grounded in veracity. “But more importantly, I could never forgive myself if I were to interrupt his honeymoon because of my own lapse in judgment. It took him weeks to recover after he was shot, Tante Fanchette. He deserves this time of unfettered happiness with his bride.”
Callie could not hide the earnest feeling from her expression or voice. She meant that, even if marrying the Earl of Sinclair was essentially a prison sentence for her. She had already lost her chance at happiness when Simon had died. The least she could do was make certain Benny and Isabella were unaffected from her actions.
Her aunt nodded. “Very well, darling nièce. Are you certain this is what you want?”
No, she wanted to cry out again.
Anything but this.
Her smile felt tight and insincere. “Yes, of course. Now do tell me what you have in mind for a dress, if you please.”
“Something burgundy, perhaps,” Aunt Fanchette continued. “Or scarlet. Crimson? Cerise? Hardly ivory, I should think. Warm shades complement your lovely dark hair. You must wear my diamonds, I insist!”
Although Aunt Fanchette had never married, she was an incurable romantic.
“Whatever you decide shall be fine,” Callie said.
Though mourning black would be the most fitting for the occasion. How to explain such a choice to dear, fawning Aunt Fanchette?
“We will need flowers as well,” Aunt Fanchette said. “Lilies of the valley, do you think? No, roses. Red roses, and your lady’s maid will entwine some in your hair the way she did in Paris when you met Moreau and he decided he must paint you…”
Callie gave herself over to her aunt’s excited plotting even as desperation unfurled deep within her.
One cursed week.
How could she save herself?
Chapter Eight
She could have saved herself, dear reader, had she never become my wife. Her only sin was in marrying a man who could not silence his inner demons or overcome the evil in his soul.
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
“What do you mean you are getting married to the Earl of Sinclair?”
Callie winced at the shrill disbelief emanating from the voice of her dear friend, Lady Jo Danvers. “Pray do not be so loud, lest Tante Fanchette burst in here with more notions about dresses and flowers for the unhappy event. I mean precisely what I said. The villain has forced me into accepting his suit.”
She and Jo had bonded instantly over their mutual work for the Lady’s Suffrage Society. They were like-minded in many ways, though opposite personalities in others. Where Callie was bold and devil-may-care with her reputation, Jo was quiet and circumspect. A wallflower to Callie’s butterfly. And yet, they were the best of friends.
Only Jo knew Callie was responsible for writing Confessions of a Sinful Earl and the reason behind it. Well, Jo and their publisher. And now, the Earl of Sinclair.
“Do not fret over your aunt,” Jo said, lowering her voice. “I do believe my sister has her cornered for an intense meteorological discussion. When I made my way here, she was going on about rainbands and spectroscopes in the picture gallery.”
Although their gathering today had a larger purpose—a meeting of the Lady’s Suffrage Society—Callie had managed to pull Jo aside for a private chat in the grand library at Westmorland House since Jo and her sister had both arrived early. Their premature arrival had been down to Jo’s sister, Lady Alexandra, whose science-loving mind refused to even contemplate such a disgraceful notion as tardiness.
“Thank heavens for Lady Alexandra,” Callie said. “I find myself in a dreadful muddle, Jo. I am to marry him in one week’s time.”
“How can he force you into such a thing?” Jo demanded, sounding outraged on her behalf. “Callie, you believe he murdered your brother. He is known as Sin. His reputation is more scandalous than my brother’s once was, and that is rather saying something. Julian was a wretched scoundrel before he married Clara.”
Jo’s brother, the Earl of Ravenscroft, had been a notorious rogue prior to his love match. But she was correct. The Earl of Sinclair’s reputation was decidedly worse than Ravenscroft’s had once been. No small feat, that.
Thanks, in part, to Callie’s efforts.
She sighed heavily. “He discovered I am the author of the memoirs.”
“What?” Jo frowned. “That is impossible. You went to such great lengths with the publisher to make certain you retained your anonymity.”
Yes, she had. But it had all proven to be for naught.
“Mr. White’s son divulged my identity to Sinclair,” Callie admitted, stalking to the opposite end of the grand library where a