Feeling grim, he slammed his hat back atop his head. He would have to steel himself against this rampaging desire he felt for her. He must not lose sight of the reason for their marriage—her ruthless act of vengeance against him for sins he had never committed. He could not trust her. Did not dare want her too much.
She was a means to an end.
He would have her dowry and her body. That was all he required.
The door to the carriage opened to reveal that the ominous-looking clouds which had been hanging overhead since dawn had decided to open up and vent their fury at last. There was a raging downpour flooding the streets. Somehow, he had been too caught up in Calliope to even take note.
“Your new home awaits you, Lady Sinclair,” he told her mockingly.
It was fitting, he thought, to be greeted by a deluge.
“I can hardly wait,” she said, her voice as grim as her countenance.
Chapter Twelve
Of all the vices I have enjoyed, the sins of the flesh are my favorite, dear reader.
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
Callie found herself in the countess’s apartments, soaking in warm water up to her chin. She had grown accustomed to the bathrooms at Westmorland House—the height of modern convenience. Warm water at the tap whenever she wished. A chamber specifically designed for the bath, with a water closet. Her new home had no such amenities. The footman and the coachman had hauled the tub into the center of her room and filled it to the brim with buckets of water heated in the kitchens below.
At least her lady’s maid, Whitmore, had brought her oils, soaps, and perfumes. And after the exhausting day she had experienced, she was pleased to finally have some time alone. Upon their arrival in the midst of the storm, she had been introduced to the small number of domestics in Lord Sinclair’s employ. She had been permitted some time with her lady’s maid in her new quarters to settle herself.
And then, Callie had been given a tour of the townhome by the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Lufton. An abridged tour, she thought with a frown as she rested her arms on the lip of the tub and closed her eyes. There was a chamber she had not been shown. When Callie had questioned the reason, Mrs. Lufton had politely informed her that his lordship did not wish for the tour to include that chamber.
With his lordship nowhere to be found, Callie had been forced to accept the odd explanation. Inwardly, she had vowed to find out what was hiding on the other side of the chamber door as soon as possible. Or at the very least to confront her new husband about it.
Following her introduction to the skeletal staff he had retained, Lord Sinclair had disappeared. She had been irked at his abandonment of her. She still could not entirely say why. It ought to have suited her to be free of his unwanted presence.
But by the time he had joined her at dinner, she had been quite cross with him. He had treated her with cool politeness as the servants waited upon them. Dinner had hardly been an impressive affair. His cook was not nearly as talented as Rochelieu, the chef her brother employed at Westmorland House.
Sinclair had accused Callie of being spoiled once. She had not believed herself spoiled in the least. But a few hours into her new life as the Countess of Sinclair, she was beginning to realize just how right the earl had been. His townhome, like the crumbling ancestral pile to which he had spirited her, was in desperate need of repair.
It seemed to have been robbed of everything of value. The missing pictures—evidenced by the squares and rectangles where the wall coverings were new and brilliant rather than faded—were not limited to the main hall. Here in the countess’s chamber, the walls were utterly bereft of ornamentation. There was no silver in sight. The carpets were threadbare. There were not enough servants for a house of this size.
Callie sighed. Her work as the mistress of this dilapidated townhome seemed insurmountable. She would need to hire a chef and countless other domestics, replace the carpets and wall coverings…the entire, once-proud edifice was in desperate need of a thorough cleaning, from below stairs to the attics.
To say nothing of the expectations the Earl of Sinclair would have.