Ruthless (10 page)

“Who shot you?”

For a moment he looked annoyed. “I fail to see what that's got to do with anything. Reading assures me that anyone who's ever met me would have reason to shoot me, so I must admit with all candor that I have no idea. Was it you?”

“If I'd shot you I wouldn't have missed,” she said.

“Was that wishful thinking or are you in fact a practiced shot?”

“Desire would have made up for lack of expertise.”

There was silence for a moment as she realized what her words might suggest. And then he simply smiled at her. “Oh, no,” he said. “That's much too easy.”

She ducked her head, refusing to meet his gaze, and continued to work her way through the pile of eggs on her plate that had somehow gotten replenished. She could feel the flush in her cheekbones again, and she silently cursed. Her skin, apart from the despised freckles, was much too pale and prone to showing her slightest agitation.

“In fact, I'm pleased you chose such a delightfully inappropriate time to visit, Miss Harriman,” he said after a long moment of silence. “I have an idea that might solve both your problem and mine. A way for me to happily endow your family with worldly goods without society looking askance, and to chase away any slight stain on your name.”

She almost choked on the eggs. She looked up at him, horrified. “What do you mean by that?”

“What a curious reaction, child. Why, nothing more than that your extended time in my presence is likely to tarnish your reputation. Not past repair, I would hope, since I have nothing to show for it, but still…So I have fixed things most admirably.”

The eggs stayed down. “And how have you done that, my lord?”

“I've found you a husband.”

She was too astonished to react. “I hadn't realized I was in need of one.”

“Of course you are. It's only with a husband that you'll have true freedom to explore the pleasures life can bring you.”

“How exceedingly kind of you to worry about such things,” she said icily. “And you've found a husband who'll provide me such pleasures?”

“It's seldom the husband who provides the pleasure, Miss Harriman. It's the lover.”

“So you've found me a husband in order for me to take a lover? Forgive me for saying this doesn't make sense. And I would think a husband would object to acts of charity on your part.”

“That's where you underestimate me. I have a cousin, a stern young man who disapproves of me thoroughly. He's a doctor, and I've decided he's in need of a wife to assist him in his practice. Someone who's unafraid of life. He also happens to be my heir, since I've done my level best not to procreate, and he'll inherit my French estates. I've been supporting him for the last decade or so. It would seem entirely logical that I support his wife. Which I propose to be you.”

“I think, my lord, that you must be mad,” she breathed. “What could you possibly gain from such an arrangement?”

“Why, Miss Harriman, I thought that would be completely obvious.”

“Not to me, Monsieur le Comte.” The eggs suddenly felt cold and leaden in her stomach. His ridiculous plan would give him access to Lydia, all under the guise of familial affection.

“Then, my dear Miss Harriman, I would gain you.” And he handed her a cup of tea.

E
linor took the last careful bite of eggs, setting her fork down beside the gilt plate that had held them. She considered retaining it as some sort of weapon, but the Viscount Rohan was hardly the sort of man to use force. Besides, despite his words, she wasn't fool enough to believe him.

“You're an accomplished liar, are you not?” she said.

He was lounging on the settee opposite her, the very picture of indolence. Lace dripped down over his strong hands and flowed from the throat of his waistcoat. The sight should have been reassuring, after that unsettling glimpse of his bare chest, but she couldn't stop thinking of what lay beneath all those layers of silk and wool.

“How could I possibly confess to that? If I'm a liar then anything I tell you will be untrue. It's a waste of time asking me such things. Now, when it comes to lovemaking it's an entirely different matter. I can assure you when it comes to matters of the flesh I am quite simply unparalleled.”

She gave him her most disagreeable look. “That is of no interest to me.”

“Don't lie, precious. You're secretly fascinated at the thought of it. You're wondering what your own body is capable of, after the brief taste you had in the carriage, and who would be the one to give you that kind of knowledge. And you know, deep in your heart, that I'm the one man capable of—”

“Oh, stop it!” she snapped. “You're being quite tiresome. Don't look at me with hooded eyes and pretend I'm the object of your undying lust. I'm a little too old to fall for such fantasies.”

“You're a child.”

“Perhaps compared to your great age, but I'm three and twenty and have seen far more than most women my age. How old are you?”

He seemed amused. “Nine and thirty. Old enough to be your father. I was very active when I was sixteen.”

“And my mother doubtless was a whore even back then, but it's been pointed out to me that I bear an unfortunate resemblance to my father. The Nose, you see.”

“I quite like your nose.”

She looked at him with dislike. “Let me explain things in short, clear sentences since you seem unable to comprehend. I have no interest in marrying your cousin, for whatever reason you think it a good idea. You are not to send any more inappropriate gifts to our household, and most importantly, you are to keep away from my sister. Is that clear, or do you need me to repeat it even more slowly?”

“It's very clear, Miss Harriman,” he said. “But what
if I don't wish to? What if I require some other kind of motivation to follow your stringent orders?”

“Such as what?” she asked, suspicious.

“I think you should come here, Miss Harriman,” he said in a soft, silken voice. “And I will show you.”

It was foolishness, pure and simple, but she was beyond tired, and feeling cross and reckless. He was challenging her, and Elinor had never been one to back down from a challenge. She stared at him for a long moment, her eyes meeting his with cold disdain. And then she rose and crossed the room so that she stood in front of him as he lounged on the settee.

“Yes?” she said in a cool voice. The embarrassing flush had fled, leaving her cold and determined.

He had the smile of an angel. Which made him doubly dangerous, given his devilish proclivities. “Kneel down.”

She arched an eyebrow. She no more believed in his supposed passion for her than she believed in fairies or a just and loving god, but she was willing to see how far he would carry this bluff. And what kind of safety for Lydia she could claim.

She sank to her knees in her threadbare clothes, letting them pool around her. Her eyes were the level of his, and she met his hard blue gaze with a steely one of her own.

“That's right, poppet,” he murmured. “And now you may kiss me.”

She started to get up but he caught her arm, pulling her back, and she noticed with dismay he was quite strong. “I just want to see what a kiss from a bad-
tempered virgin would taste like. I'm not asking for anything more, not at the moment. In general, I don't care much for kissing, but I vaguely remember that's part of the whole ritual with untried females.”

“You really are mad,” she said feelingly. “All I can assume is that you're caught in the toils of the same disease that afflicts my mother, and while I'm very sorry for you, it's simply the wages of sin. You can't fornicate with every creature who crosses your path and not pay the price.”

“Poppet, you greatly overestimate my stamina. And my foolishness. In fact, I'm very careful to avoid diseased partners. Any sensible man would.”

She wanted to throw up. She knew just what lengths men would go to avoid diseased partners. She kept her voice and face steady. “I rejoice to hear it. May you have a long and happy life of debauchery. I, however, do not plan to be part of it.”

“My precious, I'm not asking you to. I'm merely requesting a kiss from those disapproving lips. Is it so much to ask? Don't be missish. It's not as if I'm opening my breeches for you to service me.”

She should have been horrified at his words, but she knew well enough what he was talking about. It was common currency in the back alleys and the drawing rooms, though she was unable to fathom why people would want to engage in such things. That he should even allude to it didn't surprise her.

“Is a chaste kiss so much to ask? After that you may go home in my carriage and I promise I won't even demand you send my presents back.”

She couldn't break away, not without an undignified struggle. And part of her didn't want to break away. A wild, reckless part of her, one that she always denied, kept wrapped up tight inside her, cried to escape. “If you truly wanted to kiss me you'd get up from the settee.”

“But I don't. I have no interest in kissing you, at least not at the moment. I'm not saying that won't change, but for now I'm much more interested in what would happen if you kissed me. I'm assuming your virginal state only extends below the waist, or at worst, below the neck. Kiss me, and I'll let you go.”

She looked into his ruined beauty and hated him. Hated him for a thousand reasons, most of which had nothing to do with him at all. Hated him because she wanted to kiss him, wanted those pale, beautiful hands on her body, wanted the wild, wicked things he'd promised. False promises, all of them.

She'd had enough, of him, of men in general, and with a sudden burst she yanked free, falling backward and scrambling to her feet.

He caught her by the door, moving faster than she would have thought he was capable. He took her shoulders and spun her around, pushing her back against the door. “I believe I said you weren't leaving without a kiss,” he said softly. “I assure you, it's not such a difficult thing. I'll demonstrate.” And his mouth covered hers.

It was a shock. The intimacy of it, like nothing she'd ever felt before. Hard and wet and deep, his mouth open against hers, demanding a response she
didn't know how to give. It was a far cry from the chaste first kiss she'd dreamed of—it tasted of sex and desire and dark delight, and for the first time she began to understand why people sought such things.

He lifted his head, looking down at her, and she stared up into his hard blue eyes, half hidden by his ridiculously long lashes. “You survived that quite well, my sweet. Now kiss me back. I know you must have been kissed before—it's not near so dire as losing your innocence. I want to taste a virgin's kiss.”

She froze, still trapped against the door by his bigger, stronger body. “Then I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't fit your requirements,” she said stiffly. “You'll have to look elsewhere.”

“You can't tell me you've never been kissed—I won't believe it. Paris is not so full of stupid men.”

“The entire world is choked to death with stupid men. I've been kissed before.”

His expression would have been gratifying if she was in the mood to notice. “Indeed, it is. I should have tried it this way.” His mouth brushed hers, light, soft, and she rose into it, unconsciously wanting more. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her up and into his body, deepening the kiss, and his other hand cupped her chin, his long fingers gently stroking the sides of her face as he kissed her with the seductive, leisurely expertise of the devil himself, and when his fingers tugged she opened her mouth for him, wanting him. To her complete and utter shame, wanting him.

A moment later he set her aside, backing away, looking at her with a strange expression on his face.

No one ever suggested that the Viscount Rohan was slow to understand subtleties. There was but the slightest pause. “So you've been kissed before but still fail to meet my requirements,” he murmured. “But how delightful for me. If you're no longer a virgin then there's nothing to keep you from going to bed with me. I'm even considering unfastening my breeches after all. Or doesn't your expertise go that far?”

She'd asked for it, she deserved it. For letting him kiss her, for, God help her, kissing him back. In trying to shock him, she'd only managed to degrade herself further.

“No?” he said lazily, turning away from her for an unguarded moment. “
Tant pis.
I can teach you easily enough.”

She backed away from him, coming up against the table that held the tray and her empty plate. And the fork.

For a weapon it was pathetic, but it was all she had. She grabbed it, sending the tray crashing to the floor. “If you touch me again I will stab you.”

He made the very dire mistake of laughing at her. “That's not going to do much damage through these clothes, poppet. And there's no need to threaten me with your fury. I haven't taken a woman against her will in decades—I would hardly be likely to start with you.”

As a reminder of her lack of beauty his statement was effective enough to make her lower her arm. Even his following words couldn't break through the tightly controlled pain. “You're much too interesting to take by rape. Besides, what could you do with a fork?”

“I could stab you in the eyes,” she said fiercely.

“You couldn't reach them. Besides, you don't want to. You'd much rather I kissed you again. Let me demonstrate.” And he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, against his hard, warm body.

It was a different body, strong and hard, so very different from the soft, sagging flesh of the other, but she panicked anyway, struggling, and without thought stabbed the fork into his upper arm, where she'd seen the bandage.

His reaction shocked her. He merely flinched, but the hold on her changed abruptly, and a moment later she found herself on the sofa, wrapped in his arms, held tightly, and she had no idea why. He held her as a father might comfort a child, and she realized with shock that she was sobbing, loud, noisy sobs. And then she stopped thinking at all, giving in to all the grief and fear and sorrow that had torn at her life with a thousand tiny claws.

His arm was around her, and blood was seeping through the sleeve where she'd jabbed him, and she moaned and tried to say something, but he simply shifted her in his arms so that she couldn't see it, holding her head against his chest and gently stroking her hair, her tear-streaked face, as the harsh sobs racked her body. From a distance she could hear his words, soft, comforting, half in a language she couldn't understand, but then it was simply the sound of his voice that soothed her, the way he held her, strong yet gentle, so that for the first time in what seemed a lifetime she could stop fighting, she could
simply let go of everything, for a brief, blessed moment. She could simply be.

 

She truly did have the most amazing ability to fall asleep in his presence, Rohan thought absently, stroking her tear-damp face. He'd recognized the signs of it, the slowing of her breath, the infrequent shudders, her clutch on his perfect silk waistcoat loosening. It would never recover from the wrinkles, but it was little matter—he was bleeding all over it. Another extremely expensive article of clothing ruined, thanks to Miss Harriman. Poor poppet.

He considered carrying her into his bed, to let her finish her exhausted sleep, but thought better of it. If she awoke while he carried her she'd panic, and he really didn't fancy her slamming into his wound once more. He'd probably drop her, ruining the entire, romantic effect of it.

He had to laugh at himself. Romantic gestures were as far removed from his life as this kind of tenderness. All he'd been able to do was treat her as Mrs. Clarke had treated him so many years ago. “Peace, now, love,” he whispered in Gaelic, a language he'd forgotten he knew. He rose from the sofa, cradling her carefully and lay her down on it. There was blood on the silk damask. If he spent much more time with Miss Harriman he was going to need to replace his wardrobe and his furniture. She was going through things at a prodigious pace.

She slept, exhausted, and he stared down at her. Her face was blotched and puffy from the tears. With the
Harriman Nose she was such a far cry from her pretty little sister, from the beauties that surrounded him. She was a ragamuffin of misery. So why was he wasting even a moment of his time on her?

The answer was instant, obvious and reassuring. He was bored. It was that simple. She was something entirely new in his sphere of existence, and he appreciated the novelty. He'd tire of her soon enough, thank heavens. In the meantime she was entertaining.

He moved his arm, and flinched, glancing down at his blood-soaked sleeve. Such drama was exhausting, even as it entertained. She hadn't been raped—that much was obvious, or she would have reacted more strongly to his use of the word. No, it must have simply been some clumsy fool. Perhaps she'd been in love with him and he'd used her poorly and left her. Without even so much as a kiss, poor angel. He wasn't a great fancier of kisses, but someone like Elinor Harriman needed to be kissed, well and often.