Ruthless (13 page)

And now, here he was, staring up at the rooftops across the way as if he'd find the Holy Grail up there.

She was half tempted to turn and walk the other way. She could feel an unexpected flush rise to her cheeks, and she put one gloved hand up to cool it. She was being ridiculous, she told herself. It was a very good thing that he had no interest in her. It meant she could talk to him without being worried about untoward advances.

Maybe he did like only men.

Lydia squared her shoulders, put her bonnet more firmly on her head and started toward him, a determined smile on her face.

He must have sensed that someone was approaching. He spun around before she reached him, and one hand had gone instinctively to the sword that hung at one hip. Most gentlemen wore swords as part of a fashionable toilette. She had the strong feeling that Mr. Reading knew how to use his. And then he recognized her.

“Miss Lydia,” he said, sweeping off his hat. “This is an unexpected pleasure.” His voice made it sound anything but. “How did you find me?”

She curtsied, wishing she'd listened to her first instinct and gone the other way. “Mr. Reading,” she murmured. “In fact, I was heading for the market. I had no idea you would be anywhere near here.”

“No, of course you didn't. I beg your pardon.” An uncomfortable silence fell.

“What were you looking for?” she said. “Perhaps I could help you find it?”

“Unlikely,” he said, replacing his hat. She wished he wouldn't—in the bright sunlight it put his face in
shadow, the ruined beauty of it, and his eyes were unreadable. “Lord Rohan was shot when he was driving through this area. I was trying to figure out where the shooter stood.”

“He was
shot?
” Lydia said, panicked. What would Elinor do? What would they do without his charity? Thank God Nanny had squirreled away the money. “Is he dead?”

“Of course not. Didn't your sister tell you? It wasn't much more than a graze. It happened over a week ago, just after we left your house, and he's already mostly healed. He thinks it was an accident. I'm not so certain.”

“He has so many enemies, then?”

“Enough.”

Another uncomfortable silence. Lydia knew she should move, should say something, should ignore this exceedingly uncomfortable pull that was drawing her to him.

Clearly he despised her. He wouldn't even look at her—his gaze was focused somewhere past her shoulder. Nanny would tell her this was good for her. At that moment it felt like pure misery. “I should continue to the market. It was a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Reading,” she said, wishing she could sound as unruffled as Elinor.

Something in her voice caught his attention, and he frowned. “Surely you aren't out alone, Miss Lydia?”

She glanced around her. Still no sign of Jacobs. “Of course not. Jacobs is somewhere behind me—it was such a beautiful day that I'm afraid I was a bit too
exuberant in my walking, and I lost him. I'm certain he'll catch up with me by the time I reach the market.” She held out her hand. “Good afternoon, Mr. Reading.”

He took her hand, but didn't release it. “I'll accompany you to the market, if you'll permit me.”

“There's no need…”

“I'd be remiss in my duties as a gentleman if I allowed you'd to continue alone,” he said in that polite, distant voice. “A young lady as beautiful as you shouldn't be traveling alone. I would be desolate if anything happened to you.”

Flirtation by rote. She couldn't manage Elinor's icy smile either, though she could try. “There's no need to pretend you have any interest in me, Mr. Reading. I realize I'm not to your particular taste, though you say all the right things. I do assure you there's no need to accompany me—I've been to the market on my own or with Jacobs any number of times and nothing untoward has happened. If you'll release my hand…”

She tugged, but he tightened his grip, and beneath the brim of his hat she could see his smile. “Does everyone fall at your feet, Miss Lydia?”

“In truth, everyone but you, Mr. Reading,” she said ruefully. “Nanny says I'm vain, but I'm not. It's simply an accident of birth that I'm pretty. It's no great accomplishment on my part. My mother was pretty, and knowing her, I expect my father was as well. So people smile on me, and men flirt with me. Except for you, Mr. Reading.”

He tucked her hand under his arm, starting forward, and she had no choice but to fall into step beside him. “I flirt with you, Miss Lydia,” he said easily. “If you haven't recognized it as such I must have become suddenly gauche, and I do beg your pardon. I will endeavor to improve my skills. Shall I tell you how exquisite your golden curls are? Your delicate British complexion? That you move so gracefully angels would weep in jealousy, that your smile brightens every encounter? A sonnet, perhaps?

 

‘Miss Lydia's eyes

Are something divine

A delicate prize

'Twill never be mine.'”

 

“I don't think much of that,” she said frankly. “It sounds as if you want my eyes gouged from my head and placed on a pillow. Or a plate,” she added.

Reading made a muffled sound, which in someone else she might have thought was a laugh smothered by a cough. “I'm afraid that most of my instant poetic efforts tend toward deliberately obscene doggerel, composed for the entertainment of one's drinking partners. If you want a true sonnet you'll have to wait while I write it down. I wouldn't want to give you less than your due.”

Each flirtatious remark seemed forced, but he still kept her arm captured, his hand on hers, pressing against his forearm, and for some reason she still felt as if she were dancing on air. She tilted her face
up to the sunshine, drinking it in. “I give you leave to stop flirting, Mr. Reading. I still don't believe you. Tell me about Lord Rohan. Is he in much pain?”

She could feel the tension in the muscles beneath her hand. “I would suggest, Miss Lydia, that you cast your gaze elsewhere. Lord Rohan is naught but trouble, and he's moved his gaze beyond pretty virgins such as you.”

“He's interested in my sister, is he not? Isn't she a pretty virgin?” If he disparaged Elinor she would happily hit him with her empty basket.

“You know as well as I do that your sister is far more than pretty.”

“Indeed she is,” she said, pleased with him after all. “And I do assure you, I'm not as shallow and vain as you appear to think me.”

“I do not think you shallow or vain,” he said in a low voice. “I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous…”

“Oh, be quiet,” she said crossly. “You think I'm—”

He stopped, and one gloved finger haltered her in midsentence. They were on the edge of the market now, beneath the shadows of an overhanging building, and she could see his face now, see his eyes, no longer covered by drooping lids.

“I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous temptation and most definitely not for me,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “You have everyone else at your feet, Miss Lydia. Why should you need me as well?”

For a moment she couldn't speak, mesmerized by the torment she saw in the dark depths of his eyes. “Because you're the one I want,” she said in a hushed voice, shocked at herself. Shocked at the simple truth of it.

He stared down at her for a long moment. And then his head moved, and she knew he was going to kiss her, here in this marketplace full of people, he was going to put his scarred mouth on hers, and she was going to throw her arms around him and kiss him back.

“There you are, Miss Lydia!” Jacobs's voice broke the moment, and Reading released her arm. She turned, feeling the heat flood her cheeks.

“I thought I'd lost you, Jacobs,” she said in a determinedly cheerful voice, as if she hadn't just lost her only chance for the best kiss of her life. “Mr. Reading was kind enough to escort me in your place.” She turned back to him, ready to say all the polite things. And then the words, the breath left her, as she finally looked into his eyes and saw the truth.

A moment later it was gone, and he bowed over her hand. “Your servant, Miss Lydia,” he murmured, and a moment later he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds.

She stood motionless, watching him until he disappeared, her heart hammering. It was no wonder she hadn't been able to read his thoughts, his feelings in his dark, shaded eyes. They were deeper, more powerful than she'd ever imagined. Too powerful to put into words. All she knew was she wanted to run after him, throwing caution, throwing everything to the
winds. He'd said she wasn't for the likes of him. She didn't care. She'd follow him anywhere, she'd…

“Miss Lydia?” Jacobs broke through her momentary dream, bringing her back to reality with a thud. “We need to finish the marketing and get back home. The doctor is due this afternoon, and he was going to take you to the park for a picnic.” He made it sound like an operation.

Etienne, she thought miserably. The man she was going to marry. The right man for her. If she learned to stop dreaming. “I think we need tripe,” she said. “Come along, Jacobs. You're right, we'd best hurry.”

She told herself to stop thinking about Mr. Reading's eyes, immediately. And she almost succeeded.

E
linor was sitting alone in the refurbished parlor, rereading a book of philosophy. There was a thick Persian carpet on the floor, heavy damask drapes covering the dreary windows, and the chair beneath her was sinfully comfortable. There was a good fire in the grate, the new table had fresh spring flowers, and the place no longer stank of poverty and death. It was pleasant, comfortable, even if she had to thank Rohan for it all.

She'd allowed Lydia to accompany Etienne on his rounds that afternoon, after her morning visit to the market. Lydia had returned, flushed and abstracted, retiring to the bedroom until the doctor arrived. By then she was her usual sweet, smiling self, the shadow gone from her eyes. Almost. What could have happened at the market, with Jacobs close by, that could have overset her?

It was probably her active imagination. She was so used to disaster that it was hard to believe that disaster had been averted. If things continued as they were,
Lydia would marry the doctor and bring Nanny Maude and Jacobs into their household. Elinor would even be willing to face the King of Hell in his den in order to make that possible.

And then she'd be blissfully, deliriously free. The thought was terrifying, intoxicating. One thing was certain—she wouldn't move in with her sister. She could already see the way Etienne's mind worked, and he would doubtless welcome another conscripted pair of hands, someone to work for the dubious charity of a bed and food.

She would find something, anything. She might travel back to England—surely there was something she could do. Her education had been sadly neglected—she was dismal at watercolors, her attempts on the pianoforte were painful for all and her knitting was disastrous. She could, however, translate Latin with dizzying speed, and presumably still ride a horse, if rumors were true and you never lost that particular skill.

At least her plain looks would be to her advantage if she were to apply for work as a governess. No woman wanted a pretty creature who might lure either the young gentlemen of the household or, even worse, the patriarch. Surely she could—

The knock on the door broke through these ruminations, and for a moment her stomach knotted in crazed hope, and she half rose from her chair, wanting to race to the door.

She sat back down, taking a deep, calming breath as Jacobs went to answer the summons, but she knew
immediately that the caller was a stranger. As expected, Viscount Rohan had forgotten her existence.

“Baron Tolliver to see you, Miss Elinor,” Jacobs announced in his most proper voice.

And Elinor rose, prepared to meet her long-lost cousin, and her last best hope for the future.

 

It was absolutely ridiculous that he was having such a damnably hard time putting Miss Elinor Harriman out of his mind, Rohan thought as he surveyed the decorations. The two-week celebration was usually the high point of the year, and his servants had been preparing for months. The curtains in the ballroom were hung with black, every bedroom and in fact, every flat surface, had been gone over, prepared for unparalleled lechery. Food was spilling from the kitchens, excitement was building, and a ceremony of induction had been meticulously planned. The members of the Heavenly Host were, in a fact, a relatively small, select number, but there had been a spate of recent requests to join them, and Rohan had been considering them. In particular, one name stood out, and he was more than mildly interested in how the gentleman in question would comport himself.

The newcomers were usually a greedy lot, unable to comprehend that everything was available for their pleasure. Do what thou wilt. Eat and drink and gamble with no limit. Partake of the pleasures of the flesh with any and all who were willing, and no variation was forbidden. He had one room devoted to the giving and receiving of pain, others for dedicated play. One of the
most popular was the chapel, where the members could mock the notion of the devil and the strictures of the church. He'd outgrown the silliness of spitting in the eye of God, but other, more devout souls found it the epitome of titillation.

In fact, he wasn't quite sure what he was looking forward to this time around. Pain had lost its appeal, costumes felt forced, and in truth, he could think of no one he wanted, no female who stirred his blood. He leaned back, lazily considering whether he had reached a point where those of his own sex held any allure, but after a moment he dismissed the notion reluctantly. He had no rules, and he could care less where his sexual drives took him. He only regretted that right now they were taking him nowhere but to a tumbledown house in Rue du Pélican.

Reading would tell him his mind was disordered. And in fact, he did so, almost nightly, when he accompanied Rohan home from a rout or a card party or some less savory entertainment.

Because, for some quixotic reason, his coach ride home invariably included a trip past the dark streets that housed the Harriman family.

Reading had the good sense not to ask him why he ordered his coachman to take that particular route, and Rohan didn't volunteer any reason. He knew full well that Reading was pining for the sister, poor fool, and refusing to admit it, and Rohan was perfectly happy to be assured that the wretched little household was safe for the night.

Every night Rohan told himself that this would
be the last time. If he was concerned, which he would deny to his last breath, he could always send a servant to check on her. She'd already made two champions—Willis had reported that there was an underfootman who was now devoted to her, and Willis was probably smitten as well. God knows Mrs. Clarke was going to have his ears if he hurt her. Strange how everyone was drawn to such a plain, difficult woman, but maybe that would make things easier for him. He could simply charge them all with the task of making certain she and her family were well and forget about her himself.

Indeed, that was exactly what he would do. No more trips out of his way. He would head directly home from wherever he chose to spend his evenings, and rely on a servant to keep him informed. Perhaps then he could stop thinking about her and concentrate on the Revels.

There would be new guests, freshly arrived from England and the rest of the continent. There would be proper aristocratic wives who finally discovered their husbands weren't meeting their needs, lower-class women of limited experience looking for a protector and the more comfortable way of life an alliance with the Host could bring. Fresh blood was always invigorating, and while he was looking forward to the approaching festivities with mild irritation and a great deal of boredom, who knows who might appear to distract him? Someone else equally…inspiring…would most likely appear.

This plain woman had done nothing but distract
him, irritate him, unwillingly enchant him since she'd appeared in the anteroom at the château, and if he had to choose between his unwanted obsession with her and boredom, he'd gladly choose ennui. After all, he was used to it.

He leaned forward in his chair, reaching for a glass of claret, and paused for a moment to admire the Mechlin lace that graced his strong wrist. He had a ridiculous fondness for his wardrobe, and the new cuffs had been particularly fine. At least she hadn't been around to destroy his clothes recently. And he wondered what Elinor Harriman would look like, stretched naked on his bed, wrapped in nothing but delicate white lace.

He drained the glass of wine and set it down carefully, resisting the impulse to fling it across the room. Much as he wanted to shatter something, break something, it would simply be more proof of how disordered his mind and his desires had become. Marianne would be in attendance this week, and after the last interruption at his château, he realized it had been quite some time since he'd been able to fully enjoy her. Surely she'd manage to distract him for a few good hours. She was an expert, graceful, practiced, intuitive as to what he did and didn't like.

So why was he suddenly desiring awkwardness? He should be concentrating on other, more important things. Like who had shot him? Was it his so-dear French heir, the disgruntled Etienne? Or someone else he'd managed to offend during his long, wicked life?

As Etienne had said, one had only to meet him in
order to want to kill him, though he did think that was a trifle harsh. There were any number of his acquaintances who would gladly sell their souls for him. Unfortunately he had no belief in the existence of any force willing to buy those souls.

At least there had been no more attempts on his life. Perhaps that had simply been a stray bullet, a random event. And perhaps he'd forget all about Elinor Harriman. Whether he believed in any kind of god, there was always the possibility of miracles.

 

The new Baron Tolliver was a handsome man. Despite the fact that he had the unmistakable Harriman Nose, it fit far better in a masculine face, Elinor decided. He had bright blue eyes, a full-lipped mouth, a strong body just above-average height and a pleasant smile.

“Miss Harriman,” he'd said, coming up to her and taking her hand. “I'm devastated that I was out of town when you sought to meet with me. Mr. Mitchum should have gotten word to me and I would have returned to Paris immediately.”

His gloved hand was firm and reassuring, and she blinked, momentarily distracted. “There was no need, my lord,” she lied. “I was simply hoping to discuss—”

“Oh, my dear cousin, and I hope I may call you cousin. And please, you must call me Marcus. We are, after all, distantly related.”

Elinor blinked, not expecting such forceful graciousness, and then she pulled herself together. Per
haps because of The Nose, he looked very much like her father, dispelling her distant hope that he might be an interloper. Not that that would have been to her advantage—the estate would presumably have gone on to an even more remote relative, or returned to the Crown.

“Cousin Marcus,” she said, sinking back into her chair. “You're very gracious. Please sit, sir. May I offer you tea? Perhaps something to eat?”

“You are more than kind,” he said, taking the seat opposite her with a flourish of his elegant coat. “Tea would be delightful. I am so pleased to see you living in such obvious comfort. I confess that when I reached the neighborhood I was sorely distressed that my cousins should have fallen upon such poverty, but I am relieved to see that things are not so dire. Tell me how I may assist you, cousin, and I will endeavor to do so.”

He had a warm, confiding smile, and she told herself to breathe a sigh of relief. “Mr. Mitchum mentioned that there was a small legacy left to me. I'm afraid our current circumstances aren't as comfortable as they might appear—we are living on the charity of a wealthy benefactor, and that help might disappear. I would prefer not to have to rely on others for our well-being, and I wondered what the nature of the legacy might be.” She chose her words carefully, determined not to sound greedy.

She hadn't been careful enough. “Wealthy benefactor?” he said, frowning. “And who might that be?”

The King of Hell. The most profligate man in France and probably England as well, the Lord of the
Heavenly Host. If she told him the truth, her cousin would walk away in disgust and horror.

“He prefers to remain anonymous,” she said. Astonishing how easy it was to lie when it was necessary. In truth, Viscount Rohan probably did prefer that people didn't know he was supplying them with both the necessities and the elegancies of life and so far had sought nothing in return. Their knowing would destroy his ruthless, soulless reputation.

“Ah,” said the newly minted baron. “I wish I could thank him myself for his kindness to my kinswomen. And may I ask where the rest of your family is? My lawyers inform me that your mother still lives, though she is quite ill.”

“Not for much longer. She's not conscious, but extremely agitated, and it might be for the best if you didn't see her.”

“Nonsense,” he said, having acquired a lordly manner in very little time. “I must pay my respects to the former baroness.” He rose, and Elinor rose as well, inwardly cursing him. She could throw herself in front of him in an effort to stall him, but in the end it would do her no good. So she simply nodded.

“Of course,” she said, resigned. “This way.”

It was scarcely a long walk in their cluttered little house, made worse by the comfortable furniture Lord Rohan had sent them. Her cousin made a muffled groan when he accidentally rammed his hip against the sideboard that held the exquisite glassware that had arrived four days ago. She moved ahead of him and pushed open the door of the sickroom, bracing herself.

They'd taken the restraints off Lady Caroline over a week ago, as her state of malaise seemed to deepen. Nanny Maude would coax a little chicken broth down her throat, and every now and then Caroline opened her eyes. Nanny was perched in the comfortable chair beside the bed, the chair thanks to Lord Rohan, as well as the warm, rich blankets that covered her mother's frail form.

“Nanny Maude, this is our cousin, the new Lord Tolliver. Cousin Marcus, this is Nanny Maude, who's been with us all our lives and takes excellent care of us.”

Nanny rose painfully, her dark eyes narrowed as she assessed the newcomer. “Good afternoon, my lord,” she said, managing a sketch of a curtsy. To the casual observer it was all right and proper, but Elinor had the strange sense that something wasn't right. Nanny was staring at him with an odd expression on her face.

He gave her a polite nod and moved to stand over Lady Caroline. To Elinor's amazement, her mother opened her eyes, focusing on the man in her room.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a voice that was little more than a croak. They were her first lucid words in more than a week.

“Your late husband's heir, Lady Caroline,” he said pleasantly. “Marcus Harriman.”

“Marcus, eh?” She struggled to sit up, and Nanny quickly moved to her side, trying to calm her, but the glint of madness was back in her eyes. “Come here. Closer.”