Lord Pennington crumpled to the ground in a whimpering heap. His mistress rushed to his aid, pausing only for a second under the baleful glare of the Marquess of Wynter.
Varya could only stare, her eyes wide. She wouldn’t have thought Miles capable of such violence, not for her. Not for anyone. For one brief second, she remembered the image from her dream, of Miles with his hands wrapped around the girl’s throat, crushing the breath from her body…
No, it was just a dream. A dream that reflected nothing but her own confused mind.
“Varya, are you quite all right? You’re very pale.”
She turned to find Caroline watching her closely, her dark gaze filled with concern.
“Wh-what happened?” She gestured toward Pennington. She didn’t quite believe the fantastic tale Lady Dennyson had told her.
Caroline flushed. “He was saying some horrible things about you. I think he was trying to embarrass Miles. Instead, Miles hit him.”
“Because of me?” This was all too ludicrous—not to mention horrid and surreal.
Caroline nodded, a frown marring her brow. “I’ve never seen Miles act this way before. He must care for you very much.”
A bubble of near-hysterical laughter broke free of Varya’s throat. Either she was going mad, or the rest of the world was.
She looked up to catch Lady Dennyson grinning broadly at her. Her plump jowls jiggled as she nodded and winked.
It appeared to be the rest of the world after all.
A large, strong hand caught her arm in a death grip. She gasped as the flow of blood through the limb was effectively cut off.
“We need to talk,” Miles growled, dragging her around to the garden door of the house, and inside where no one could hear them.
Varya stumbled silently behind him, for no other reason than the hope that if she remained quiet he would soon release her arm, which had already gone numb.
Once inside the privacy of the small back parlor, he did release his hold on her. Varya winced at the prickly sensation as feeling began to return to the appendage.
“What the devil has gotten into you?” she demanded, borrowing one of his favorite expletives.
The finger he pointed at her trembled slightly. Varya was willing to wager it wasn’t fear that made it do so.
“I just made a bloody ass of myself, and it’s all your fault.”
“
My
fault? Come now, Miles. Weren’t you capable
of making an ass of yourself long before you ever met me?”
Oh yes, Varya, bait him.
He flushed angrily. “You know perfectly well what I mean. I just fought a man because of you!”
He was insane, ridiculous, maddening—and strangely desirable in his anger, misplaced as it was.
“I did not ask you to beat Lord Pennington senseless, Miles.” She folded her arms across her chest.
“Why did you not tell me he offered you a carte blanche that night at the ball?”
She shrugged. So that was it. No doubt Pennington’s version of the story strayed mightily from the truth. “It didn’t seem important.”
“Didn’t seem important!” he thundered. “It might have prepared me for his attack on your character!” His eyes narrowed. “You refused him, didn’t you?”
Varya felt ice settle in her soul. “If I had a pistol I would shoot you.”
“Don’t you threaten me.” The finger he had jabbed at her just moments before turned on himself. “I’m not to blame for this…fiasco!”
“You’ve spent much time blaming me, Miles, and very little explaining how you reached that cunning conclusion. I suggest you start before I begin searching for something to gut you with.”
Something ignited in his eyes. “If you hadn’t insisted on being part of this investigation there would be no need for us to continue with this farce—”
“Oh, shut up!”
He stared at her in astonishment.
Varya shook with every step she took toward him,
her body tight with rage. Her finger struck him squarely in the chest.
“You may have been able to use that excuse
before
last night, Miles, but not now. A few hours ago you became intimately acquainted with my body. Were you coerced into such behavior?”
“No, but—”
“Were you proposing marriage?”
“Lord, no!” His face was white.
She smirked. “Then guess what, Miles? I
am
your mistress—your whore, or however Lord Pennington put it.”
“You are not a whore!” His hair stood up where his hands had plowed through it.
She smiled at his vehemence. “You and I both know that. I don’t really care what the rest of the ton believes. Do you?”
“Yes!”
Varya choked on her laughter, all of the fight gone out of her. “I appreciate you defending my honor, Miles, but you can’t go around beating everyone who insults me. You’ll spend all your time engaging in fisticuffs.”
“Laugh at me if you will, but every insult to you is an insult to me. If you won’t think of your own reputation then I’ll have to, if for no other reason than to keep us both from public ridicule!”
Her eyes narrowed at his tone. “It was
your
reputation that made our charade so easily believed,
my lord
. And please forgive my impertinence, but beating Lord Pennington for voicing his opinion of me is hardly conducive to avoiding the public eye.”
Miles snorted. “If you had been a respectable woman, it never would have happened—” He froze, as if realizing what he had just said.
Varya recoiled as if slapped. All along, she had told him that she didn’t care what people’s opinions of her were but she did care. She cared about his opinion. Now that she had it, it felt as if she had been his boxing opponent instead of Lord Pennington.
“Varya, I—”
She held up a trembling hand. “Don’t say another word, I beg you. You’ve made your point”—she swallowed hard—“quite clear.” Before she could make a complete fool of herself, she turned on her heel and forced herself to walk calmly down the corridor, holding the tears at bay until she reached the sanctuary of her chamber.
Miles watched her retreating form with a mixture of remorse and disgust. Remorse for what he had said, and disgust for everything else he had ever done to hurt her. Every time she started to get close he pushed her away. What was wrong with him?
“Well done, Miles,” came a familiar jeer from behind him.
“Go to hell, Robert,” he muttered without turning around.
“I always thought you had a way with women. Certainly, you never lacked for attention in Spain or Portugal, or even after your return.” He stepped closer, gesturing as though a thought had just occurred to him.
“In fact, I returned home only two months after you
did, and you had set up that exotic singer by then. What was her name?”
“Bella,” Miles whispered. “And Varya’s nothing like her.”
A soft, cruel laugh came in response. “I guess not. Well, buck up, old boy. I daresay you told Pennington the truth.”
Even though he knew better, Miles turned to his former brother-in-law, awaiting his next remark.
“She’s not your whore—anymore.” Robert laughed loudly at his own wit and strolled off in the same direction Varya had gone, leaving Miles standing alone. A state he now found distinctly uncomfortable.
He waited two hours before attempting to see her. He spent the first hour riding about the estate, trying to figure out just what he was going to say that could ever undo his earlier words. The second hour he spent bathing and choosing the proper attire in which to make his apologies.
Finally presentable, he knocked on the door that connected their rooms, wishing he had some kind of gift in case words weren’t enough.
There was no answer.
He tried the knob. The door swung open to reveal a maid striping the sheets off the bed. She jumped when she saw Miles.
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized, feeling a little embarrassed at having been caught barging into Varya’s room. “Can you tell me where I might find the lady who has been using this room?”
The girl flushed. “She’s gone, my lord.”
Certainly he couldn’t have heard her correctly. “Excuse me?”
The maid swallowed, obviously unwilling to be the one to deliver bad news to one of her master’s house-guests.
“She packed up and left for London over an hour ago.”
A
respectable woman indeed!
Varya yanked her hat from her head with a snort and tossed it unceremoniously on the plush cushions beside her.
If Miles Christian, lowly Marquess of Wynter, only knew what manner of woman he was dealing with! If they were in Russia, she could buy and sell his smug hide like some people purchased stockings. The man was an ass. What did he know of respectability? Without his title he’d be nothing more than a very rude, arrogant, handsome, extremely attractive…
“Pompous fathead!” she seethed under her breath.
“Are you quite all right, my lady?” her maid asked tentatively.
Varya met her wide-eyed gaze with a deliberate
turn of her head. “Do you have a husband, Amy?”
The girl seemed startled by her curt question. “Why no, my lady.”
“A lover, perhaps?”
Amy blushed prettily. “Aye. Jack’s his name, my lady. We’re to be married someday.”
Varya nodded absently. “You’re not afraid of being under his control?”
Her maid frowned. “His control? Jack’s never tried to control me, ma’am.”
“You lie,” she retorted in disbelief.
Amy looked indignant. “I can assure you I do not lie, my lady! My Jack is a good man—treats me like his equal, he does.”
Varya was instantly contrite. The girl so obviously believed in her lover’s affections. “I’m sorry, Amy. I did not mean to offend you.”
“It’s nothing, ma’am.”
Perhaps things are different for the lower classes
, Varya thought. Certainly there weren’t fortunes and titles at stake with those marriages not of the gentry and aristocracy. How odd that women of rank had less freedom in their lives than their maids.
She shuddered as she imagined what life under Ivan’s domination would have been like. He wouldn’t rant and rave about her reputation. He’d simply force her to be the model wife.
After Miles’s gentle, passionate embrace the cruelty of Ivan’s nature seemed even more frightening. Under his hands she would have suffered painful beatings and sexual perversity. No doubt he would have even
tually broken her mind as well as her body and spirit.
She had done the right thing by running away. There was no cowardice in escaping men such as Ivan and her father.
Her father had not been physically cruel, but he had ruled his family with a will of iron. Silence was sometimes a greater punishment than a slap. Being excluded from family functions, banishment from social entertainment—something Varya adored—had been a favorite punishment. He had been cold and distant, but he had never struck them. He didn’t have to. His word had been final and no one ever dared dispute him.
Except for Varya. The first and only time she had ever opposed her father had been when she left, breaking the betrothal contract with Ivan. She wondered if her father had vented his wrath on his wife, Ana, or on Stephon and Natalya, Varya’s younger brother and sister. It had been almost five years. Had he forgiven her yet?
Five years. It was a long time to go without contact with one’s family. She wondered if they thought of her as often as she thought of them. Did they think her dead or alive? And Ivan—had he married someone else, or was he waiting for her to return so that he could crush her throat with his bare hands as he had the maid’s…?
“My lady, are you ill?” Amy leaned forward on her seat, her plain face wrinkled with worry.
That was the second time that day that someone had inquired after her health. She really must learn to school her features to better hide her inner emotions.
She thought she had mastered the art, but the entrance of Miles Christian into her life had drastically lowered her defenses.
“I am well, thank you, Amy. When do you and your young man plan to be married?”
Again the younger woman colored. “As soon as we have enough money saved, my lady. My Jack don’t want me to have to work after we’re wed.”
Varya’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
Amy’s blush deepened. “On account of all the gentlemen, ma’am. Jack don’t—doesn’t—like when I accompany you to house parties and such because of the gentlemen who get fresh.”
Nodding, Varya felt strangely agitated by the maid’s words. Men may
proposition
a pianist, but they tended to take what they wanted from servants like Amy.
“Amy,” she said suddenly, “I’m going to let you go.”
The girl’s face crumpled. “Oh please, ma’am, don’t! I don’t encourage any of ’em, I swear!” She buried her head in her hands.
Cursing her folly, Varya leaned toward the sobbing girl. It took all her strength to pry Amy’s hands away from her face. Good Lord, but the girl was strong!
“Amy, I’m not letting you go because I’m angry. I’m letting you go so you can marry your Jack.”
The sobbing abruptly ceased. Watery, red-rimmed eyes stared at Varya in astonishment.
“But without the salary I make working for you, my lady, we can’t afford it.” Her eyes welled up as her voice caught on the last two words, and Varya feared she would start bawling again.
“You don’t need your salary. I want to give you and
Jack money to start your life together.” Why? So that someone might have a chance at the happiness Varya knew she would never find. She simply couldn’t trust her freedom to someone else.
“Oh, my lady! You are too kind!”
“I just want to see you happy,” she replied a trifle gruffly, once again leaning back against the squabs. “Now, how does one thousand pounds sound?”
Amy fainted.
By the time Miles had ordered his valet to pack up his belongings, instructed his coachman to follow with the carriage, and gotten a suitable mount from a smirking Robert, his
mistress
had at least a two-hour head start on him.
Miles offered to buy the velvety gray stallion from his former brother-in-law. Not just to catch up to Varya, but to keep the other man quiet. Miles knew Robert often needed extra blunt to pay off gaming debts, and even Rochester wasn’t stupid enough to risk losing such a sale just to vex the Marquess of Wynter.
He had to be mad, Miles thought angrily as he and the stallion flew over the rough road to London. The promise of the sweet, hot nest between Varya’s thighs had to be the only reason he would even consider chasing the bothersome baggage all the way to London.
“You are in love with her.”
The memory of Carny’s words almost knocked Miles out of the saddle and he drew back sharply on the reins. The stallion reared in annoyance, pawing wildly at the air with its front legs.
Heart hammering, Miles fought to soothe the irate
beast. The stallion ceased its efforts to throw him and pranced nervously. Miles spoke to him in a low voice, saying nothing in particular, just allowing his gentle words to calm the horse’s agitation.
What the devil had happened? He had heard Carny’s voice as clear as day. Had it really been only in his head?
Mad. He
was
going mad.
Falling in love with Varya? It was ludicrous! She went against everything he was brought up to look for in a wife; she was beneath him socially—a harridan, and secretive. She—he stiffened. Had he just thought of her in terms of marriage?
Falling in love with her would be bad enough, but marrying her was out of the question! Poor Charlotte would be the first and only Marchioness of Wynter during his lifetime. He had married her out of duty, and look what had happened.
Even if he loved Varya with all his heart—a feat he was not capable of—she would never be his wife. He would not go through that kind of guilt again.
Why was he even entertaining the idea? Carny was an idiot. He had no idea what he was talking about. Miles’s feelings for Varya equated to curiosity and lust, pure and simple. He wanted her body and the answers to her many puzzles. Once he had those he would lose interest, as he always did. Then his life could go back to how it had been before the night she kidnapped him.
He spurred the stallion on. He had no idea what he was going to say to Varya once he caught up with her. He supposed he would have to apologize. After that,
he was going to put all his energy into getting into her bed.
The sooner he bedded her, the sooner she would be out of his system. He hated the crude bent of his thoughts, but there could be no denying how badly he wanted her. The sooner he had her, the sooner his life could return to how it had been.
“Dull.”
This time Carny’s ghostly presence inside his head didn’t spook him as badly.
“Go to hell, my friend,” Miles muttered between clenched teeth, and dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks.
“Don’t worry about unpacking just yet, Amy.”
“Ma’am?” The young maid looked up from the trunk she had opened.
Varya smiled wearily. “I wish to rest for a while. You may put the clothes away later.” She stood by the bed, resting her heavy head against a carved oak poster. “Why don’t you inquire among some of your friends, ask if any of them want a position as a lady’s maid. I shall need a new one once you are wed.”
A delighted flush darted across the maid’s cheeks—much preferable to the pallor of her earlier faint.
“Certainly, my lady. I know of several girls who would make excellent maids for you.”
Varya’s smile grew. “I only need one. Ask them to come around some day next week.”
“Of course. Shall I help you undress now, ma’am?”
Varya nodded. “I’m afraid I’m too tired to do it myself, Amy.” She felt as weak as a kitten. The past
twenty-four hours had robbed her of all her energy. She didn’t want to think of Miles, Ivan, or her father. She didn’t want to dream of Bella’s broken body or the marriage she had narrowly escaped. She just wanted the blissful cocoon of sleep.
Amy deftly unfastened the dozens of tiny hooks down the back of her gown as Varya held on to the bedpost for support.
Once she was left wearing nothing but her shift, Varya sagged onto the bed and allowed her abigail to unwind the thick coil at the back of her head. The rhythm of the brush pulling through her hair made her eyelids droop and her breathing shallow. She felt herself beginning to lean to one side as her tired body refused to hold itself upright any longer.
Amy helped her into bed, removing her stockings and garters before tucking the soft blankets up around her chin.
“Thank you, Amy,” she mumbled sleepily.
“You’re welcome, my lady. Sleep well.”
Once she heard the chamber door click shut behind the maid, Varya rolled over onto her stomach. The sheets were soft and cool against her exposed flesh. They smelled of outdoors and the rose-scented soap all her linens and clothing were laundered with.
She closed her eyes, easing the ache in her head. Bunching her pillows, she snuggled deep into their downy softness, waiting for sleep to overcome her.
She dreamed.
She dreamed that Miles was there with her, his large, muscular body stretched out next to her. His golden skin was velvet against her own. The hair on
his chest was thick and springy beneath her palms, and darker than the russet mane that framed his face.
He was watching her with those catlike eyes of his, the heat of his gaze causing her heart to flutter madly in her chest.
His long fingers combed through her hair, stroked her face, and caressed her so intimately her body throbbed. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once.
“This’ll be an easy job,” he told her in a voice that wasn’t his.
“Wh-what?” A fog of passion hung low over her mind, dulling her senses. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t worry, sweet. I’ll make it painless.”
“I d-don’t understand.” Something wasn’t right. Frantically, she struggled to wake.
Then she felt it.
Miles was gone, replaced by stifling blackness. Something heavy was pressed against her face. Roses, she smelled roses.
Panic-stricken, she came awake to the realization that one of her pillows covered her face. She tried to push it off her, but it wouldn’t move. Fear washed over her. She groped wildly, and found the strong, hairy forearms of the man who straddled her.
She fought, lifting her knees and slamming them into his sides. He grunted, and she felt him fall to the side. He loosened his hold long enough for her to draw breath, but the pillow was quickly pushed back into place, suffocating her. Her nails clawed at his arms; she heard him hiss in pain.
Blackness swamped the edges of her mind. Every
breath she drew resulted in nothing more than a mouthful of fabric. There was no air. He was going to kill her.
Like Bella. Oh God, she was going to end up dead like Bella and no one would ever know who killed her. No one but her servants would care. Katya and Piotr would notify her parents and tell them she had been murdered. Would her parents weep for her? Would Miles?
Miles.
If she had stayed with Miles at Rochester’s none of this would be happening. She would be humiliated but at least she’d have been safe. She would have forgiven him. Now he would never know. She would never know what it felt like…
Darkness engulfed her.
Then suddenly, the weight was gone. She knocked the pillow off her face and threw it so it couldn’t be used against her again. Greedily sucking air into her lungs, she hauled herself into a sitting position. Her eyes widened in surprise as the door to her chamber shook, splintered, and finally flew open.
Miles.
“Where is he?” he demanded, bursting into the room like a pouncing feline.
“I think he must have escaped over the balcony,” she wheezed, gesturing toward the gaping French doors.
Miles’s scowl deepened. “The balcony?” His gaze followed hers. “Have all your lovers been so cowardly that they run at the sound of someone approaching?”
The venom in his tone was nothing compared to the
stunned astonishment that washed over Varya. She stared at him, wondering if he was out of his wits.
“My lovers?” She slumped against the headboard. “You think that man was my
lover
?”
“What else am I supposed to think when I come to your bedchamber and find the door locked and hear a man’s voice from inside?”
He was jealous. Varya would have laughed in his face if she weren’t overcome by the urge to smash it.