Ruthless (11 page)

A sensible woman would simply look for another lover, but women were seldom sensible. And doubtless his sleeping guest thought her life ruined after one awkward encounter.

Etienne would do very well for her. She would no longer have to brood about her lack of virginity, and while he doubted his cousin had the imagination to awaken her senses, he was, after all, French, and they were, reputedly, particularly good at that sort of thing. With luck, the good doctor could work her past her
painful memories, and then he could step in and finish her education, much to their mutual pleasure.

The Revels were fast approaching. He couldn't quite see the fierce Elinor stripping off her clothes and her fears to participate in that planned debauch, though it was an enticing idea. It would make sense to put the matter to one side and take it up again once spring had arrived. Perhaps he would discover some new and mysterious beauty at the Revels and forget all about the delicious innocence of Elinor Harriman.

Because she was even more of an innocent than he'd first thought. A woman who'd simply never encountered the pleasures of the flesh held a certain amount of interest if the woman herself appealed. But one who had tried, and been disappointed, was far more of a challenge, a delicious one.

Still, it would be safer all around if he simply transferred his interest to someone more likely to join in the celebrations of the Heavenly Host.

But then, when had safety had anything to do with it?

The blood was running down his arm and dripping onto the carpet, and he cursed. She was costing him a fortune. He'd have great pleasure taking payment for it with her eventually agreeable body.

If he didn't manage to distract himself in the meantime. He headed back into his bedroom, stripping off his clothes as he went, signaling for his valet. Georges was asleep in the dressing room, and he appeared almost immediately, stifling a yawn until he looked at his master's bloody clothes.

“Milord, what has happened?” he said, shocked. “Your wound is bleeding again. I will call the doctor…you must lie down…”

Rohan batted away the valet's nervous hands. “A simple slip. I was awkward. We don't need the doctor—you can rebandage me. But first I want you to go into the outer room and cover the young lady with a blanket.”

Georges looked understandably confused. “A young lady? Out in the sitting room? You don't want her in here?”

Rohan allowed himself a wry smile. “I believe the young lady would object. She's asleep now—be certain not to wake her up. Take the silk throw—I don't want her destroying the fur one. I'll manage to divest myself of these bloody clothes and then you may assist me.”

“But, milord…”

He raised an eyebrow. “Did I give the impression that this was open for discussion?”

Georges blanched, clearly terrified of him, as most of the servants were. With reason. He was not a good man.

“Don't wake her,” he said again. “Or I'll be most annoyed.”

“Yes, milord. Of course.” He took the silk coverlet from the freshly made bed and disappeared with his usual silence. A moment later he was back.

“She's gone, Monsieur le Comte,” he said, his voice shaking slightly.

Rohan slammed past him, into the sitting room,
but Georges had told the simple truth. She was gone. He went to the window, half expecting to see her running down the street as if the hounds of hell were after her. No sign of her.

“Take the other servants and look for her,” he said in a sharp voice. “If she's not in the house, send someone after her to ensure she arrives home safely.”

“Should he attempt to bring her back, milord?”

Rohan shook his head. “There'll be time enough for that,” he said lightly. “Once you're done, come back and dress me. I believe I'll go out. I feel the need of company tonight. Female company.”

“Yes, milord.”

Anyone would do, he told himself. He should have known that oh-so-convenient sleep was feigned. Miss Harriman was, after all, a delightfully burgeoning liar. Either she had pretended to sleep, or awoken when he'd set her down but been too clever to show it. The moment he'd closed the door she would have been off and running.

He'd let her think she'd escaped. For now. It was almost time for the Revels, and he had other things to do. More than enough to keep him busy for the next few weeks. For now, she could mistakenly feel safe.

For now.

 

It was a great deal later when Elinor finally arrived home, half-frozen, exhausted. The fire in the front room was banked, the coals sending a warm glow through the room. In the past she and her sister had slept on pallets in front of it, but there was no sign of
Lydia. She tiptoed down the narrow hallway. The tiny storeroom that had held nothing but dust and cobwebs had been swept clean and now held a bed and a wash-stand. Her sister lay on one side of it, sound asleep.

It had been an endless day. It was hard to believe that it had barely been twenty-four hours since she'd first run afoul of the Prince of Darkness. Twenty-four strange, unsettling hours that were now over.

She tiptoed back to the living room. There was a settee, which reminded her a little too much of Rohan lounging on the one in his salon, plus two small chairs. She ignored all of them, curling up in a tight ball in front of the fire.

And forced herself to remember.

S
he'd been seventeen, not yet convinced that a happy life was out of the question, despite the Harriman Nose. She was young, strong, and hopeful. To be sure, their fortunes had begun to decline. They were living in a ramshackle house on the edge of the city, and Lady Caroline had been without a steady male companion for months.

Elinor preferred it that way. The men who came and stayed tended to treat her mother with a familiarity that made her uncomfortable, and that familiarity reached her daughters as well. When Lady Caroline was uninvolved she still went out most nights, gaming, drinking, but there were days when she was home. Sometimes she was morose, with a vicious tongue that could flay her daughter with its caustic truth. Those words never touched Lydia, thank God. Like Elinor herself, Lady Caroline doted on Lydia. She reserved her complaints and criticisms for Elinor.

But there were other times, times her mother was bright and gay and laughing, lighting up any room she
entered, and that was one of those times. She'd come in from an afternoon visit, taken young Lydia's arms and danced her around the drawing room, the two of them laughing, Elinor standing to one side, enchanted. Her mother could charm anyone, and six years ago, when she'd been seventeen and Lydia eleven and Lady Caroline hadn't begun to show the signs of her illness, back then her charm had been at its brightest.

“I've met the most wonderful man, my darlings,” she'd said, and Elinor had preened under the random endearment. “He's older, so he's more settled, and he's fabulously wealthy. Solange told me he'd been asking about me, and she arranged for him to be at her house this afternoon, and oh, my dears, sparks flew! I'm going to his house tonight, and if our luck holds, we'll all move in there, away from this wretched, bourgeois place.”

The wretched, bourgeois place was a palace compared to their current house, but for Lady Caroline it had been a shameful comedown.

“Is he very handsome, Mama?” Lydia had asked.

“Handsome doesn't matter,” she'd said lightly. “It's inner beauty that matters.” And Elinor had preened once more. For all her mother's harshness, she really did love her. She really must strive to do better, to make her mother proud of her plain child as much as her pretty one.

“Who is he, Mama?” she'd asked.

“He's titled, and fabulously wealthy. Did I mention that? Sir Christopher Spatts. Isn't that a lovely name? So very English. He lives there, of course, and I'm
thinking that enough time has passed that I might return. We wouldn't be accepted by some of the worst high-sticklers, but I would think more people would have forgotten. There's always a new scandal. And wouldn't it be glorious to see England again? You could ride once more, Elinor. Christopher doesn't keep a stable when he's visiting Paris, but perhaps when we move in he might consider hiring a mount for you.” She did a little dance around the room, her silk skirts swinging over her hoops, her beautiful face alight with joy. “I wonder if marriage is too much to hope for? He's only a knight, not even a baronet or a viscount, so it might be possible. I wouldn't mind being a bride.”

“You're putting the cart before the horse,” Nanny Maude had said darkly, the one person who ever dared tell Lady Caroline the truth.

“Oh, pooh!” she'd said with her light, silvery laugh. “It's all going to be glorious.”

She'd been wrong, as she so often was. Looking back on that day, it seemed to Elinor that that was the last time she'd ever seen her mother truly happy. It was one of her wild fantasies, with little connection to real life, but it had filled the house with light anyway.

Caroline had gone out that night, wearing the Harriman emeralds that she'd taken with her, the ones that were to be Elinor's, and hadn't returned for more than a fortnight. It was Elinor's first taste of real responsibility, and she managed relatively well. There'd been money, and credit, and the hope of a splendid future. Until Lady Caroline returned home.

Her skin was sallow. She wore new clothes, made of rich, expensive fabrics, and a dashing new hat, but her jewelry was missing, and she waltzed in and collapsed on a chair, declaring herself exhausted.

“Where are the emeralds, Mama?” she'd blurted out. Not only were they supposed to end up with her, they were the most valuable thing their little family owned, their something against dark times.

“What a little miser you are, Elinor,” she'd said with what seemed like profound dislike. “If you must know, they're temporarily in other hands.”

Relief flooded her. “They're being cleaned? Repaired?”

“I lost them in a wager. I fully expect to win them back in a new few days, so there's nothing to worry about. You're such a greedy creature, Elinor. Even if you can't be pretty like your sister you should try to acquire at least a few social graces.” Her gaze was withering. “And where did you get that hideous dress?”

It was one of the two dresses she'd been wearing for the last year. It was true, she'd grown too tall and curvy for it, but there hadn't been much money for new clothes, and it was much more important that Lady Caroline look prosperous, since she was their public face to the world.

Before she could think of something to say, Lady Caroline turned her attention to Lydia. “There you are, sweetness. How I've missed you! Give your mama a kiss.”

Lydia had thrown herself into her arms. “Are we going to move, Mama?”

“I don't think so, dearest,” she said in a distracted voice. “I've decided Sir Christopher is not the man for me. For one thing, he's too old. For another…” She shrugged, an affectation she'd picked up since coming to Paris, one she did very well. “He'll be coming to tea this afternoon. I want both of you on your best behavior. And, Elinor, do try to look a little prettier. Don't we have anything better for her to wear?”

“No,” Nanny Maude said in her uncompromising voice.

“I know what we'll do. Our neighbors have that absolute horse of a daughter. You know the one I mean—she's Lydia's age but absolutely enormous. I'm certain I can convince them to lend me one of her dresses for Elinor.”

“Clothilde de Bonneau is thirteen years old, Mama,” Elinor had protested. “And she's much wider than I am.”

“We can fix that. Nanny Maude is a genius with a needle. Now, someone bring me my notepaper—we haven't time to waste.
Vite, vite!
” Her eyes were bright, feverishly so, and she had two dark patches on her already rouged cheeks.

No one was immune to Lady Caroline's charm, and the dress had been produced almost immediately. It had been an insipid shade of pink, with nowhere for her chest to go in the fortunately high bodice. To this day she couldn't abide the color pink.

But her mother had fussed over her, directing her maid on how to arrange Elinor's hair to her satisfaction. Never in her life had Elinor received so much of her mother's attention. It was dizzying.

When she was done she looked in the mirror. The dress was expensive, better than anything she'd worn in years, and the maid's ministrations had been expert. She'd almost looked pretty.

Her mother had clucked her tongue. “Too bad you're such a plain child, but we've done the best we can. We'll simply have to hope it works.”

“What works, Mama?”

But Lady Caroline hadn't answered, moving away to focus on Lydia.

For the first time Lydia wasn't the favored one. She was instructed to wear her oldest dress, her lovely golden ringlets were plaited into such tight braids that they pulled at her skin, and Lady Caroline ordered her to sit quietly in the corner and say nothing. There was no disguising Lydia's gorgeous blue eyes, pretty mouth and perfect little nose, but she'd done as her mother asked, keeping her head downturned when Sir Christopher Spatts graced them with his presence.

He creaked when he walked. He was old, much older than their mother, and quite fat. His wig was long and elaborately styled, his complexion florid, his lips the color of liver. He had fingers like fat sausages, covered with rings, and a beauty patch rested on one sagging cheek.

She knew better than to call attention to herself in public, but in this case she had no choice, with Sir Christopher barking questions at her, all the time he was sneaking glances at Lydia as she tried to disappear into the furniture.

It seemed to go on forever. He sprinkled biscuit
crumbs all over his expansive front, and he drank his tea noisily, like a bourgeois. The thought of her mama in his bed was horrifying. She was not so naive that she didn't realize exactly what her mother did with her gentlemen friends, even though the details were mercifully unclear at that point.

Finally he rose. “She'll do,” he said with a brisk nod. “I'll meet your price.” His rheumy gaze swept the room. “I'd still rather have the younger one. I'd pay double.”

“No, Sir Christopher,” her mother said with what Elinor considered to be great dignity. “You've had my response to your offer.”

He'd nodded, and his wig had shifted slightly. No decent valet would have allowed his gentleman to go out with his periwig improperly applied, and Sir Christopher struck her as a vain man. She hid her grin.

“I expect you to hold to the terms of our agreement,” he'd said, clearly unwilling to have the last word.

“But of course, Sir Christopher. I am a woman of my word. Have your man of business call on me at his convenience.”

He took a last, hard look at Elinor, harrumphed and departed in a wave of overpowering scent.

“Go into the other room, Lydia darling,” her mother had said once their guest was gone. “I need to talk to your sister. You, too, old woman,” she added to Nanny Maude.

A rare occurrence, but Elinor was no fool. She un
derstood what was going on but hadn't been said. Her mother had arranged a marriage for her.

She'd known it would have to happen, sooner or later. She'd already known that the chance of finding someone young and handsome was unlikely. Lydia's young music tutor had never looked her way, while Elinor died of longing every time he was in the room. He was poor enough that it might have been a possibility, but he'd only had eyes for Lydia.

She should be grateful. She had never thought she'd end up with a title, and it was clear Sir Christopher possessed great wealth. With luck he'd be unfaithful, and she wouldn't have to put up with his affections very often.

Once they were alone, her mother turned to look at her, and for the first time she looked uncertain, almost guilty, and Elinor took pity on her.

“Don't worry, Mama,” she said. “I understand what's going on.”

“You do?”

“Of course. You've arranged a marriage for me with Sir Christopher. I understand that it's my duty. I probably won't have many choices, and I should be very grateful.”

“Not exactly,” her mother had said, moving away and refusing to meet her eye.

Elinor tried not to show the rush of relief that ran through her body. In truth, she would much rather die an old maid than be married to someone like Sir Christopher, but she would have done it, for Lydia. “Then what was he talking about?”

Her mother paused in front of the window, fully aware of the lovely picture she made. “Sit down, Elinor.”

Elinor sat, dutifully.

“We're in a bit of a pickle, dearest,” she said, finally turning around to take the chair opposite her. She still wouldn't meet her eyes. “And we're going to need your help. You'd do anything for your little sister, wouldn't you?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “Without question.”

Her mother's smile was small and contained. “I was hoping you'd say that. You're a very loyal girl, Elinor. I knew I could count on you.”

Elinor drew a deep breath. She'd already learned her mother was far from the most trustworthy presence in their lives—Nanny Maude had that honor. And the way her conversation was circling around was making her feel extremely odd.

“Of course, Mama,” she said. “What is it you want me to do?”

Her mother hesitated. “Sir Christopher has a peculiar…interest, shall we say. You understand about men and their appetites, don't you?”

Elinor had nodded, understanding no such thing.

“Well, Sir Christopher is very much afraid of contracting the Spanish disease. His father died of it, and he's always been most particular in his choice of partners.” She was staring down at her new puce underskirt, her thin fingers pleating it nervously.

Elinor really didn't want to hear about Sir Christopher's habits, particularly when it came to that most
intimate of acts. But her mother clearly expected her to keep up. “I don't understand, Mama.”

Lady Caroline looked annoyed. “He only beds virgins. He says that's the only way he can be sure they're clean.”

Elinor laughed. “Isn't he going to run out of them sooner or later?”

Lady Caroline's gaze narrowed. “I believe he is willing to accept girls who are quite young. And if someone pleases him he'll keep her for a while, ensuring a safe outlet for his…er…masculine energy.”

It had taken her a moment, but a dreadful suspicion was entering Elinor's mind, too dreadful to possibly be true. “And what does this have to do with me, Mama?” she said in a small voice.

“He heard I have two young daughters. He wants one of you in return for my IOUs, and I told him I would arrange it. He's destroying my debts, and on top of that he'll give us a thousand pounds, perhaps more if he's pleased. He heard about Lydia, but I flatly refused him, and he's willing to accept you in her place.” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath in her hurry to get the bad news out.

Elinor had grown very cold, as the last of her childhood slipped away without a sound. She stared at her mother, the mother who had just sold her for a thousand pounds and her gaming debts. “You want me to sleep in his bed?”