Lady Ruthless (Notorious Ladies of London Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  He took her lips in another drugging kiss, biting her lower lip as his rhythm turned frantic. In and out he drove, hips pumping, bed shaking. She wrapped her legs around him, meeting him thrust for thrust. And though she longed to touch him, to run her fingers over his back, to sift through his hair, the inability somehow heightened the potency of her desire. She loved being tied to his bed.

  Loved him inside her.

  Atop her.

  Taking her to the edge of that dangerous cliff of desire.

  In and out. Faster. Harder. More.

  He caught her bottom in his hands and angled her so he could plunge even deeper into her. Callie lost all control. The knot of desire grew tighter. Her heart was pounding, the slide of him in her cunny making her feel as if sparks were raining down on her.

  “Come for me, sweet,” he murmured against her lips.

  One more frantic slam of his hips into hers, and she did.

  She clenched on him, her entire body seizing as a burst of pleasure exploded, radiating outward. Tremors rocked her. She gasped his name. In the next breath, he stiffened, the warm rush of his seed making her tremble.

  He collapsed against her, breathing heavy, his heart pounding against her breast, his face buried in her hair. She came down from her cloud slowly, gasping for breaths, reveling in the intensity of their lovemaking.

  After a few moments, he stirred, then untied the knots on her wrists.

  She wasted no time in wrapping her arms around him. He gathered her in his embrace, drawing her against his chest once more. They clung to each other as if they were each other’s only chance of surviving the raging waters of a flood. And that was what it felt like, this bond between them.

  They were each other’s. Simple as that.

  He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

  Callie smiled. “Sin?”

  “Yes, sweet?” His baritone was lazy. Sated. Happy.

  Her smile deepened. “That was a vast improvement upon the last time you tied me to a bed.”

  Her husband chuckled, then stroked her hair. “If you thought that was good, my love, wait until the next time.”

  Callie was feeling saucy. “Is that a threat or a promise, darling?”

  “For you, Callie mine, everything is a promise.”

  Epilogue

  I have a confession to make, dear reader, and it is not a confession of which I am particularly proud. Nevertheless, it must be done. You see, I am the true author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl. I wanted to believe the worst of my Sinful Earl, dear reader, and I deliberately sought to destroy him, one word at a time.

  But he showed me the best of him. And in the end, I fell in love. How could I not?

  Dear reader, I married him. I do not deserve him. Nor do I deserve you.

  This memoir is my attempt to make amends. In it, you will discover the truth of what happened to the Duke of W. and Lady S. You will also find the real truth about Lord S. I hope you will forgive me for the damage I have done…

  ~from Confessions of a Sinful Countess

  Callie held the small, bound volume in her hands, studying the fine leather stamped with gilt letters.

  “What do you think of it?” Sin asked her, sounding anxious.

  “I think it is beautiful and frightening, all at once.” She ran a finger over the embellished words. “At last, everyone will know what truly happened.”

  The memoir she had written over the last few months of their marriage was not just a gift to her husband—Callie’s way of atoning for the ruthless manner in which she had destroyed his reputation—it was also her means of putting a painful chapter in both their pasts behind them forever.

  “You are certain you wish for the copies to be sold?” Sin searched her gaze. “Decker has reassured me that he will have them destroyed if you or Westmorland change your minds.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “This is what is right, Sin.”

  As it turned out, fate had one more surprise in store for Callie and Sin. Not long after their reconciliation, Callie had made a stunning discovery tucked in a hidden compartment in the countess’s chambers: Celeste’s journal. The final entry had been a grim declaration of guilt.

  Confessions of a Sinful Countess would finally resolve the questions surrounding the deaths of Alfred and Celeste. The truth had been on the page, written in shaky scrawl. Alfred had told her he wanted to end their affair that night following Sin’s angry confrontation. Celeste had fought with him and pushed him in a fit of rage. He tumbled down the stairs, his neck broken. She had fled and had ended with the conclusion that there was no means of escape save her own end.

  “There may be ramifications for both of us,” Sin reminded her, his countenance serious. “Scandal. Rumors. This may undo all the good we have done over the last few months. There will be little question as to who is the author.”

  Sin had been the first person to read her manuscript. With his blessing, they had given the memoirs to Sin’s friend Decker, who was using the publisher he owned to print not only the memoirs, but also all future publications for the Lady’s Suffrage Society. Decker was a cunning businessman, and he understood the demand for the memoirs would likely be an excellent opportunity for his company. Scandal and salaciousness sold in abundance.

  Callie was no fool. She knew how unconventional it was to admit she had written Confessions of a Sinful Earl. She also knew the risk she took in revealing the truth of Alfred’s and Celeste’s deaths.

  “This is the only means of removing all traces of doubt concerning you,” Callie told him, resolute. “It is the right thing to do, for everyone.”

  “I do not give a damn if the whole world thinks me guilty.” Sin’s hands closed over hers atop the book. As always, his touch awoke her need, unending when it came to him. “You know the truth. If I have your faith, trust, and love, I have everything I need. All I could ever want.”

  “I care,” she told him softly. “I am responsible for all England believing you a murderer. It is time to rectify that, and this is the only way.”

  “I told you, everyone else can go hang, save you,” he insisted stubbornly.

  He was so keen to protect her. How did she deserve him?

  “If they must go hang, I will make certain they know you are an innocent man first,” she countered softly. “I love you too much to keep this a secret any longer.”

  “Ah,” he drawled, plucking the book from her hands and depositing it on a nearby table before pulling her into a loose embrace, “but I am hardly innocent, little wife. You ought to know that by now.”

  As always, he knew what she needed, and when. Their discussion was at an end. The book would be sold. Everyone would read it. Tongues would wag. Callie’s mind was made up.

  The undercurrent of desire in Sin’s voice sent an answering surge of yearning through her. Her belly was between them, burgeoning and immense, keeping her from the closeness she longed for from his big, powerful body. Callie’s arms wound around her husband’s neck.

  “I do know you are a very wicked man,” she said, her stare dipping to his sensual mouth. “In only the best way possible, of course.”

  He lowered his head and kissed her, long and slow. Their tongues glided together. He tasted of tea and sugar. Of sweet temptation. Of promise and hope and redemption. Of love. He took his time, worshiping her mouth. His hands cupped her face, holding her still for his ravishing.

  He did not need to worry she would move; there was no other place she would rather be than here, with him. Always. She told him with her kiss, with her lips and tongue.

  When he pulled back, straightening to his full, impressive height, his expression took her breath. “I want you.”

  She felt positively bovine in her current state. She was large, ungainly. In Callie’s estimation, and according to her mirror, her petite frame looked utterly ridiculous carrying a child. But Sin’s desire for her had never waned. If anything, it had increased as her belly swelled with their babe. She did n
ot mind, for she was every bit as ravenous for him in her current state, if not more so.

  Still, she had to remind herself it was the midst of the day and they were in the music room, where she had been playing a tune upon the piano before he had arrived. The door was still ajar. Langdon, who had yet to retire to his country cottage because he was not ready to entrust the household to Dunlop—Langdon’s words—could wander in at any moment. Or Sin’s mother, whose spirits had lifted in the care of her new nurse. Or even Eloise.

  “The door is open, Sin,” she protested weakly.

  She wanted him so badly, her drawers were soaked, and her sex was pulsing. All from his nearness and those kisses. Her body wanted his the way her heart did. The wickedest part of her was not sure she cared about the door or the possibility of interruption.

  “That is a problem easily solved,” he said, releasing her and stalking across the chamber.

  Callie would be lying if she said she was not admiring the sight of her husband’s long legs and his delightful arse as he went. He was in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. Who could blame her?

  He closed the door and spun around in one deft move. The intensity of his stare turned Callie’s insides to liquid as he made his way back to her. His hands settled on her waist, such as it was these days. He pressed his forehead to hers.

  “Better?”

  Everything was better when he was touching her.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Good.” He gave her one of his rare, beautiful grins—the sort that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him somehow even more deliciously handsome. “I need to taste you.”

  “Oh.” It was the only word she could manage.

  “Yes, oh.” His grin deepened. Carnal intent emanated from him.

  Wicked, wonderful man.

  He guided her backward, to the piano bench. Before she knew it, she was seated upon the bench, facing him, legs parted, skirts and petticoats clutched in her hands as he sank to his knees on the Axminster before her.

  “You are lucky I am not wearing divided skirts,” she teased.

  “No.” His hands were on her knees, on her thighs, caressing through her drawers. The thin, delicate barrier between her skin and his made her wilder, more desperate. “You are lucky, darling. I am going to lick your pretty cunny until you come all over my tongue. And then, I am going to fuck you hard. So bloody hard. Until you come again on my cock.”

  If she had not already been seated, she would have melted into a puddle on the floor.

  “Yes,” was all she could manage. And then, as an afterthought, “please.”

  “Mmm,” he hummed as his head settled between her thighs.

  The first stroke of his tongue over her engorged pearl was electric. He sucked. Licked down her seam. Sank his tongue inside her.

  “Oh, Sin,” she moaned. He felt so good. His tongue was hot and warm and firm.

  “Delicious,” he whispered against her folds, his breath stirring more delirious want.

  She leaned against the piano, limp and helpless and mindless. The discordant sound of a half-dozen keys rang through the air. The ivory cut into her back. And still, she did not care. All she wanted was more Sin. More of his tongue. More pleasure. More everything.

  Because she knew how he liked when she spoke wickedly, and because she was greedy, she found her voice again. “Make me come. Fuck me with your tongue.”

  He did. Oh, how he did. He groaned into her core. His tongue was long and knowing, thrusting into her again and again. She planted her left hand on the piano bench to keep herself from tumbling down, and her right hand went to his head. Her fingers slid through the thick, silky strands of his hair. She grabbed a fistful, and then she pressed him deeper into her cunny, showing him what she wanted.

  He licked into her until she came, her channel convulsing with such force, she cried out and shuddered and lost all control. She would have slid to the floor had Sin not caught her. But even as the throes of her release tremored through her, he was not finished. Gently, he drew her to her feet, and then moved them as one to the side of the piano.

  “You are a goddess,” he said, planting her hands on the sleek, polished wood. He kissed her ear, then tongued the hollow behind it. “I want inside you.”

  “Yes.” The word left her, a needy susurrus.

  Her skirts lifted again. Sin’s mouth found her neck, and he lavished kisses upon her greedy flesh. His fingers dipped inside her, testing her readiness. She moaned. He did not need to test. She was more than ready. Heavens, she was desperate.

  “Now,” she ordered him, unable to stand any more of his torment.

  “Demanding little wife,” he breathed, nibbling on a particularly sensitive part of her throat. “I like when you order me about.”

  “I want you,” she told him, thrusting into his hand, his fingers.

  He withdrew from her, and she knew a moment of agonizing waiting until he brought his cock to her entrance. “I want you more.”

  If it was a contest, Callie was sure she would win.

  If she could manage a coherent word, that was.

  Which she most decidedly could not.

  It did not matter, anyway, because in the next breath, her husband impaled her with his thick, rigid cock. Sensation burst. Over her. In her. Everywhere. She was delirious with need, with bliss. He was buried deep, so deep. And it felt good, so good.

  He started moving, thrusting slowly, building the momentum, the need. With each stroke, she cried out. The only sound in the room was their ragged breathing and the wetness of her cunny as he pumped into her with gradually increasing speed. She slid her hands to the edge of the piano to keep from collapsing atop it. The ridge gave her purchase as she began moving against him, seeking more. Deeper, harder, faster.

  He gave her everything she wanted, just as he always did.

  His fingers found her pearl, stroking with expert precision.

  It did not take long for her to reach the heights of passion again. She spent once more, clenching on his cock, rearing against him to drive him deep, and he lost himself in almost the same moment, spilling inside her. She milked every last drop from him, reveling in the warm torrent of his release until at last, sated and drained, she collapsed against the piano.

  He kissed her nape. Whispered his love for her in her ear.

  And she whispered hers for him right back.

  Sin paced the length of his study for the hundredth time.

  Or the thousandth.

  Mayhap millionth?

  Millionth. Was that even a word?

  He ran his hand over his jaw and then over his whole bloody face, closing his eyes. “Fuck!”

  “Whisky?”

  Decker’s calm, wry voice shook Sin from his inner torment. He opened his eyes again to find his friend standing before him, a half-full glass extended between them like an offering to the gods.

  Sin plucked the glass from Decker’s fingers. “Hell yes.”

  He lifted the fine crystal to his lips and poured the whisky down his throat before offering it back to his friend. “More.”

  Decker raised a lone, dark brow. “Certain? I thought you were no longer touching the stuff after the time you were too obliterated to go home and Lady Sinclair nearly cut off your ballocks.”

  It was true. After that horrible night, Sin had not touched another drop of whisky. Nor had he gone to the Black Souls club. He had been doing his utmost to be a husband worthy of Callie. To show her she could always trust him. To banish the demons of his past forever. And he had done so.

  But today was a different sort of day.

  It had begun in ordinary fashion, waking to Callie in his bed. They had made love slowly and deliciously. Then, breakfast. Followed by all hell breaking loose.

  And now, he was awaiting the birth of his daughter or son. Callie had been upstairs with Dr. Gilmore, her sister-in-law, and her best friend Lady Jo for hours. Suffering. Laboring. Sin could only pray that both his wife and their c
hild would survive. It was harrowing. Terrifying. He had faith, but he was petrified, nevertheless.

  “What time have you?” he asked Decker, instead of answering his friend’s question.

  It had been deuced rude, anyway.

  “Half past eight.” Decker tipped a decanter, splashing more whisky into Sin’s empty glass. “Bloody hell, man. Is this what I have to look forward to?”

  Sin took a frantic gulp of liquor, feeling it burn all the way to his gut. He probably ought to offer his friend an encouraging word. But fuck the blighter. Sin was not his keeper.

  “Absolutely,” he said, without a hint of conscience.

  Decker poured himself a glass. “Fuck.”

  Sin toasted him mockingly. “My sentiments precisely.”

  And then he promptly drained the rest of his glass.

  But the whisky was not helping him. It did nothing to assuage his worries. He slammed his glass down upon his desk and resumed pacing.

  “It has been far too long,” he worried aloud. “Westmorland went to check on the progress ages ago.”

  “This sort of thing takes time, does it not?” Decker asked.

  “Yes,” Sin bit out, turning back to his friend and stalking back down the length of the study. “Too much time. Too many risks. Too much danger. My God, Decker, if I lose her…”

  He could not finish the sentence. Could not bear to do so.

  “Lady Sinclair will be well,” Decker promised him. “And you shall soon have a squalling, red-faced girl or boy child who hopefully takes after your wife when it comes to appearances…”

  “Ha,” he bit out, momentarily distracted by his friend’s antics. “I shall tell you the same bloody thing when it is your turn.”

  Decker glared at him. “Go to hell, Sin.”

  It was Sin’s turn to raise a brow at his friend. “Already there, old fellow. Currently.”

  Suddenly, a knock sounded at the study door.

  “Enter!” Sin bellowed, desperate for word of Callie and their babe.