And you will tell her I want tarts, won’t you? Not the pudding. I have never been able to abide by pudding. I would sooner eat a fucking shoe.”
“Of course,” he agreed, wondering where the devil his mother had gotten her colorful vocabulary.
Then again, perhaps it was best he never knew. Some secrets were best kept.
Chapter Seventeen
Do you know how delicious it is, dear reader, to fool everyone around you? To know that you have murdered two innocents and you will never be imprisoned for your crimes? It is a wondrous secret, and yet, confiding in you is equally thrilling. Sooner or later, the truth must be told…
~from Confessions of a Sinful Earl
Her husband was keeping a secret from her, and Callie did not like it.
Not.
One.
Bit.
He had been attentive that morning in the bedchamber. Even in his study, he had been patient. He had listened to her concerns and given her carte blanche to correct the deficiencies in domestics and the running of the household. He had given her leave to replace the faded, thin carpets. To have new wall coverings installed. To acquire art to adorn the walls.
Already, she had a painting of Monsieur Moreau’s in mind, along with some of her favorite artists.
And then, Sin had disappeared once more.
Oh, he had claimed he had pressing matters requiring his attention. But Callie had not trusted him. Wisely, as it turned out. She had not forgotten that when she had been given her tour of her new home, one room had not been included. Callie had been so overwhelmed by the newness of her situation and surroundings, the mysterious apartments had slipped from her mind. Until she had witnessed her husband disappearing into them earlier that afternoon.
And yet, when she had inquired, at dinner, as to what he had been about all afternoon, he had smiled a bland, false charmer’s grin and told her he had spent the day in his study.
He was a liar after all.
She had known that—suspected it. But the confirmation gave her no joy. Especially not after the closeness she had felt with him just that very morning.
The dessert course was removed. Unlike the rest of the dinner, the raspberry fool had been appealing. And yet, Callie had not been tempted to eat it. The bland fare prepared by her husband’s cook had grown increasingly unpalatable with each course.
She attempted a gracious smile she scarcely felt. This was her first night at dinner as a wife, and she was furious with her husband. She scarcely knew the proper etiquette for such a moment.
“If you will excuse me, my lord?” Callie asked, averting her gaze.
She could not bear to look at him just now. Not when she had given him every opportunity to tell her the truth. She had asked several leading questions.
And he had failed to volunteer the pertinent information.
“Where are you going?” he shot back. “You need not run off so quickly. And you scarcely touched your dinner this evening. What is amiss, princess?”
Princess again.
Not Callie as she had been that morning in his bed. Nor sweet.
She hated herself for taking note of the distinction.
“I am tired,” she said, and that was not entirely a falsehood. “I will leave you to your evening entertainments.”
He stood when she did. “If you are retiring early, perhaps I will join you. I find myself rather exhausted also.”
Callie hesitated, reluctant to say too much before the lone footman who was attending them. Her husband took note of the direction of her gaze and promptly dismissed the servant, leaving them alone in the dining room, standing at opposite ends of the table. Their positioning was rather symbolic, she thought.
“What is it you wished to say to me?” he demanded the moment the footman had gone. “Your face is very expressive, wife. It gives you away.”
She hated that he read her so well.
“I saw you,” she blurted.
He raised a dark brow, looking regal and sinful all at once. “You saw me when? Where? During dinner? I expect so as we were seated across from each other.”
She did not smile at his gentle teasing. “Going into the mystery apartments this afternoon when you said you were in your study.”
“Ah.” His expression hardened. “And you are suspicious of me, are you not?”
His tone of voice and demeanor suggested she ought not to be. He sounded hurt. As if he had expected better of her. Which was ludicrous, because he was the one keeping secrets. She was the one who had every right to