Ruthless (17 page)

Lydia looked around her. “If this is hell, it's quite cozy,” she said. “Where are you sleeping? I asked for you, but no one would give me a clear answer.”

“This house is massive—I'm on another floor and in another wing. I'm certain they'll have no objection to my joining you here.” She was certain of no such thing. She was certain of nothing at the moment, and the lack of control was making her mad.

She prepared to rise, dreading the pain. “I'll go speak to our host. Perhaps he's already made arrangements—he could hardly want two properly brought-up young females in his household when he's about to commence on a…” She let her voice trail off.

“About to commence what?”

“Something neither of us need to know about.”

“You know, for the King of Hell he's quite charming.”

“No,” she said flatly.

“No, what? I've told you, he has absolutely no interest in me. I'm not naive. I know when someone has lustful thoughts about me. Lord Rohan treats me like his sister.”

Now it was ice forming in the pit of her stomach, freezing away the panic. “How many times have you seen him?”

“Just twice, dearest. Once at the house, and then this morning. He told me about Nanny and he was very kind.”

“Ha,” Elinor said. “The King of Hell doesn't know what kindness means. He was doubtless being ironic.”

“Perhaps he was. You certainly seem to know him better. All I know is he calmed me down, expressed his sympathy and made certain I was well taken care of.”

“He's good at that,” Elinor grumbled.

Lydia said nothing, looking at her sister for a long moment. “You might consider looking at the truth,” she said.

“What truth?” Elinor said, alarmed.

“You are far from uninterested in the man. If I didn't know you so well I would say you've fallen in love with the King of Hell. But that's impossible. You're much too levelheaded, when such a thing would lead to disaster.” She peered more closely at her sister. “Aren't you?”

“Absolutely,” Elinor said truthfully. “The very notion horrifies me. He's a man who likes to play games, and on occasion his malicious interest alights on me. Particularly since I do my best not to let him win. But trust me, there is nothing I would like better than to get as far away from him as I possibly could.”

“Indeed,” Lydia said, watching her. And then she shook her head. “I believe you. He's a fascinating man, but you're not interested in fascinating men, are you? You want someone strong and stable. I'll give you Etienne,” she offered.

Elinor laughed. “In fact, he was sent for me in the first place. Rohan thought I should be married. But Etienne took one look at you and forgot Rohan's games.”

“He was trying to arrange a marriage for you? But why?”

She wasn't going to tell her sister the truth, particularly when truth was a subjective matter in the House of Rohan. “If I were comfortably married, he would no longer have to waste his time on charity.”

“But he doesn't have to now. We have no claim on him. And do not tell me that the founder of the notorious Heavenly Host is a charitable man. I suspect he has a reason for everything he does.”

Elinor rose to her feet, refusing to wince. The only way to avoid this turn of conversation was to leave. Besides, she was going to have to face Rohan sooner or later. She might as well get it over with.

“If he has any reasons, I doubt he'll share them, my love. I'll go speak to him. I'm certain that at the very least I can have my room moved closer to yours.”

“That would be a comfort.” Lydia rose as well, pressing a kiss on Elinor's cheek. “Don't worry about facing him. You're more than a match for the most devilish of gentlemen.”

Elinor managed a calm smile. She opened the door and stepped out into the cool hallway, to see her maid waiting. Accompanied by an immense footman—taller and broader than anyone she'd ever seen.

“Are you ready, mademoiselle?” he said.

“Ready for what?”

“To return to your rooms,” Jeanne-Louise said.

“Yes, but—”

The footman swooped her up effortlessly, holding her with such easy strength that it almost felt as if she were floating.

“His lordship said you weren't to walk. Antoine is very strong,” Jeanne-Louise said, moving down the hall beside them.

It was an extremely odd sensation. “This is unnecessary…” she began.

“His lordship has insisted,” Jeanne-Louise said, as if that was the end of the matter.

Elinor bit her lip in frustration. “I would like to be closer to my sister. If you could move my things…” She suddenly remembered she had no things, other than what he'd provided. “If I could be moved…”

“That isn't up to me, mademoiselle. You'll need to speak to his lordship about that.”

“Then perhaps you could take me to him.”

Jeanne-Louise shook her head. “He is having a dinner party and is not to be disturbed. I will leave a message that you wish to see him, but I doubt it will be before tomorrow. There are women at the party.”

“Of course there are,” Elinor said, remembering the woman stretched out across his arms when he first saw her, that woman's breasts exposed to the night air. Since then she'd only seen Rohan on his best behavior, assuming the guise of a perfect gentleman. She couldn't forget the real Viscount Rohan, the strange and terrible man who directed the most depraved behavior imaginable.

T
he hulking footman set her down on the brocade-covered settee in the salon that led from her bedroom, treating her like precious crystal. “Does mademoiselle require any other assistance?” he asked.

“No, she does not,” Jeanne-Louise said, leaving Elinor with the impression that she wasn't simply a chambermaid, she was a prison guard. It didn't matter. As long as she knew Lydia was safe, she was content, at least for the time being.

And as far as prison guards went, Jeanne-Louise was very kind. She bathed and rebandaged Elinor's feet. Blood had soaked into her old bandages, and she dreaded to see the damage, but already the cuts and burns had begun to heal. “You need to stay off your feet,” Jeanne-Louise said severely.

The room was brightly lit with candles—night had fallen sometime during her visit with Lydia, and for the first time she looked in the mirror. And then froze.

She'd known her dark brown hair was loose down her back. She hadn't realized how very pretty it was,
or how flattering the clothes Rohan had provided for her. For them. It was unsettling.

She rejected the offer to put on one of the frocks in the closet, all rich, elegant gowns in demimourning. She had no doubt they would fit her, just as Lydia's dress had been perfect. Rohan had almost supernatural powers when it came to getting what he wanted. Instead, she bathed and changed into a fresh nightgown. They were all thin cambric, and she wore the combing robe over it to hide anything that shouldn't be seen. Combing robes tended to be cumbersome, made to be worn while one's hair was arranged, but Elinor didn't care. She'd wrap herself in a blanket if that wasn't enough coverage.

Dinner was brought to her on three trays—an impossibly rich assortment of foods, from roasted squab to salmon à l'anglaise, well-cooked mutton to a fine puree of turnips. More than she could possibly eat, and it wasn't until she got to the final tray that she saw the small plate of toast strips. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She wasn't hungry. She ate half the toast strips and drank the tea, sending the rest back. Every time she thought of her mother and Nanny Maude her stomach would clench, and she'd want to throw up. Anything to get rid of the helpless pain she was feeling. Even Jeanne-Louise's blandishments couldn't get her to try anything more.

There were books there as well, and for the first time since she'd seen Lydia she felt a glimmering of pleasure. He'd given her a fair assortment, but she
picked up the novel first. She wanted dark, Gothic delights rather than philosophy at that moment, and she curled up in bed, reading with pleasure.

When she awoke, her room was pitch-black except for the coals on the fire. She rolled over on her back in the huge, soft bed, luxuriating in the richness of the covers and the way it cradled her. She glanced over at the windows, wondering what time it was, but the small amount of light that came in was clearly from the streetlamps. She reckoned it was somewhere between dawn and dusk, but she had no idea which was closer.

He moved out of the shadows, like the dark creature he was, and Elinor didn't have time to scream. For a moment it had seemed like an illusion, but then she realized he'd simply been waiting for her. For how long? she wondered.

“You wished to see me, poppet?” he inquired in his silken voice.

She cleared her throat. “I thought you had guests for dinner.”

“It's well past dinnertime—I sent the rest of them home.”

“All of them?”

“What are you asking, my precious? Reading is still here, but have faith—he's miles away from your darling sister. The rest have gone.” He paused. “Except for Madame de Tourville, who lies naked in my bed, awaiting me. What is it you need?”

It was a vast relief that he'd forgotten about her, she told herself. Even as it shut off one avenue of escape,
an unacceptable one, it was all for the best that he no longer seemed interested in her but had Madame de Tourville instead. “I didn't wish to disturb your entertainment, my lord. It could have waited until morning.”

His smile flashed white in the darkness. “My pet, you are never a disturbance. Simply tell me what you want and it shall be yours.”

“For one, I wish to be nearer my sister.”

“Alas, I'm afraid that is quite impossible. The rooms in the south wing are being renovated—your sister resides in the only room completed.”

“She can certainly come and sleep with me here, then. There's plenty of room.”

“Indeed, but there are problems with that,” he said softly.

“And those are?”

“Lent is approaching, and it's carnival time. I'm afraid the Heavenly Host is particularly perverse when it comes to such occasions. Instead of feasting and rioting the weeks before Lent like most good Christians, we tend to choose the time of fasting and repentance for our time to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh. Gluttony, lust, sloth, all some of our favorite activities. I would think you'd prefer your sister not be near while such things are going on.”

“I could stay with her.”

“Her room is too small. Besides, that wouldn't suit me.”

She froze. “Why not?”

“Because I wish to have you closer, my pet. I've
told you before, your sister doesn't interest me. You do. Unfortunately for you, I thought I might hold her hostage.”

For a moment Elinor was unable to breathe. “Hostage for what?” she finally said evenly. “You know we have no money.”

“Hostage for your good behavior. Or your bad behavior, if you want to be specific. As long as you do what I wish, your sister will be safe and protected like the beautiful English virgin she is.”

She felt hot and cold at the same time. She couldn't see him clearly—the shadows seemed to flow around him. “Permit me to clarify this, Lord Rohan,” she said in her most practical voice. “My sister will be safe and well cared for if I get in your bed?”

He laughed. “Acquit me of being quite so gauche, child. I have innumerable women to satisfy my carnal urges.”

The ice vanished and she was hot, hot with shame. Of course he didn't want her. How foolish could she be? “Then what do you want from me?” Her voice showed nothing of her raging inner torment.

“You manage to keep me from being bored. That's far more valuable than what's between your legs.”

She made a hissing sound at his deliberately shocking words, and once more she could see his smile. “You see,” he said, “that's just the sort of thing I find so enchanting.”

“You could find any young lady to shock, my lord.”

“But you're not missish. You're not even a virgin. You're quite an original, my dear Elinor. A prim-and-
proper, starched-up young woman of impeccable morals who nonetheless has already relinquished her maidenhood. I'm counting on you to tell me all about it.”

“Over my dead body.”

“No, my sweet. Over your sister's virginity.”

She stared at him through the shadows. “You wouldn't! Even you aren't that depraved.”

“Oh, precious, I am absolutely that depraved, and more. But in fact I would give the task of deflowering the fair Lydia to Charles Reading, who seems to be oddly enamored of your sister.”

She couldn't help it, the tiny sound of distress that bubbled up from inside her.

“I beg your pardon, my precious? Did you say something?” he said with exquisite courtesy. She didn't—couldn't—answer, and he continued smoothly. “Unfortunately, Charles seems infatuated with your sister, though he denies it. It can go nowhere. He needs to marry a rich woman, and your sister won't do, and he knows it. He's got a disturbing streak of decency, but I know he won't be able to resist if I offer her. I'm afraid she'll be ruined.”

“I'll warn Lydia. She's no fool.”

“Indeed, she's smarter and more resilient than I gave her credit for. But you won't warn her. You won't be going anywhere near her until we come to an agreement.” There was a sudden flare of light as he lit a taper, and she could see his face then, beautiful, brutal, a fallen angel reigning in hell.

“I have a cousin—” she began.

“Marcus Harriman will be of no use to you. My lawyers will ensure it.”

Ice again. Her only recourse was not to show it. “Indeed?” she said coolly. “Then pray tell, what are your terms? What kind of agreement do you wish to come to?”

“You should be glad, my precious. I'm being quite reasonable and almost gentlemanly.” He waited a moment as she laughed in disbelief. “I have no designs upon your so-lovely body. It's your mind I want. Now, any wise person would understand that that's a much greater sacrifice, but women tend to be valued for their cunts, and as long as I leave that alone you won't be totally ruined.”

“Your language is foul.”

“I'm foul, darling. Haven't you discovered that yet? But as long as you willingly keep me company your sister will be safe.”

“For how long?”

He appeared struck. “I hadn't thought of that,” he said. “Clearly you are used to haggling in the marketplace—I salute you. How long?” He tapped his long white fingers against his chin. “In truth, I can't imagine growing tired of you, but I'm bound to, sooner rather than later. And I'm a fair man…don't scoff, precious…I should pick a reasonable amount of time. Shall we say until the end of Easter? It has a certain lovely symbolism. At the time your God has risen from the dead you get to go free.”

“Not my God,” she snapped.

“You continue to amaze me,” he said. “Consider
this—your sister will join Mrs. Clarke at the château, where she will be well looked-after. You will stay here with me on some pretext. You're a more experienced liar than I am—I don't usually have to bother. You'll come up with something. You keep me company during Lent and the Revels of the Heavenly Host and come Easter morn you get to rise from the dead and start a new life. With a generous stipend from me to ensure that life is prosperous. How does that sound?”

“Blasphemy is far from attractive.”

“I thought he wasn't your God?” he murmured. “And I'm not particularly worried about you finding me attractive, pet.”

“Because you have no designs on my body,” Elinor supplied.

“No, sweetness. Because you're already completely fascinated by me, and nothing's going to change that. It doesn't matter what I say or do. You're trapped, like a sweet little moth in a spider web.”

“You may find you're mistaken, my lord. You may have a wasp in your web.”

“Oh, I do hope so, child,” Rohan said, rising. He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness again. “I'll have the agreement drawn up for your signature tomorrow morning.”

“Drawn up? You expect me to sign something?”

“But of course. That way, if you renege I have merely to show the contract to a few influential people to destroy you completely.”

She looked at the shadowy form in the darkness.
“I'm not sure there's much difference between my current position and total destruction.”

“Your sister is the difference, my pet. Do we have an agreement?”

She wanted to scream at him, rage at him, beat at him with her fists. She did nothing. Later, when she was alone, in the darkness of her bedroom where no one would see or hear, she would give in to grief and rage. For now she would show him none of it. “We do. Now may I sleep? I find I'm quite fatigued.” She even managed a creditable yawn.

“Indeed. Madame is waiting for me and she tends to be quite insatiable. I can only hope that I have not stayed away so long that three men have taken my place.”

“Why three?”

“Darling, it takes that many to replace my skills.”

To her astonishment she felt a brief caress against her face. An impossibility, because he'd already gone. With shaking hands she lit the candle beside her bed. To scare away the shadows, perhaps. She peered through the darkness, but she was alone.

Elinor slipped out of bed, cursing at the pain in her feet. She'd forgotten about it, but in truth, it was already improving. She limped over to the salon, but there was no sign of him. There were two doors leading into her room—she went to the first to lock it and found it was already bolted from the inside. She hobbled across the room to the second door, the one that led to the dressing room, to find that it, too, was locked from the inside. How had he managed to get in, to materialize through locked doors?

It didn't matter—he wasn't going to do it again. She dragged one chair and shoved it under the door handle, then took another chair and tucked it under the other. No one would get past her barricade. She went to the windows. The heavy snow had almost stopped, with only gentle flakes still drifting down, and she could see the rooftops of the building quite well. If need be she could go out that way. She wasn't going to stay trapped in this room if he chose to disturb her again…

But she was fooling herself. She had nothing to run from. As long as she agreed to his rules Lydia would be safe and she herself would simply suffer the annoyance of his company. Not the insult of his physical attentions.

So why did it feel as if his lack of interest was the true insult? Where did she get these sudden silly ideas, that she might be desired, wanted?

She'd gotten them from him. Part of the games he played, the games she would have to endure for the next six weeks if she remembered her liturgical calendar correctly. But nowhere in his rules did it say she couldn't fight back. He could play his games all he wanted—that didn't mean he was going to win.

She limped back to bed, taking a look at the bandages on her feet before she blew out the candle. No fresh blood seeping through—they really were improving. Before long she'd be able to walk. To run. To dance rings around Francis Rohan, who foolishly thought he'd have everything his way. She wouldn't let him win. She would ensure that he sent Lydia away to the country where she'd be safe, and then she'd start in on him.