a day gown of plum and mauve with pale-pink roses trimming the bodice and a flounce of blonde lace on her skirts. She looked like a bloody queen, regal and perfect, her dark hair piled high on her crown and curling tendrils framing her face.
As with every time he laid eyes upon her, Sin felt as if a fist landed firmly in his gut. And then his prick instantly twitched to life. More reasons to resent her.
Damn her beautiful hide. Why did he have to want her the way he did?
He forced himself to bow, recalling that he must maintain civility. At least until she was his in name and deed. “Lady Calliope.”
She, however, refused to curtsy. Instead, she swept into the library, all elegant poise. She looked upon him as if he were beneath her. As if he were a puddle that had ruined the hem of her gown.
He would ruin far more than her gown before they were through.
“Lord Sinclair.” She moved past him in a swish of skirts and the decadent, sweet scent of lavender and tuberose.
She had left the door ajar. As an ode to propriety? Hardly, he thought. Aunt Featherhead would not even care if he were to throw Lady Calliope over his shoulder and take her home. More likely because Lady Calliope did not trust him.
Fair enough. He hardly trusted her, either.
Sin stalked toward the offending portal and snapped it shut before turning on his heel to face the woman who would become his countess in a few days’ time. “You are not pleased to see me, darling beloved? I cannot fathom why not.”
“I was not expecting you, my lord,” she gritted.
He moved toward her, drawn by more than an urge to unsettle her. Drawn to her for her, damn it all. She was the opposite of every woman he had known before her, and somehow, it heightened his desire.
“Do you need to expect me?” he asked. “I am, after all, your betrothed, am I not? A few short days from now, you will take my name and become mine.”
He would be lying if he said the prospect did not bring his cock to a raging state of awareness. He was the hardest he had been since he had awoke pressed against her at Helston Hall.
Her defiance was on full display now, her shoulders back, chin up. “I will never be yours, my lord. I will always be my own person, even in the event of our marriage.”
In the event, she had said, as if their nuptials were not a foregone conclusion.
As if they were a possibility instead of an absolute.
“Are you suggesting we will not wed?” he asked carefully, noting the manner in which she withdrew from him.
For each step he took forward, she took one in retreat. The trouble with her strategy was that in another few feet, she would reach a wall. For a moment, he thought about capturing her there. Pressing his body to hers, pinning her to the dark damask and taking her mouth, then lifting her skirts…
No.
He had not come here to seduce her. He had come here to make certain, once and for all, that she would become his bride. He had met with Westmorland’s solicitor earlier that morning. Lady Calliope had reached her majority, as he had already made certain. She could marry without her brother’s approval. Her dowry was unimpeachable.
And soon, it would be his salvation.
First, he had to make certain she would not attempt to thwart him.
“I am not suggesting we will not wed,” she denied, sounding breathless, her eyes wide.
He had been so caught up in his turbulent thoughts he had failed to realize they had indeed reached the end of the room. There was nowhere else for her to flee. Her back hit the wall.
Perfect.
He stalked nearer. “Then what were you suggesting, princess?”
She licked her lips. “I was suggesting that I am my own person. Now. Always. You will not own me.”
He knew he should have mercy for her, but he had none. He moved closer still. Until his body was aligned with hers. Until her petticoats and skirts surged into his legs. Until he was so near to her that her warm breath fanned over his lips in the prelude to a kiss.
A kiss he wanted to take. A kiss he had to take.
Right bloody now.
He dipped his head and claimed her lips for his own. Her mouth was soft and supple, giving and hot, so hot. Hotter than the fire