Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  Sin bit her lip and hooked her leg over his hip, readjusting so he could penetrate her even deeper. Finally ending the kiss, he braced himself on his forearms over her, watching her as he fucked her. She was gorgeous, her breasts bouncing with the force of his thrusts, her eyes closed.

  “Look at me Callie,” he ordered her. “Eyes open.”

  He reached for her hair—those glorious, dark strands spread over his pillow, and grasped a handful, gently forcing her head back to expose her throat. He wanted her to know who she had married. To look into the eyes of the man who was inside her.

  God, she was beautiful. Her swollen lips were parted, her eyes dark. In that moment, he thought he could stay inside her forever.

  But nothing lasted forever.

  And neither did he.

  His ballocks tightened. He buried his face in her neck and spilled inside her, filling her with his seed. Marking her as his.

  As he collapsed against his new wife, he could not shake the notion that she had just marked him as hers every bit as much.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Have I convinced you of my depravity yet, dear, gentle reader? If not, do read on. There is more…

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl

  Callie woke up in the Earl of Sinclair’s bed, her body aching in strange places, naked, and alone. The bedclothes were twisted around her body. They smelled of him, and to her shame, that scent made a pulse of yearning pound to life between her thighs, where her soreness reminded her the earl was no longer a stranger.

  He had been inside her.

  And this tall, magnificent high tester—one of the few pieces of furniture in his townhome bearing any value—was her husband’s bed. And that equally tall, magnificent stranger was her husband.

  Husband.

  What a strange word. An even stranger notion. In the span of one day, her life had been forever altered. She could not go back to being Lady Calliope Manning. She was the Countess of Sinclair now.

  Once, that fact would have filled her with dread and fear.

  Last night, however, had altered her perception of the earl. Her cheeks went hot, and a swirl of embarrassment joined the longing churning within her as she remembered in vivid detail what had passed between them the night before. Aunt Fanchette had told her not to expect a grand passion, for that was rare even amongst love matches.

  She had been quite specific during their talk.

  No lights. It would be quite quick. There would be pain.

  How wrong Aunt Fanchette had been. Instead, there had been nowhere to hide. The earl had seen, touched—even tasted—her everywhere. He had been demanding yet attentive, making certain to give her pleasure, worshiping her body in a way she had not even imagined possible.

  The consummation of her marriage had been nothing at all like what Aunt Fanchette had warned. And what had come afterward had been equally surprising. He had tended to her with a basin and cloth, and then he had kissed her long and slow.

  Sleep here, sweet, he had ordered her.

  And she had been too sleepy and sated to defy him.

  She had fallen into her first deep, dreamless slumber since he had abducted her from London. Callie ran her hand over the dent in the pillow from where his head had rested. It was cool to the touch, which meant he had been gone for some time.

  She sat up with a frown, noting the light pouring in through the window dressings. Just how long had she slept? And where had he gone? Most importantly of all, how would she face him after all they had shared?

  There was a subtle rap on the door adjoining his chamber to hers.

  Her lady’s maid, Whitmore, she realized.

  Callie was sure her flush extended to her ears as she clutched the bedclothes to her chin, covering her nudity. What, precisely, was the etiquette for waking up the day after the consummation of one’s marriage, in one’s husband’s bed, without a stitch of undergarments?

  She adored her lady’s maid. They had been together for years—indeed, Whitmore had seen her at her lowest, after Simon’s death. And yet, Callie hesitated now.

  “My lady?” Whitmore called.

  Callie winced. “Yes, Whitmore, do come in.”

  Whitmore entered the chamber, bustling inside with her signature mien of practiced calm. She was tall and flame-haired, but her temperament was not nearly as fiery as her appearance would suggest. “Good morning, Lady Sinclair. His lordship rang for me, supposing you would want some assistance this morning.”

  “That was thoughtful of his lordship,” she said, managing a polite smile. In truth, she did not know what it was.

  Managing? His way of telling her she ought to be out of bed by now? Or perhaps he regretted allowing her to stay instead of sending her to the countess’s apartments?

  Callie had to admit, she did not relish the thought of sleeping in the adjoining room. Although she had found sleeping in Sin’s bed foreign and strange, she thought she would far prefer to be mired in his territory rather than to be stuck in the chamber his former wife had once inhabited.

  There were traces of her that lingered still—the wallcovering was a feminine shade of pink, adorned with roses. What little of the furniture that remained was also diminutive and elegant, clearly chosen by a woman. Seeing the chamber redecorated—along with the rest of the shabby townhome—would be one of her first acts as Lady Sinclair.

  Lady Sinclair.

  “Would you care for breakfast in your chamber, or will you be dining below?” Whitmore asked.

  “I will join his lordship for breakfast,” she decided on a whim.

  After all, they were married, were they not? She could not avoid him forever. Best to face him, pretend as if what had happened had not changed a thing.

  “His lordship has broken his fast and called for a carriage,” her lady’s maid informed her, holding up the dressing gown for Callie to don.

  Callie swallowed down a rush of disappointment at Whitmore’s announcement. He was going somewhere? Already? Where? Why?

  Then she reminded herself she did not care where he went. At least if he was gone, she would not have to worry about the manner in which she conducted herself.

  “Very well,” she said, still clutching the bedclothes to her chest as she sidled to the end of the mattress. “I suppose I will take breakfast below.”

  She could hardly consider the countess’s apartments hers. And she was not about to break her fast in a faded chamber haunted by the ghosts of her husband’s past.

  Somehow, she had forgotten just how high Sin’s bed was. But she remembered now, as she dangled her legs over the edge. She felt like a child, her bare feet swinging through the air, nowhere near touching the threadbare carpets below.

  How humiliating.

  “Would you care for a hand, my lady?” Whitmore asked calmly.

  “What I would like is a stool,” she grumbled, “or a stair. This bed is insufferably high.”

  “Yes, my lady. Of course.” Whitmore’s expression did not change. “I will see about finding one for you.”

  “Blast,” Callie grumbled before throwing herself off the bed. She landed with a dull thud on her two feet and stuffed her arms into the dressing gown, hauling it around herself as if it were a protective shield. “Thank you, Whitmore. You are a gem, as always. Does breakfast promise to be as wretched an affair as dinner was last night?”

  Whitmore rolled her lips inward. “I fear so, my lady.”

  Callie sighed. “Is the situation below stairs as dire as I suspect?”

  Her lady’s maid did not answer. She did not need to—her expression said it all.

  “Very well, Whitmore,” she said. “I suppose we are not at Westmorland House any longer, are we?”

  “No, my lady. We are not indeed,” agreed her lady’s maid, her tone stoic.

  The day loomed before her, endless as the rest of her life.

  How in Hades was she going to navigate these treacherous waters?

  “You look like you need a
whisky.”

  Sin threw himself into a chair and glared at his old friend. “Go to hell, Decker. It is not even yet noon.”

  “And the morning after your wedding,” Decker agreed, placing a crystal glass filled with amber liquid on the low Louis Quinze table at his side. “What the devil are you doing paying me a call? Should you not be ballocks deep in quim at the moment?”

  Mr. Elijah Decker was not the sort of man who minced words.

  Sin scowled. “You are speaking of my lady wife.”

  Decker seated himself in the chair alongside Sin’s in his extravagant library. “A lady who did her best to ruin you. You could have avoided all this if you had accepted my offer.”

  Sin exhaled. He had confided in Decker about all his woes. His friend had, of course, suggested he loan Sin enough funds to settle his debts, but Sin had refused. He could not bear to accept Decker’s charity, knowing there was a chance he could never repay him.

  Sin considered Decker the brother he had never had. Neither of them truly belonged in their worlds. Decker was the bastard son of the Earl of Graham, and Graham had bequeathed him everything he could aside from his title. He had wealth but not respectability and had used that wealth to amass a business empire. Sin, meanwhile, had a title without wealth. And now, he did not even possess respectability.

  There was always the hope, however, that his marriage to Lady Calliope could alter that, in time. If he even gave a damn about such a thing, and he was sure he did not. All he wanted was enough funds to keep his mother comfortably ensconced.

  He took the whisky and sipped it slowly. Like everything else Decker collected, it was very fine. The library, laden with curiosities—most of them lewd in nature—was a testament to his wealth, travels, and taste for the subversive.

  “Your silence is telling, old friend,” Decker observed, his tone pointed. Knowing.

  Too knowing, blast him.

  “You know I cannot accept a farthing from you and maintain even a modicum of my self-respect.” He cast a glance in his friend’s direction. “And why should I want to bed a woman who is my nemesis?”

  “Why indeed?” Decker raised a brow.

  Fuck. Sin was torn this morning. Last night had been…

  It had been splendor.

  There was no other way to describe what he had shared with his new wife. He had never experienced anything like it, and he had bedded any number of women in his life. Some of them, he had cared for—Celeste, once upon a time, and Tilly. Others had been beautiful and skilled, women who knew how to use their bodies and their mouths to bring a man to his knees.

  Not one of them had ever made him feel even a modicum of what Calliope Manning had.

  Sin took another lengthy draught of his whisky, savoring the burn. He deserved to be punished. Inflicting pain upon himself seemed the only solution for what ailed him. That, and burying his cock in his wife’s sweet cunny.

  “Hang me, Sin,” his friend said into the silence. “Do not tell me you are getting soft for the evil little chit?”

  He stiffened. “I am not getting soft. I am merely a man torn.”

  “Fucking hell,” Decker muttered, taking a sip of his own whisky. “Need I remind you of what happened with your former countess? What happened with the Duchess of Longleigh?”

  Sin drained the remnants of his glass. “Curse you, Decker. That was different. I was young and stupid when I married Celeste. I was thinking with my prick, and I had no notion of how mad she was.”

  “And the Duchess of Longleigh?” Decker prodded.

  “She was a respite from Celeste,” he admitted, realizing it was true.

  He had not been in love with Tilly, and he understood that now, having seen her again. They would forever be friends, but they were not meant to be lovers. They had been two lonely, lost souls, seeking shelter from the ugly storms of their lives. He could only hope she was happy now.

  As for Sin? He knew not if he could ever find happiness. He suspected it would forever elude him, and he had made his peace with that. As long as his mother could live out the rest of her life in comfort, he wanted for nothing more.

  “And what of Lady Sinclair?” Decker asked.

  It took Sin a moment to realize his friend was speaking of Lady Calliope—Callie. Their union was still so new, so fresh.

  “What of her?” he asked, feeling defensive.

  And confused.

  And randy as hell whenever he thought of her.

  She had been glorious last night. Her body, her response, her abandon. The way she tasted, the throaty sounds she made, the way she obeyed his commands in the bedchamber when she was so defiant in every other way…

  Bloody hell, he had to stop all such thoughts.

  It was deuced de trop to get a cockstand whilst enjoying a whisky with his old friend. Just how depraved was he?

  “You like her,” Decker observed.

  Did he?

  He did not want to like her, that much was certain.

  “She is…” He hesitated, struggling to find the words.

  A few, unwelcome adjectives came to mind. Beautiful, smart, seductive, sensual, alluring as hell.

  “A conniving jade?” Decker supplied, tearing him from his ruminations.

  “Yes,” he agreed, uncertain why he felt protective toward her, as if he wanted to argue with his friend. Good God, he had every reason to trust Eli. He had no reason to trust his wife.

  “The woman who went to every effort to destroy your reputation and send you into penury,” Decker added.

  Sin drummed his fingers on his empty glass. “That as well.”

  But she was also more than that.

  So damn much more.

  How could he explain it to his friend when he could not even make sense of it himself?

  “The author of vicious lies about you,” his friend continued, quite unnecessarily.

  After all, he was not saying anything Sin had not already thought. Nor was he revealing information that was new. And yet, Sin found himself wanting to believe better of her. He found himself strangely attuned to her. It was true that they had not known each other for very long. But he had been as intimate with her last night as a man and woman could be.

  “She believed everything she wrote about me,” he said. Speaking the words removed a weight from his chest. “She thought it was true, that I had killed her brother and then somehow Celeste as well.”

  “Because she is mad,” Decker snapped. “Good God, Sin. You cannot possibly be defending the wench, can you? She was ruthless in her determination to strip you of everything. You must treat her in the same fashion. Use her dowry. Restore your good name. Have your vengeance upon her.”

  “Vengeance is hollow, Decker,” he said bitterly.

  There was the crux of the matter. After suffering a union with Celeste, a woman who had been undeniably mad, he had been quick to believe the same of Callie. But he could see the differences between the two women already.

  Celeste’s moods had vacillated wildly, even from the beginning. She had gone from delirious happiness to deep, endless bouts of despair. And when she had despaired, she had done the most damage. One day, she would have professed her undying devotion to him, and the next, he caught her sucking a footman’s cock. Then, she locked herself in her chamber for a week. Sometimes, he still woke in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, having been trapped in nightmares of listening to the sound of her sobs.

  But Callie was not the same woman. She was brazen and bold and daring. She fought him every step of the way. But she was not possessed by the same demons which had claimed Celeste. She fought him face-to-face. There was no pretense about her. She had owned her authorship of those vile books about him.

  Sin blinked and realized his friend had somehow risen, gone to the sideboard, and retrieved the decanter of whisky without his notice. Decker hovered over him now, his expression grim as he splashed some more spirits into Sin’s glass.

  “Vengeance does not taste nearly
as good as whisky,” Decker quipped. “Drink up. I dare say you need it, old boy.”

  “I do not need your whisky,” he growled at his friend, but he brought the glass to his lips just the same.

  “Fine, then. You want it. Drink, my friend.” Decker threw himself back into the overstuffed chair at Sin’s side. “If you keep carrying on as you are, I will have no choice but to suspect you are falling in love with your sworn enemy. What the hell has gotten into you? Is her cunny made of gold?”

  Sin choked on his whisky. He inhaled, and it burned a path of fire down his throat and nose all at once. “Bloody hell,” he said on a cough. “I am not in love with her. And do not speak of her so rudely ever again, or I will blacken your eye.”

  Decker raised his glass. “There you have it! You are in love. You have never before objected to me speaking frankly of your conquests.”

  “Callie is not a conquest,” he found himself saying. “She is my wife.”

  “Callie, is it?” Decker cast a knowing look in his direction.

  “Go to the devil,” he bit out. “I do not believe in love, and even if I did, I would not find it with a she-devil who has ruined my life.”

  “Hmm.” Decker took another sip of his own whisky. “Promise me something, Sin? That you will not forget what she has done to you? This cannot be another Celeste.”

  Sin bowed his head, staring at the glass he held in his lap. The amber liquid taunted him. Tempted him. He wanted to drown himself, to numb his thoughts, his feelings. Most of all, his emotions.

  “There can never be another Celeste,” he agreed. Because he would not survive it.

  Wisely, he kept that bit to himself.

  “Christ no,” Decker agreed. “But enough of all that. Do you want to see my newest acquisition? It is a piece of true distinction, of Japanese origin and very cleverly done. You will not even know what you are looking at unless you know what you are looking for.”

  And was that not the way of it in life, not just in Decker’s collection of erotic art?