Callie woke up in the Earl of Sinclair’s bed, her body aching in strange places, naked, and alone. The bedclothes were twisted around her body. They smelled of him, and to her shame, that scent made a pulse of yearning pound to life between her thighs, where her soreness reminded her the earl was no longer a stranger.
He had been inside her.
And this tall, magnificent high tester—one of the few pieces of furniture in his townhome bearing any value—was her husband’s bed. And that equally tall, magnificent stranger was her husband.
Husband.
What a strange word. An even stranger notion. In the span of one day, her life had been forever altered. She could not go back to being Lady Calliope Manning. She was the Countess of Sinclair now.
Once, that fact would have filled her with dread and fear.
Last night, however, had altered her perception of the earl. Her cheeks went hot, and a swirl of embarrassment joined the longing churning within her as she remembered in vivid detail what had passed between them the night before. Aunt Fanchette had told her not to expect a grand passion, for that was rare even amongst love matches.
She had been quite specific during their talk.
No lights. It would be quite quick. There would be pain.
How wrong Aunt Fanchette had been. Instead, there had been nowhere to hide. The earl had seen, touched—even tasted—her everywhere. He had been demanding yet attentive, making certain to give her pleasure, worshiping her body in a way she had not even imagined possible.
The consummation of her marriage had been nothing at all like what Aunt Fanchette had warned. And what had come afterward had been equally surprising. He had tended to her with a basin and cloth, and then he had kissed her long and slow.
Sleep here, sweet, he had ordered her.
And she had been too sleepy and sated to defy him.
She had fallen into her first deep, dreamless slumber since he had abducted her from London. Callie ran her hand over the dent in the pillow from where his head had rested. It was cool to the touch, which meant he had been gone for some time.
She sat up with a frown, noting the light pouring in through the window dressings. Just how long had she slept? And where had he gone? Most importantly of all, how would she face him after all they had shared?
There was a subtle rap on the door adjoining his chamber to hers.
Her lady’s maid, Whitmore, she realized.
Callie was sure her flush extended to her ears as she clutched the bedclothes to her chin, covering her nudity. What, precisely, was the etiquette for waking up the day after the consummation of one’s marriage, in one’s husband’s bed, without a stitch of undergarments?
She adored her lady’s maid. They had been together for years—indeed, Whitmore had seen her at her lowest, after Simon’s death. And yet, Callie hesitated now.
“My lady?” Whitmore called.
Callie winced. “Yes, Whitmore, do come in.”
Whitmore entered the chamber, bustling inside with her signature mien of practiced calm. She was tall and flame-haired, but her temperament was not nearly as fiery as her appearance would suggest. “Good morning, Lady Sinclair. His lordship rang for me, supposing you would want some assistance this morning.”
“That was thoughtful of his lordship,” she said, managing a polite smile. In truth, she did not know what it was.
Managing? His way of telling her she ought to be out of bed by now? Or perhaps he regretted allowing her to stay instead of sending her to the countess’s apartments?
Callie had to admit, she did not relish the thought of sleeping in the adjoining room. Although she had found sleeping in Sin’s bed foreign and strange, she thought she would far prefer to be mired in his territory rather than to be stuck in the chamber his former wife had once inhabited.
There were traces of her that lingered still—the wallcovering was a feminine shade of pink, adorned with roses. What little of the furniture that remained was also diminutive and elegant, clearly chosen by a woman. Seeing the chamber redecorated—along with the rest of the shabby townhome—would be one of her first acts as Lady Sinclair.
Lady Sinclair.
“Would you care for breakfast in your chamber, or will you be dining below?” Whitmore asked.
“I will join his lordship for breakfast,” she decided on a whim.
After all, they were married, were they not? She could not avoid him forever. Best to face him, pretend as if what