She was married to the man seated opposite her in the Westmorland carriage. Her new husband had not possessed the funds to provide an adequate conveyance. He had nothing more than the dilapidated barouche and one mount. Ironically, it was Lewis, the coachman he had left with the splitting headache back in an alleyway near her former publisher’s office, who was driving them to Sinclair’s townhouse.
Her new home.
Not that it would feel like home.
Lord Sinclair gave an irritated sigh to accompany the sound of him strumming his long fingers upon his thigh. “Have you nothing to say, wife?”
Wife.
Yes, she was that. To him. To a man she still did not dare trust. A man who had once been her nemesis. A man she did not know, beyond the span of a week and a few, turbulent kisses. To say nothing of a forced carriage ride and an overnight abduction…
She stifled a shudder. She would be damned before she would show him a single weakness.
“Damn you, speak to me,” he growled.
She met his gaze at last, startled by the intensity she saw reflected in his countenance. His jaw was rigid, his dark eyes sparkling. “What would you have me say, my lord? You have gotten what you wanted. You will have my fortune, such as it is. I must bear your touch until I present you with an heir. There seems hardly anything worth speaking about.”
His expression shifted. “You must bear my touch?”
Suggesting she was unaffected by him was a lie, and she knew it. But she did it to spite him. “Yes. Just as I said.”
“Come here,” he told her in a voice of silken menace.
Molten heat pooled between her thighs. She pressed them together, doing her utmost to banish the unworthy sensation. She could not afford to want the Earl of Sinclair. Not when she could not be sure she could trust him.
“No,” she denied, fixing him with a challenging stare.
She was not his to order about.
His nostrils flared, the sole indication of his irritation. For a few moments, the carriage swayed over the congested London street, the only sound between them the jangling of tack and the noises of the city beyond the enclosure of their conveyance.
And then, he struck. Fast as lightning, his hands clamped upon her waist. He hauled her across the carriage. The voluminous skirts of the gown Aunt Fanchette had chosen for her and the petticoats beneath tangled as she landed in his lap.
His hand curled around her neck, holding her still. “Your defiance is futile, darling.”
Her hands settled upon his broad shoulders as the carriage hit a rut and swayed, nearly sending her sprawling. “I am not your darling. Release me.”
“Kiss me first.”
His order stole the breath from her. She stared down into the harsh planes of his handsome face, certain she had misheard him. “I beg your pardon?”
“No.” He gave her a grim smile. “I beg yours. You said you must bear my touch. Prove how detestable you find me. Kiss me now and show me you feel nothing at all.”
The sensation between her thighs flared into something bigger, bolder, brighter, hotter. She was pulsing. Aching. All from his nearness, his body beneath hers, the mere suggestion of a kiss. His scent hit her—citrus, musk, man.
Sin.
No. She refused to think of him as that.
He was the Earl of Sinclair to her. Enemy. Captor.
Husband.
The last word shook her more than she would ever admit, even to herself. Enough of his foolish games. She had married him, but she was not his chattel. He could not order her to do his bidding.
“I do not want to kiss you,” she told him stiffly, pushing at his chest in an effort to slide from his lap and return to her side of the carriage.
Where it was safe.
“Liar,” he accused softly.
His lips quirked into a knowing smile. She could not seem to keep her stare from them. From that perfectly sculpted mouth, that broad jaw. Merciful heavens, even the delineation of his philtrum was perfection.
She wetted her own lips. “You are acting the boor.”
“Perhaps I am a boor.” He cocked his head, watching her with a heavy-lidded gaze that did strange things to her insides. “Or perhaps you are afraid to kiss me, Calliope. Mayhap you are afraid you will like it.”
Of course she would like it.
She had every time thus far.
Not that she would admit it to him. She hated even admitting it to herself, for it still felt like