stifled her umbrage, telling herself she did not care what this man thought of her. “We shall see, my lord.”
He made a noncommittal sound low in his throat, part growl, part grunt.
He said nothing for a few clops of the horses’ hooves, forcing her to study his profile. His jaw was tense, his lips tight. The memory of his swift kiss the night before returned, along with a most unwanted tingling in her own lips. She wondered if hating him would be easier if he were less handsome. Was she so shallow, so incapable of controlling her baser reaction to him, that she was allowing him to alter her perception?
Because something had shifted between them in the past few days. The glimpses of him which proved he was not entirely evil had perhaps aided in that. Still, how was it possible that she was so drawn to a man she had so recently viewed as her nemesis?
She pursed her lips and turned her attention back to the throng of fashionable carriages around them. “I fail to see how being in the midst of so many people will afford us an opportunity to speak with your mistress alone.”
He cast a look in her direction, his dark gaze searing. “Who said anything about speaking with my mistress?”
“You did,” she shot back.
“No,” he said slowly, giving her a long, thorough perusal that made something melt inside her stomach and slide between her thighs. “I did not.”
The bounder. “Of course you did.”
How she would like to launch herself back at him in the same manner as she had when he had absconded with her in her own carriage. Yet, she did not dare, for they were surrounded by hundreds of sets of curious eyes.
Leisurely, he returned his gaze to the track ahead of them, eyes upon the horses once more. “I said nothing of the sort, Lady Calliope. What I said was to be prepared for me to call upon you at three o’clock. As expected, you were half an hour tardy.”
Her lateness had been intentional. The notion of making him wait had held infinite appeal. The frustrated rage emanating from him had been worth every minute she had paced the carpet in her chamber, consulting the ormolu mantel clock with each pass.
“A lady needs time to prepare herself,” she said.
“You are wearing trousers, madam,” he bit out. “I hardly think such a fashion choice required much preparation.”
“Divided skirts,” Callie corrected him once more. “These are all the rage in Paris.”
“Pity we are not in Paris.” His voice was dry.
If he disapproved of her divided skirts, he could take his opinion—as unwanted as his kisses and his forced marriage—elsewhere.
Mayhap not his kisses.
She plucked at the drapery of her silk divided skirts. They raised eyebrows, it was true. But for ease of movement, divided skirts were ideal. “London would be better served to ease its fusty ways.”
Such as this promenade of the wealthy and the well-known.
The purpose was to see and be seen. Which was why concern prodded her anew, along with his denial that he had agreed to her demands the previous evening.
“London changes for no one,” he said grimly. “Not even a duke’s daughter descended from one of the wealthiest families in England.”
He was right about that, in some ways. Since her return from Paris, she had been bold enough to push boundaries which had once seemed forbidden. But there was eccentricity, and there was going too far. She did not doubt he was delivering her a subtle reminder that if her identity as the author of Confessions of a Sinful Earl were to be revealed, she, too, would become a pariah. Already, her presence in his barouche was drawing whispers and curious stares from every direction.
“I shall endeavor to weather the tide,” she snapped at him. “I grow weary of this incessant parade. Too many people are watching us. When are you taking me to your mistress?”
“Former mistress,” he corrected quietly. “And I told you, I never agreed to do so.”
She thought over his words from the previous evening.
I will come for you tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock. Do not be late.
That last demand had been her reason for dawdling. But…damn him. He had not agreed at all, had he? She had been so deuced flustered from the sudden press of his mouth to hers—that brief, chaste, hated, wondrous kiss—that she had simply taken his words as accord.
“What is the matter, beloved future countess?” he drawled, sounding amused. “Nothing to say?”
He was