dark hair and eyes as Lady Calliope, but that was where the similarities ended. Still, she was a handsome enough woman.

  Lady Calliope emerged from hiding then, frowning as her fingers fumbled to restore her coiffure to its previous state, to no avail. “Forgive us, Tante Fanchette. It was remiss of me to meet Lord Sinclair alone.”

  “Just a few more days, and then the two of you will have the rest of your lives together,” said the aunt, her tone cautioning. “I have already been remiss in my duties. Westmorland will never forgive me if there are any further lapses in propriety, and nor will I forgive myself.”

  “Lord Sinclair was just about to take his leave, Tante Fanchette,” Lady Calliope said, casting him a furtive glance of warning.

  Actually, it was more glare than warning. The virago was angry with him. Likely, she was probably angry with herself as well for having responded to him in the manner she had. Such glorious fire. He could scarcely wait to bed her.

  “Do not be silly,” said her aunt, waving a dismissive hand in the air. “Tea is ready, and of course his lordship must join us. I insist. We are to be family soon, after all. I must have time to better acquaint myself with him before my darling niece becomes his bride.”

  “He cannot stay,” Lady Calliope said.

  Sin grinned. “It would be my honor to join you both for tea.”

  If looks could kill, his betrothed would have slit his throat. “I distinctly recall you saying you had other engagements for the afternoon.”

  Did she truly think she could be rid of him that easily, particularly if his remaining would nettle her as much as he supposed? Foolish Lady Ruthless. He was made of sterner stuff than that.

  “Nothing could be more important than spending time with my beloved betrothed and her aunt,” he returned with false gallantry.

  “It is settled,” said the aunt decisively. “Do come with me, the two of you. No more nonsense!”

  Lady Calliope’s lips pinched. Sin’s grin deepened.

  Oh, yes. The wedding night was going to be one delicious clash indeed.

  Chapter Eleven

  If you feel pity for the Countess of Sin, dear reader, pray try to banish it. She is not worthy of your concern. She earned her death by daring to desecrate our marriage vows with the Duke of W. I would kill them both again if I could.

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl

  “You look as if you are being sent to the gallows,” observed the Earl of Sinclair.

  Callie kept her gaze upon the hands in her lap, which clenched the silken skirts of her wedding gown. There was a thin, golden band upon her finger that felt more like a prisoner’s irons than a lifelong promise to love and obey. Her white gloves hid the ring. But she felt it there, burning her as if it were a brand.

  She was too numb to speak, to even offer a response.

  Earlier that morning, she had spoken her vows in the drawing room at Westmorland House. The occasion had been presided over by Aunt Fanchette, Lady Jo, and a small handful of other friends from the Lady’s Suffrage Society, followed by a small wedding breakfast. There had not been time to arrange for a church, and it had seemed fitting to Callie to marry in the only place she had ever felt truly at home. Fitting, too, to begin her new life in a place of familiar comfort.

  She had the sinking feeling that comfort would be the last she would know for some time.

  “It is going to be an awkward marriage indeed if you do not deign to speak to me,” Lord Sinclair added, his tone wry.

  She rolled her lips inward and held her tongue, saying nothing. What could she say? The days had blurred together, passing by too quickly, until she had collided, headlong, with her unwanted fate.

  She was married to the man seated opposite her in the Westmorland carriage. Her new husband had not possessed the funds to provide an adequate conveyance. He had nothing more than the dilapidated barouche and one mount. Ironically, it was Lewis, the coachman he had left with the splitting headache back in an alleyway near her former publisher’s office, who was driving them to Sinclair’s townhouse.

  Her new home.

  Not that it would feel like home.

  Lord Sinclair gave an irritated sigh to accompany the sound of him strumming his long fingers upon his thigh. “Have you nothing to say, wife?”

  Wife.

  Yes, she was that. To him. To a man she still did not dare trust. A man who had once been her nemesis. A man she did not know, beyond the span of a week and a few, turbulent kisses. To say nothing of a forced carriage ride and an overnight abduction…

  She stifled a shudder. She would be damned before she would show him a single weakness.

  “Damn you, speak to me,” he growled.

  She met his gaze at last, startled by the intensity she saw reflected in his countenance. His jaw was rigid, his dark eyes sparkling. “What would you have me say, my lord? You have gotten what you wanted. You will have my fortune, such as it is. I must bear your touch until I present you with an heir. There seems hardly anything worth speaking about.”

  His expression shifted. “You must bear my touch?”

  Suggesting she was unaffected by him was a lie, and she knew it. But she did it to spite him. “Yes. Just as I said.”

  “Come here,” he told her in a voice of silken menace.

  Molten heat pooled between her thighs. She pressed them together, doing her utmost to banish the unworthy sensation. She could not afford to want the Earl of Sinclair. Not when she could not be sure she could trust him.

  “No,” she denied, fixing him with a challenging stare.

  She was not his to order about.

  His nostrils flared, the sole indication of his irritation. For a few moments, the carriage swayed over the congested London street, the only sound between them the jangling of tack and the noises of the city beyond the enclosure of their conveyance.

  And then, he struck. Fast as lightning, his hands clamped upon her waist. He hauled her across the carriage. The voluminous skirts of the gown Aunt Fanchette had chosen for her and the petticoats beneath tangled as she landed in his lap.

  His hand curled around her neck, holding her still. “Your defiance is futile, darling.”

  Her hands settled upon his broad shoulders as the carriage hit a rut and swayed, nearly sending her sprawling. “I am not your darling. Release me.”

  “Kiss me first.”

  His order stole the breath from her. She stared down into the harsh planes of his handsome face, certain she had misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No.” He gave her a grim smile. “I beg yours. You said you must bear my touch. Prove how detestable you find me. Kiss me now and sh
ow me you feel nothing at all.”

  The sensation between her thighs flared into something bigger, bolder, brighter, hotter. She was pulsing. Aching. All from his nearness, his body beneath hers, the mere suggestion of a kiss. His scent hit her—citrus, musk, man.

  Sin.

  No. She refused to think of him as that.

  He was the Earl of Sinclair to her. Enemy. Captor.

  Husband.

  The last word shook her more than she would ever admit, even to herself. Enough of his foolish games. She had married him, but she was not his chattel. He could not order her to do his bidding.

  “I do not want to kiss you,” she told him stiffly, pushing at his chest in an effort to slide from his lap and return to her side of the carriage.

  Where it was safe.

  “Liar,” he accused softly.

  His lips quirked into a knowing smile. She could not seem to keep her stare from them. From that perfectly sculpted mouth, that broad jaw. Merciful heavens, even the delineation of his philtrum was perfection.

  She wetted her own lips. “You are acting the boor.”

  “Perhaps I am a boor.” He cocked his head, watching her with a heavy-lidded gaze that did strange things to her insides. “Or perhaps you are afraid to kiss me, Calliope. Mayhap you are afraid you will like it.”

  Of course she would like it.

  She had every time thus far.

  Not that she would admit it to him. She hated even admitting it to herself, for it still felt like a betrayal to Alfred. To everything she had spent the last year believing.

  “I am not afraid of you, Lord Sinclair,” she denied.

  And yet, she remained oh-so-very aware of his muscled frame beneath her. The haste of his movements had meant that she was seated in most unladylike fashion, her bottom wedged against the thick ridge of his manhood.

  She squirmed, trying to get away. The action was instinctive, and yet it only served to grind her down upon him.

  “Keep moving,” he gritted, “and see what happens.”

  Her cheeks went hot. Indeed, she was reasonably certain that every part of her had been spontaneously engulfed in carnal flame. What was the matter with her? She had no right to feel an ache deep in her core. Her breasts were heavy, her nipples sensitive and hard against the stiffness of her corset. And his breath fanned over her lips. His eyes threatened to devour her whole.