Ruthless (18 page)

She could make his life so miserable he'd be begging to send her away.

 

Two hours later Francis Rohan lay naked and stretched across his current lover's equally naked body. Juliette had always been inventive, and he'd found himself particularly inspired tonight. It was a great shame that he was imagining Elinor Harriman's body naked beneath, above, in front of his, but Juliette wouldn't mind as long as he gave her the mind-numbing pleasure she demanded. Indeed, even dear Juliette was worn out this evening, taken to her limit and beyond, until she had to beg him to stop.

It was troublesome, this fascination with his reluctant houseguest. A great deal too bad that it was bordering on obsession. His friends, if he could call them that, would be astonished.

He knew his reasons were simple. He was denying himself, when he usually took what he wanted like the rakehell he was. Normally Miss Harriman would be seduced and forgotten by now. But something had stayed his hand. Perhaps it was her calm, pragmatic air, or the curiously vulnerable streak that broke forth occasionally. There was no denying that he was enjoying himself, enjoying the wanting, enjoying spending that need on others while the ultimate prize awaited. Unless he came to his senses before he actually managed to bed her.

He had no idea whether that was going to happen or not. He'd never gone through anything like this, so he had nothing to compare it with. All he knew was
he hadn't felt more alive in years, perhaps decades. He couldn't remember.

He slipped out of bed, away from Juliette, and frowned for a moment. He was totally unacquainted with guilt or regret—they were the emotions of fools. Nevertheless, as pleasantly exhausted as he was, there was the oddest sense that he'd done something wrong.

Nonsense. Do what thou wilt. He'd wanted a female, quite badly, and Juliette was more than available. Life was too short to stint on pleasures, and if Elinor Harriman started interfering then he'd simply have to ship her back to England where she belonged. He wasn't about to let anyone or anything interfere with who and what he was.

Juliette stirred, whimpering slightly as she moved, and she could thank him for that. Would he really consider making Elinor submit to the deliciously perverse things he sometimes fancied? Perhaps he wanted to make love to her chastely, like a careful bridegroom.

He was nobody's bridegroom. He'd have her on her knees in front of him, taking him in her mouth. He'd have her every way he could, and then think of new ways to try it. The Heavenly Host was keeping a chapbook of positions and variations, often named after the lady first willing to attempt them. Perhaps ten years from now he'd open the book and be reminded of the Harriman.

There was something displeasing about that, though he wasn't going to brood about it. There were no rules in the Host, but the generous sharing of
partners was expected. He rather thought he'd skip that with the enchanting Miss Harriman.

When he was done with her he'd probably send her back to England, along with her sister. He knew very little about her cousin, but there would be some way to pass along a comfortable stipend without anyone knowing and becoming offended. There was something rather delectable about a starched-up creature like Elinor actually being a kept woman.

Juliette moved again, and her eyes flew open. She looked at him in the candlelight, and she smiled slowly, holding out her hand.

He moved back to the bed.

“I
don't understand,” Lydia said, staring at her sister in dismay. “Why in the world should I go into the country while you stay here?”

Elinor looked uncharacteristically nervous. Lydia's darling older sister held the fond belief that Lydia couldn't tell when she was prevaricating, as she was now. “I told you, dearest, I'm helping his lordship with his library. Actually he's been very kind,” she said, and Lydia said nothing. “He needs someone with a knowledge of Latin who can write a good hand, and that's one thing I can do. He's been given a score of very valuable old texts, some more than a hundred years old, and he needs someone to ascertain what they're about and make a record of them.”

“He doesn't know Latin?” Every young man of quality had endless years of Latin drummed into him, and despite Lord Rohan's dissipated character, he still struck Lydia as someone conversant with the classics.

“Of course he does,” Elinor replied. “He simply
doesn't have time to do the work. He has a very busy social calendar…”

“Indeed,” Lydia said with an unbecoming snort. “Everyone in Paris knows about his social calendar.”

“You know how people gossip, Lydia,” Elinor said, trying to sound reasonable and failing. “I doubt his parties are any worse than what goes on at Versailles. People love to make up stories and spread rumors, the more vile the better.”

“I thought you arrived in the midst of one of his notorious parties,” she pointed out. Why in heaven's name was her sister suddenly changing her severe disapproval of the man? Was it possible that she was beginning to see what her baby sister had known all along? That her sister, her practical, unromantic older sister, was drawn to the beautiful and dangerous Viscount Rohan?

“I did,” Eleanor said stoutly. “And I didn't see anything untoward. Surely you don't still think that Lord Rohan has any feelings for me? He can have any female in Paris, up to and possibly including the queen. He finds me entertaining, nothing more.”

Lydia surveyed her sister. She was wearing a gray gown that fit her slender figure beautifully, exposing more of her chest than Elinor usually allowed. She'd tucked a fichu around her shoulders in an effort to hide herself, but it was a failure. With her rich dark hair flowing down her back, her brown eyes nervous, her lips red, color in her cheeks, she looked absolutely lovely, and Lord Rohan was connoisseur enough to recognize it. “You are naive,” Lydia said severely.
“For all that you're older than I am, in many ways you're much more innocent. I don't want any man taking advantage of you.”

Elinor's smile was forced. “I think that's unlikely to happen. I swear to you that he has no interest in me apart from my mind,” she said flatly, and her words had the ring of truth.

Lydia recognized it. Or at least that Elinor believed it. “Then he's a blind fool.”

Elinor laughed. “Darling, you're more than a bit partial. Look at it this way, it's to my advantage to be plain. It enables me to work for his lordship without running the danger of any importune advances. I never thought I would come to bless the Harriman Nose.”

“
Blast
the Harriman Nose,” Lydia said crossly. “You're not plain and you never have been. Just look at yourself in the mirror.”

“You're a true sister,” Elinor said, clearly not believing a word. “You'll love Mrs. Clarke—she's kind and welcoming. And after Easter I'll come and get you and we'll go home to England. We'll find a nice, small cottage. It might be on Father's land, perhaps in a village, perhaps just outside of one. We'll have a garden and we'll grow peas and lettuce, and we'll raise chickens. And maybe ducks.”

It was a fairy tale, Lydia thought, but she wasn't going to point that out to her sister. “I love ducks.”

“But no geese. They bite.”

“What about swans?”

“That depends whether we're on water. It would
be nice to be near a river or a pond or something,” Elinor said.

“Since we're making this up out of whole cloth, let's simply decide we'll have water,” Lydia said. “I say a stream leading into a pond, where we can have swans and ducks and absolutely no geese, and we'll live very happily, two old-maid sisters. I do think we should have cats, a great many of them. They won't go after the ducks, will they?”

“We'll have cats that are afraid of ducks,” Elinor said. “But I'm not certain how long we'll get to be two old maids together. You're sure to get married.”

“Not if I don't want to,” she said firmly. “And I suspect I'm not going to. I've always been stubborn, you know, and faithful in my affections. Once given, I don't change my mind.”

“The trick to that, darling, is don't give your affections,” Elinor said lightly. “Just wait until we arrive home and you catch the eye of some dashing gentleman with comfortable means. I'm going to want nieces and nephews, you know.”

“I'm afraid it's too late, love,” Lydia said. She quickly changed the subject before Elinor could respond. “I'll agree to go to the country if that's what you wish. A little seclusion would probably be good for me. As long as you absolutely swear to me that you aren't staying behind to be a…a…” Words failed her.

“Fallen woman?” Elinor suggested helpfully. “Courtesan? Lady of the night? Don't be ridiculous, child. Do I look like a light-'o-love?”

“You look very beautiful,” Lydia said truthfully. “I don't want you staying behind to be hurt.”

Elinor had deep reserves of calm good sense, and a remarkable ability to weather crushing blows. She smiled at her sister. “I'll be fine, you little goose,” she said with a laugh. “When have I lied to you?”

Lydia just looked at her. “More often than I suspect.” She didn't want to leave Elinor. She didn't want to go out to the countryside, far away from the temptation of Charles Reading. Not that he was any danger—though he'd held her so tenderly the night of the fire she hadn't seen him since, and she doubted she would. Going out of town would ensure that, doubtless one of her sister's reasons for encouraging it.

Elinor was still looking at her, anxiety beneath her calm exterior, and guilt swamped Lydia. “I'll go,” she said, and Elinor's relieved smile was reward enough.

As long as her strange, irrational faith in Lord Rohan wasn't misplaced. He wouldn't hurt Elinor. He wouldn't dare.

If he did, he'd have Lydia to deal with, and she would ensure that he was very, very sorry.

 

Elinor slept late the next day, waking with a guilty feeling. She dressed quickly, not waiting for Jeanne-Louise to assist her, and started out her bedroom door only to run into the oversize footman from last night. Before she could say a word he'd scooped her up. “His lordship said I was to transport you, mademoiselle.”

“I'm entirely capable of walking on my own,” she said. She refrained from squirming for the sake of the
poor footman, who was pink from either embarrassment or exertion.

“I have my orders, mademoiselle. His lordship bade me carry you and I will do just that. If you please, mademoiselle.” There was just the faintest note of pleading in his voice, and Elinor took pity on him. Disobeying Rohan was not something to be done lightly.

“I want to see my sister.”

The footman looked even more uncomfortable, as if he was struggling with something a great deal more weighty than her not inconsiderable body. And then he nodded, starting off.

“You're going in the wrong direction,” she said.

He nodded again, signifying God knew what, and Elinor took pity on him. Lydia must be waiting for her elsewhere.

The vastness of the house once again startled her, as they seemed to tread through miles of halls, many of them decorated with black cloth. It was a good thing she wasn't walking herself—she'd doubtless get totally lost. Once Lydia left, Elinor had every intention of staying in her room. With luck Rohan would be so distracted by the lascivious temptations of the Revels that he wouldn't remember she was there.

Except she recognized the last hallway they turned into—she'd been there before, two weeks ago, when she'd confronted him in a righteous fury. “I don't think my sister is in Lord Rohan's bedroom,” she said, beginning to struggle. “At least, she'd best not be.”

The footman ignored her, knocking gently on the
door without losing his grip on her, and then pushing the door open.

Rohan stood there, still in shirtsleeves and small clothes, as two valets dressed him. He glanced at her, unmoved. “My dear Elinor. What a delightful surprise. What brings you here?”

“Your so-helpful footman,” she said in a tart voice. “And I didn't give you leave to call me by my name.”

“I thought you might prefer it to endearments,” he purred. “But if you want me to use more intimate terms…”

“You may use my first name,” she said hastily, just imaging the terms he could come up with. “I asked the footman to take me to my sister. He brought me here. If Lydia is anywhere around your bedroom, I'll cut your liver out.”

He blinked. “What a delightfully bloodthirsty image, Elinor. Would you then eat it? I didn't know you had such a violent streak.”

“I do where my sister is concerned.”

“Your sister is safe,” he said. “You may set her down, Antoine. I would suggest the bed but she would fight you. The green chair should suffice.”

She found herself settled gently into one of his chairs, and she jumped back up immediately.

“Someone restrain her,” Rohan said in an unconcerned voice. “Without hurting her,” he added, and the footmen took her arms and forced her back in the chair, careful not to be too rough. She sat back, knowing when a battle could not be won.

“Where is my sister?”

“Where I promised she should be,” he said as the two valets helped him into the rich satin coat that fit him perfectly. “She should be arriving at the château by now, and Mrs. Clarke will welcome her by taking her to her bosom. She'll thrive in the good country air, and by the time the Revels have concluded she'll be delighted to rejoin you and return to England.”

“Why didn't you let me say goodbye to her?”

He smiled thinly. “Dare I say I didn't trust you? I gather you were very delicate when you first told her what the future held, but you have a ridiculously tender heart beneath that calm mien, and I think your sister's tears would have broken through that admirable self-control.”

“She was crying?” Elinor picked up the salient point.

“Of course she was. She just lost her mother and her old nanny, not to mention whatever meager possessions she still had, and her sister, the person she thought she could count on, has abandoned her.”

Elinor clenched her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. “Why would she think I've abandoned her?”

“My dear Elinor, do you really think she believed that ridiculous story you told her about becoming my amanuensis? Yes, I made certain someone was listening and reported to me—no, don't jump up again. You should have realized I would do that. It's wise not to underestimate me.”

She did her best to hide her bitterness. “Indeed, I shall endeavor not to.”

He turned away to survey himself in the mirror. Clearly the vision met with his approval. “Your sister is much smarter than you give her credit for,” he murmured. “Right now her imagination is running riot, coming up with all sorts of wicked things you might be getting into. You'll have to write her and set her mind at ease. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Clarke will manage to make her feel better—she could cheer up Satan himself.”

“She cheers you up?”

He laughed softly. “Oh, no, my precious. I'm not Satan. Merely one of his fallen angels.” He waved away the offer of a wig, letting his luxurious silver-streaked black hair be tied in a neat queue. He held out his hands and his servants slid rings onto his long, elegant fingers, then he cocked his head, looking at her. “In truth, I'm glad you came in search of me. I had some questions for…”

“I didn't come in search of you,” she snapped. “I would be happy if I never saw you again. I was looking for my sister. Since she is no longer here I will repair to my room, on my own two feet. You may call off your footman.”

“Once I ascertain that your feet have healed, certainly,” he murmured. “Do you want me to undo your bandages or would you prefer to handle the honors yourself?”

She immediately tucked her feet under her voluminous skirts. “Don't be ridiculous.”

“I've already seen your bare feet, poppet,” he pointed out, the soul of reason. “And quite delightful
they are. But I can assure you that unlike the Chevalier du Corvalle I find other parts of the body to be far more stimulating. Although you do have exquisite arches.”

She looked at him with clear dislike. “I should have known better than to have trusted you. We made a bargain and you cheated.”

“I would call a man out for saying such a thing.” His voice was silken. “Do not trespass on my good nature.”

“You're not going to call me out. Indeed, I would be happy if you did. Shooting a gun couldn't be that difficult, and I would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you.”

“I think I liked the cutting out of my liver a bit better, child,” he said critically. “Firearms are so tediously impersonal. Not to mention loud.”

She glared at him. She had been determined to keep her face and voice calm—she'd certainly had years of practice. During their slow descent into the lower echelons of Paris society she'd managed to convince her sister and indeed, the entire household, that things were not as dire as they seemed. She could lie quite handily, hide her fear and other roiling emotions. And yet Lord Rohan seemed to knock them down as swiftly as she erected them. “You truly are a despicable man, aren't you?” she said, no longer mincing words.