it was so salacious, so ludicrous…and yet, it barely skimmed the surface of his true sins. Imaginary sins had been heaped upon him—murder, opium eating, all manner of horrible tales. But the truth of it was, his sins were of a different variety than those which Confessions depicted. The memoirs were clearly the product of an overeager imagination of a woman who had not witnessed the darkness in life that he had.
There was a reason he was called Sin. But it had nothing to do with murder and everything to do with pleasure.
“I wrote it,” she admitted at last, her tone defiant as ever. “You are correct, my lord. I wrote every word. And I can assure you that the latest serial I delivered today is even more depraved than the previous editions. If you were ruined before, you will be decimated now.”
How smug she sounded.
His nostrils flared.
He tightened his grip on her. “You are playing with fire, Lady Calliope.”
But she remained as unrepentant as ever. “Then let it burn me, Lord Sinclair.”
He had a feeling she was going to regret those words and her defiance both.
“Oh, it will, princess,” he warned her grimly. “It will.”
“This is where we will spend the night. Make yourself comfortable as you must and then settle in,” the Earl of Sinclair informed Callie as he finished tying the knot on her wrist, leaving her bound to the headboard of an imposing old bed.
Her restraint was long enough to give her freedom of movement, but short enough to prohibit escape. As she stood on the threadbare carpet before the bed, however, her bindings were the least of her worry.
We, he had said.
The Earl of Sinclair still expected Callie to share a bed with him.
An answering frisson of dread mingled with something else rolled down her spine. It was the something else that troubled her every bit as much as the idea of spending the night in a bed with him.
Alone.
“I will not sleep here with you,” she vowed.
“Yes,” he told her calmly, “you will. This is the only bed. I am tired after our journeys. And I need to keep an eye on you.”
“This is the height of impropriety.” She could not seem to wrest her gaze from that big, imposing bed. “You cannot expect me to…”
She could not bring herself to say the words aloud. Could not bear to think them. Surely he was not so depraved that he was going to attempt to force himself upon her.
“Do you think I will ravish you, princess?” he asked, sounding darkly amused.
His query sent a strange sensation blossoming through her. Her heart raced. Unbidden, the memory of his lips on hers returned, bringing with it an unexpected flare of heat.
“Is that your intention?” she returned, forcing her gaze to his.
His mouth quirked into a dangerous smile. “No. A cossetted duke’s sister who spreads filthy lies about me is the last woman I would ever want to bed.”
His words stung. He was a conundrum, this man. If he loathed her, why did he want to marry her? What were his plans? How long would he keep her in suspense?
“Good,” she managed. “But forgive me if I find that hardly reassuring. I will not share a bed with you, regardless of your intentions.”
“Yes, you will.” Calmly, his stare never wavering from hers, he removed his coat.
Alarm skittered through her. Along with that unwanted something else once more. His shoulders were broad, his arms thick. He was so very tall and well-formed. He tore at his neck cloth, then removed that wicked-looking blade once more, laying it upon the bed as he began undoing the buttons on his waistcoat.
Another roar of thunder cracked through the night. The late-spring storm was raging in full force. Lightning followed not long after, filling the room with false brightness before plunging it back into shadows. Lord Sinclair was pulling the buttons on his shirt from their moorings now, toeing off his boots.
He raised a challenging brow, eying her in a fashion that was far too familiar. “Like what you see, Lady Calliope?”
Her cheeks went hot. “Of course not. I am merely horrified you would dare to disrobe before me in such shocking fashion. You are repugnant to me.”
And he was, she reminded herself. His beautiful exterior could not abate the evil festering within him. She had heard all the vile stories of his past. All London had. He had not been meant to be the earl. According to common fame, his mother had