knew her.”
The former Lady Sinclair had been beautiful. Callie well understood why Alfred had fallen in love with her. She had been golden-haired, a perfect English rose. Callie had only ever met her once, in passing. She had come alone to a ball Alfred hosted.
How different life had been then.
Alfred had been alive. Simon had already been gone.
Her heart gave a pang at the remembrance of her betrothed. So much loss. Such a short amount of time. She occupied herself well now, keeping her mind from thoughts of the lost. If she lingered too much upon her painful past… Well, she had done that in Paris, had she not? And she had almost lost herself in the process.
“Sit down,” Sinclair ordered her.
Still calm, so calm. As if he were paying her a call in his brother’s home during her at-home hours. As if he were a suitor. As if he were not the architect of the demise of her family as she had known it. Three siblings—Alfred, Benedict, and Callie. The alphabet, they had once been known. And now, one of them was missing.
“No,” she denied. “I will not sit. I refuse. I will not eat, I will not drink, and I will not be a part of your mad scheme a moment longer.”
With that, she spun on her heel and began stalking from the dank, shadowed kitchens. It was a large room. From the looks of it, this familial rubble where he had secreted her had once been a vast, proud estate. Now, it looked better served to host spiders and rodents than guests of the human persuasion. Either way, she cared not. She was leaving.
Fleeing him.
But he was on his feet and chasing after her. Footfalls echoed on the stone, hard and forceful. She gathered her skirts in her hands, lifting them—cursing herself for abstaining from her traditional divided skirts earlier—and breaking into a run.
The Earl of Sinclair was faster. Stronger. Hands caught her waist in a punishing grip, staying her flight. He yanked her backward, into his tall, lean frame.
His face was near. Against her back, she felt the pounding of his heart. His breath was hot on her ear. “You did not truly think you would escape me that easily, did you, princess?”
Her eyes fluttered closed on a wave of misery. She attempted to elbow him in the ribs, but he anticipated her movement, catching her arm in a swift grip. His body radiated heat into hers.
“What are you seeking to prove?” she demanded wearily.
“If I said my innocence, would it make a difference?” His lips were so near, they grazed the shell of her ear when he spoke.
She could not quell the shiver that went down her spine. “You cannot possibly prove that when you are guilty.”
“As I thought.” His tone was grim, his grip still tight upon her, the heaviness of her skirts crushed between them not enough to separate her from him. “You have already decided you are right and I am wrong. That I am evil and you are the innocent who has been wronged. Have you not, Lady Calliope?”
Her eyes opened at last, and all she saw ahead of her was the dankness of the unused kitchens. Vast fireplaces, an outmoded stove, all of it lifeless. The air smelled damp, and it was apparent there had been no inhabitants within for some time. The busyness of the kitchens at Westmorland House had always been a secret source of pleasure for her. From the time she had been a girl, she had adored sneaking into the kitchens, which had always smelled of baking bread.
The disparity between that happy place and this dark, dank kitchen, her captor at her back, made her shiver again. At least, she told herself that was the reason, and not the way he felt, molded to her. So strong. So dangerous and feral.
“Why the sudden quiet, my lady?” he demanded. He anchored her to him with one steely arm, entrapping her, and then, his hand was on her throat. His fingers encircling. Bare skin on bare skin.
She held herself still, as a new fear swept over her. Callie swallowed. “If you are going to kill me, have done with it. There is no need to play with me the way a cat paws at its prey.”
Chapter Four
What sin can possibly quell the ceaseless urges of a villain like myself, dear reader, after murder? It was the question which drove my days, the obsession that consumed me. I developed