Breathless (15 page)

Besides, he reminded himself, his leg was throbbing, he still had a chill running through his body, and his reluctant fiancée looked far too peaceful to disturb. If he did he'd have to get her upstairs, either to his or her bedroom, and have at her.

She looked so innocent, asleep like that. She wasn't—he knew that. Thanks to him and his elaborate schemes. That first one had failed, due to the idiocy and inadequacies of his representative. He wasn't so easily distracted.

On impulse he reached out and touched her hair, brushing it back from her smooth, silken cheek. She didn't stir, deep in slumber, and he found himself smiling. Tomorrow would be time enough. For now she could sleep, thinking she'd outwitted him.

He leaned over and blew out the candle, brushing her skin as he did. She made a sound, a low moan of protest or pleasure, and he was immediately aroused. Which annoyed him—he'd decided to wait until she was really frightened, but his body seemed to have other ideas.

He pulled the curtains around her, closing her into her little nest. The morning sun would wake and warm her.

And the battle would begin again.

T
he library windows faced east, and the first brief glimpse of morning sun awoke Miranda from her delightful slumber. She sat up with a start—she'd slid down onto the seat, curled up under the blanket and had a wonderful, dreamless sleep. She'd left the candle burning—a good thing she hadn't burned the house down. Not that the house didn't deserve to be leveled, but she preferred not to be in it when it happened.

But when she picked up her candlestick from the small shelf she discovered it was only half burned. Something or someone must have blown it out.

The thought unnerved her. It couldn't have been Lucien—he'd have woken her up to torment and tease her or even worse. The thought of Mrs. Humber looming over her was even more unnerving. Perhaps she'd blown it out at the last minute and been too sleepy to re member. That, or this drafty house had taken care of it.

She pushed open the curtains, holding her breath so she wouldn't breathe in the dust. She couldn't remember
closing them, either. How very odd. Perhaps Bridget had come looking for her.

She got to her feet, heading back toward the double doors, not even considering that the study might now be occupied. She took one look at his bowed head and froze.

He was busy writing something, and he didn't bother to look up. “I hadn't realized you were quite such a devoted reader, my darling.” He looked up at her lazily, and his pale eyes were cool and dismissive. “You do realize it's dangerous to wander around the house in the dark? I think I'd better keep the library locked so you aren't tempted.”

It took her a moment to remember that she wasn't going to hit him. She flashed him a bright smile. “Oh, that's an excellent idea,
my love.
When there are books around I never get anything done. Do keep it locked.”

The look he cast her was sardonic. “It's not going to work, you know.”

She came farther into the room, dropping down into the chair opposite the desk. “What isn't going to work,
my love?
”

“This cheery acceptance and enthusiasm. You may pretend all you like, though I can't imagine what you think you'll gain by it. All I'll gain is a compliant mistress, which makes things a great deal easier.”

“I'm a mistress,
my love?
” she said sweetly. “I thought we were to be married.”

“I was thinking it might be more effective if I simply made you a kept woman. Marriage vows are damnably eternal, and I'm not convinced you're worth it.”

“Delightful! I gather from your servants that you're easily bored, and it would be so awkward for you if you
were tired of me but unable to publicly court another woman.”

“I don't publicly court women. They come to me. As you did.”

“And you're so good at it, dearest,” she cooed. “Living in sin suits me, as well. After all, I haven't given up on the idea of true love and happy endings. Once we part ways I might go to the continent if there aren't any blasted wars going on. Set myself up in Paris.”

He leaned back in his chair, surveying her out of narrowed eyes. “Do you mean to tell me you're not in love with me, my angel?” he said in cool tones.

She furrowed her brow, trying to look adorable and presumably failing. “Did you want me to be, my darling? I'm certain I can manage it if you'd like. I thought you preferred a reluctant partner.”

“You're not doing a very good job of being reluctant,” he grumbled, his annoyance breaking through.

She sighed. “I know. I have a terrible habit of being adaptable. Do remember that I have experience with being abducted. With Christopher St. John I never shed a tear. I told him what I thought of him, for what good it did, and when it came time to bed me I did my best to enjoy it.”

“Did you really?” He was now fascinated.

“Alas, I found the entire business messy, painful and almost comical. Those odd little appendages men have are so ridiculous.”

“Little?”

She remembered those moments at the inn, when whatever was beneath her was far from tiny. Perhaps it might be a good idea to change the subject.

“When I realized he was just going to keep doing it,
I hit him over the head with a ewer and took off. I only wish I'd thought of that sooner and saved myself a lot of bother. But my point is: I'm very good at accepting things that are beyond my control. One would think ostracism from the ton would be the end of the world, but in fact I've been far happier in my little house, doing what I want, not having to think about the balls and parties and Almack's and husbands. No one can tell me what to do, though my family does try, and I'm quite delightfully free. So if you choose to simply despoil me it will give me a great many more choices, including going back to Half Moon Street.” She smiled brightly, taking a breath after so much prattle.

“And what was this about love? I presume you were in love with Christopher St. John, weren't you?”

Miranda pulled her feet up under her, getting comfortable. “The terrible truth is, I wasn't in love with him at all. We weren't supposed to run off together—I was simply going for a clandestine few hours at Vauxhall, just a little bit of masked adventure, and Christopher was very handsome, very attentive, and just a little bit wicked. What girl could resist wicked?”

“What girl could resist wicked?” he echoed, astonished. “Are you suggesting women love villains?”

“Well, we do find them terribly appealing. We keep thinking we can save them. It's no wonder women flock around you. It can't be for your charm of manner.” She batted her eyes at him.

His sharp bark of laughter surprised her. “I hope you aren't equally enamored of villains, Lady Miranda.”

“Why? You're clearly a villain. Don't you want me to be madly in love with you?”

He considered it for a moment. “I'll let you know,” he said finally.

“Lovely,” she said, rising. “I'm going to go discover my new wardrobe—what a delightful thing for you to do, darling. You know how women love new clothes. I glanced at them last night and I swear I'm going to have a hard time deciding what to wear.”

“Just as long as you wear nothing tonight when I come to you.”

She paused by the door, a slightly worried expression on her face. “Well, I'll have to wear something. My monthly courses just began, and it's awfully messy if I don't…darling, are you ill?” She was all solicitude.

“Hardly,” he said amiably. “And how long do your monthly courses last?”

“Oh, a week or ten days,” she said airily. “And I'm afraid I'm blessed with a very heavy flow, but I assume you don't mind. You're such a man of the world you've doubtless dealt with this sort of thing before.”

She was gambling on his squeamishness, and she was more than willing to go into greater detail about her imaginary menses, but he simply nodded, not looking the slightest bit bothered. “I don't have any particular problem with it, but I expect you'll be happier if we wait.”

Ew,
she thought. But then, everything about the entire process of mating seemed rather vile. “As you wish, my darling.”

“
Stop
calling me that,” he snapped, finally nettled.

“‘Darling'? Then what would you like me to call you?”

“Lucien will do.”

Lucien was the name she used when she trusted
him. Lucien was the way she still thought of him, unfortunately.

“I was planning on being formal and calling you husband, or Rochdale in public, but then, if we don't marry that won't do. Endearments are so charming. If you call someone darling long enough you'll start to believe it. And wouldn't you just love to have me adore you?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I was under the impression that you already did.”

One to him, she thought, keeping her smile firmly fixed on her face. “Of course I do. Will I see you at luncheon?”

He surveyed her for a long, contemplative moment. “I think I might find I have other things to do. I expect being around you and unable to touch you will be very difficult for me, and I might get snappish. I would hate to wound my sweet girl.”

Miranda almost gagged on the endearment. Oh, he was good at this. She simpered. “Nature has a way of being so inconvenient,” she said soulfully.

“Then again… there's always your mouth.”

Rat scum bastard, she thought with a loving smile, trying to ignore the color that rose to her cheeks. She knew exactly what he was talking about—Christopher had tried to get her to do that on the second night. It was a revolting thought, and Lucien knew it.

“I worship and adore you, dearest, but if you think you're doing
that
to me you're sadly mistaken.” She accompanied her statement with an affectionate beam.

“No, love. You'll be doing
that
to me, and I quite expect you'll want to. Would you care to wager?”

Son of a bitch, she thought. “I think it's probably
not a good idea to wager with my…what are you? My
clandestine lover?
”

He shrugged. “I haven't decided. It might be marriage after all. I simply have to figure out which you'd prefer.”

“And then do the opposite.”

“Exactly.”

She looked at him, determined not to call him by name. “Dearest,” she began, “you really have the most mischievous nature. I'll do my best to keep you guessing.”

He rose then, coming to the door, and she wished she'd gotten the hell out of there a little faster. She'd been a fool to sit and banter with him.

He was limping more than he had, and he was using his cane. That didn't prevent him from putting his hand on her arm and turning her around to face him.

She didn't resist. She wasn't going to resist anything; she was going to smile and laugh and refuse to let him make her miserable.

He released her arm and slid his hand up her throat, to cup her chin, and she was suddenly terrified that he might kiss her. His kisses were dangerous, intoxicating, and she hadn't quite discovered how to inure herself to them.

“My love,” he murmured, “I have the dreadful feeling that I probably never will tire of you. We may as well be married.”

She held very still. “A charming proposal.”

“And do you accept?”

“Do I have a choice, my darling?” she said through slightly clenched teeth.

“Not at all.” And he covered her mouth with his.

It was a light kiss, playful, his tongue running along the tight seam of her mouth, his long fingers stroking her throat. She wanted to open her mouth for him, but she kept her jaw clamped shut. Later, when she came up with a plan, she'd let him kiss her. She'd come up with something ridiculous to think about when he touched her, so she wouldn't start to tremble and melt as she was right now, and she was parting her lips, ready for more, when he pulled away.

There was a strange look in his eyes. “A week to ten days, you say?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Then clearly I'll have to find something else to do.”

 

Miss Jane Pagett smelled like violets, Jacob thought miserably. If there was one fragrance that brought him to his knees, it was violets. It all went back to a sunny afternoon in Jamaica, with those wildflowers all around, crushed beneath their bodies as they made love. And now he couldn't even remember the girl. All he could remember was the sense of peace, of rightness on that cloudless afternoon.

He was already having a hard enough time with Miss Jane Pagett. Every time they stopped to rest the horses and she walked by him he caught the scent, and it made him crazy. He'd already promised they weren't driving through the night, or he would have damned well paid for the change of horses himself in order to get temptation away from him. At least she was safely ensconced in a bedroom upstairs, neat and clean in her little bed. Scorpion had arranged for fresh clothes for his bride's friend, and he'd brought them with him when he'd taken
the coachman's place. They didn't fit half badly, though he'd estimated she'd had a bit more in the rump and less in chest. Either way, she was too damned tempting for his peace of mind, he thought, sitting in the almost deserted taproom, listening to her move around overhead.

He'd taken a very circuitous route—he didn't want to risk running smack into an army of rescuers—and the inn was almost deserted. Long Molly still managed to find a likely prospect and was at that moment with her toes to Jesus, having a wonderful time.

And it wasn't as if there weren't prospects for him, as well. The barmaid was a buxom blonde, with a pretty face and a saucy smile, and he knew he could have her without trying.

She'd be enough to take his mind off Miss Jane Pagett. Maybe he could see if she could sneak into Miss Jane's room and steal her violet perfume.

But the fact of the matter was, he didn't want Nancy, or Betty, or whatever her name was. He wanted Jane. He wanted to see if that kiss was anywhere near what he remembered.

He sat for a long time, nursing his beer. It wouldn't do to get too drunk the first night out—he'd have a hell of a headache the next day. Though maybe that would help take his mind off his passenger.

The problem was, the more he drank, the more amorous he became, and if he got truly foxed he might very well go up and introduce himself, or at least a good hard part of himself, to Miss Jane Pagett.

The barmaid flounced off to the bed, alone. He had a bed in the stable, clean and warm, but he wasn't going
there. He was going to spend the night beneath Jane, more fool he.

The fire burned down, and Jacob didn't bother to replenish it. He leaned back, propping his long legs on the brass fender, and contemplated the ridiculousness of life.

And it was there Jane found him, just as the clock on the landing struck two.