Ruthless (21 page)

“Because I don't want one of them, my sweet. I want you.”

She made a low noise that was deliciously close to a snarl. “No, you do not.”

He still had possession of her hand. Before she had any idea what he planned he picked it up and placed it on his lamentably hard cock. She tried to yank it away, but he bore her hand down, giving her no choice.

“That's not the member of a man who doesn't want you, pet.”

For a moment she ceased her struggles, and her eyes met his. It was a moment of rare intimacy, something he usually avoided. It was part of the piquant danger of her, and she froze, staring at him, her breath coming in short, rapid pants.

“Hold very still,” he said in a soft voice.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I am going to kiss you, just once, and then I'll leave you be for…oh, perhaps a few hours. If you move around too much I might be inspired to move beyond a simple kiss, and that—”

His drawling words were silenced by her mouth against his. It was the first kiss she'd initiated, and it was clumsy, endearingly so, her soft lips against his, not quite on the mark. His cock jerked in her hand and she jumped away from him, startled. “Now go away,” she said. “You promised.”

He smiled thinly. “I wasn't aware that it was exactly a promise, but that's enough for now. Perhaps next time you'll tell me the truth about your deflowering.”

She met his limpid gaze defiantly. “And why should I?”

“Because I want to know. And I always get what I want, my sweet.” He leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss against her mouth, clinging for a moment, then removed her hand from between his legs and rose. “
À bientôt.
We'll continue this on the morrow.”

She stared up at him, and her lowered eyelids hid
her expression. “Perhaps tomorrow your conscience or your sanity will have returned and you will arrange for me to join my sister.”

“My conscience has been lost to the fires of hell for lo these many years.”

“And your sanity?”

“I am,” he said, “quite mad about you, poppet. And I doubt anything will change that until I finally have you. But you needn't worry I'll force anything. The chase is as delicious as the capture.”

He set her hand down, oh so gently, and strolled to the door, unlocking it and pocketing the key. “Good night, my dear.”

She had been reading when he first disturbed her. She threw her book at him, a charming display of temper. He blew her a kiss, and disappeared into the hallway, a smile still lingering on his usually cool face.

F
rancis Rohan mounted the dais in the grand ballroom, slowly, surveying his assembled guests. He could recognize most of them. There were a number of new members to be welcomed into their hallowed halls, and he'd long ago lost interest in vetting them. Rolande was in charge of such things, and the newcomers were lined up, dressed like monks, with the ropes around their waists tied to each other. They alternated male and female, conveniently, though he doubted it would remain that way for long. He would sit in his chair and try to keep from drumming his fingers beneath the flowing lace cuffs, and watch while they went through their silly rituals, drinking from the sacred cup, a tacky piece of glass that was shaped like a phallus. He wasn't quite sure what Rolande had planned next and he didn't particularly care, as long as he wasn't required to watch. He would stay long enough for his guests to scatter to their various pastimes and then he would visit his unwilling guest for more interesting sport.

There was only one thing that caught his attention. Marcus Harriman, Baron Tolliver, appeared to be missing. He was supposed to be one of the new members. Apparently he'd been a guest out at Château de Giverney during their last festivities, and acquitted himself well. And yet he'd suddenly chosen not to partake of the legendary pleasures of the Spring Revels? It didn't fit with what Rolande had said.

Still, he wasn't going to worry. Elinor had only met him once, and there'd been no offer of help forthcoming. If he felt any responsibility as head of the decimated Harriman family he appeared to have forgotten it, or doubtless he would have demanded that Elinor remove herself from his lustful clutches.

Except that Lord Tolliver had just as much interest in lust as he had. Perhaps more. All Rohan's lustful feelings went in one direction and one alone. According to reports, Tolliver was more generous.

All this—
frolicking,
hadn't Elinor called it?—would be going on for two weeks. The thought wearied him. At least he wouldn't have to make an appearance more than once a day, to proclaim the motto and begin the Revels. He did so now, rising, his cloth-of-gold coat magnificent in the candlelight.

“Fais ce que tu voudras,”
he pronounced the ancient words. “Do what thou wilt.” The resounding cheer made the candles waver, and he smiled faintly.

And then he turned around and left, as the adjoining doors were opened, and the festivities began.

Charles Reading was in the library, sitting cross-wise on one of the leather chairs, his booted foot
swinging, a glass of claret in his hand. “You didn't stay?” he inquired idly.

“As you see. You didn't attend?”

“As you see,” Reading replied evenly. “Are we getting old, Francis?”

“My boy, you're a child compared to me,” he protested.

“Oh, give o'er, Francis!” he said in a lazy voice. “I'm eight years younger—scarcely a child. I wonder why you like to fancy yourself older and wiser than anyone else. His grace the Duke of Leicester is in attendance tonight, and I believe the old gentleman turned eighty.”

“I gather his main pleasure at that advanced age is to simply watch,” Francis said, pouring himself a glass.

“Nothing wrong with that.”

“Then why aren't you there, watching? It might keep your mind off other things.”

Charles sent him a dangerous look. “Other things such as what?”

“Such as your pathetic affection for Elinor's sister.”

“Elinor, is it? I hadn't realized the two of you had become so…intimate,” he said with just the touch of a sneer.

Rohan refused to be offended. “I'm enjoying the approach to the summit, my dear. Once reached I imagine I'll quickly lose interest, so I'm putting it off as long as possible. And you? I trust someone a bit more…approachable has caught your eye?”

“No.”

“No?” Rohan echoed in mock horror. “My dear boy, you are ill. ‘Tell me no more of constancy, that frivolous pretense.'”

“You know nothing about it,” Reading said in a less than equable voice.

“Faith, I'm ‘as constant as a northern star,'” Rohan quoted back cheerfully. “For ‘there is nothing as constant as inconstancy.'”

“I'm not in the mood to swap poets with you, Francis,” Charles said.

“My dear, that voice could almost be called surly. Perhaps you should ride to Château de Giverney and give in to temptation,” he suggested.

“And be her ruination?”

“When has our kind ever cared about such things?
Fais ce que tu voudras,
child. Do what thou wilt. She won't object, I promise you.”

Reading swung his head around, gimlet-eyed. “What do you mean by that?”

“Are you going to call me out, Charles? I meant nothing but that the poor chit is enamored of you, and if you choose, you could take advantage of that fact.”

“No,” he said shortly. “Let us talk of other things.”

“Certainly. Do what thou wilt,” he said mischievously. “Did I just hear you growl?”

“I went and looked around the street where you were shot,” he said grimly, changing the subject. “And we will resist discussing whether I wish the bullet had come a little closer. You are damn irritating at times, Francis.”

“It's part of my charm.”

“I could see no way the shooting could have been an accident. It would have been a tricky shot to make, and I wonder at anyone even attempting it. It could have just as easily hit whoever else rode in the carriage with you, and it was woefully inadequate.”

“Woefully so,” Rohan echoed lightly.

“So who would most like to kill you?”

“Apart from you at this particular moment? The two men who covet my titles come to mind. My dear French cousin Etienne would be delighted to see me dead. He'd come into the title, the estates, and he'd no longer have to sully his hands with common people. He really is the most insufferable snob. He thinks the canaille are subhuman, made only to serve him.”

“Don't we all?”

“Oh, heavens, don't tell me you're a reformer?” Rohan said with deep distress. “I much prefer my creature comforts to a fair and just world. My servants are rightly terrified of me, and I never have to do a thing to prove how heinous I can be.”

“Everyone is rightly terrified of you, Francis.”

“With the exception of you, dear boy.” He thought for a moment. “And Elinor. I imagine that's a great deal of her charm. Is Miss Lydia terrified of you?”

“We will not discuss her,” Reading said in a flat voice. “So tell me, do you think Etienne was behind the assassination attempt?”

“Probably not. He strikes me as someone more likely to use poison. I won't say it's impossible, but he wouldn't be my first choice.” Rohan rose and
poured himself another glass of wine. He held the decanter up in a silent question, and Reading responded by raising his glass to be filled as well.

“Who else?”

“There's my dear
English
cousin, the one who currently thinks he holds my title.” Rohan's lip curled. “The so-charming Joseph Hapgood.”

“If you were dead there'd be no claim on it. He'd have it free and clear,” Reading pointed out.

“He already has it free and clear, as long as I'm exiled from England upon pain of death,” Rohan said lightly. “And I don't fancy ending up on Tower Hill, separated from my head.”

“Something could be done about that. You could apply to the king…”

“I doubt the so-called king has forgiven the rebellion. And my case might strike a little close to home. One man with a stolen title and the true heir wishing to claim it?” Francis shook his head. “I think his clemency is unlikely.”

“Francis,” Reading said in an uncharacteristically gentle voice. “Culloden was over twenty years ago.”

“A blink of the eye, dear boy. Shall we make a bargain? I will refrain from discussing Miss Lydia if you keep away from the subject of my lamentable ancient past. It is of no importance to me. Lost causes are distressing. Let us return to whoever is trying to murder me. It's not going to be Joseph Hapgood. Did I tell you he visited me a few years ago? I don't remember where you were at the time. Delightful fellow. Hates Yorkshire. He's a farmer, you know.
Already had vast estates in Cornwall, a plump wife and eight children. Probably more at this point—he seemed exhaustively procreative, both in agriculture and offspring. He says he never really wanted the title or the responsibility.”

“And you believed him?”

“Most certainly I believed him. I believe he still had a whiff of cow dung clinging to his boots. He would give up the title most happily if he could.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“That I never considered him to have it in the first place,” Rohan said sweetly. “Not the most tactful thing to say in the circumstances, but he's the annoying kind of man who refuses to take offense, no matter how hard I tried to give it. So no, he wouldn't kill to ensure there was no other claim on the title. He'd much rather do without it.”

“So we eliminate one suspect. Who else?”

Rohan shrugged. “I have no idea. I did have an entirely contrary theory, one that has absolutely no substance in any kind of common sense, but the idea has stayed with me. Suppose I was not the intended target?”

“You think someone was trying to kill me?” Reading raised an eyebrow. “I have to say, Francis, that I do not boast the number of enemies to your credit.”

“Not you, my boy. My dear Miss Harriman. I'd just delivered her in that selfsame carriage less than an hour beforehand. What if the assassin thought she was the one in the carriage beside me and was aiming for her?”

“And why should anyone want to kill Miss Harriman?”

“I have no idea. But you know I was ever a fanciful creature, and the idea has stuck. I wonder about the fire as well. Lady Caroline could barely move or speak except in moments of extreme agitation, and her bed was well removed from the fire. How did she manage to escape and start the conflagration?”

“Is that what they think happened?”

“It is. It was quite clear the fire was started by artificial means. Which means your sweet Lydia was put at risk as well.”

He could see Reading stiffen for a moment, then deliberately relax. The man was pathetic, Rohan thought. In love, like a calfling, besotted by a pair of blue eyes and a pretty face. Lord save him from ever becoming so obsessed.

“Which still begs the question,” Reading said. “Why would anyone want to kill Miss Harriman?”

“What do you know of the new Baron Tolliver?” Rohan countered.

 

The contract lay on the table, elegant foolscap written in a fine hand. Miss Elinor Harriman agrees to remain in residence at Maison de Giverney until the end of Lent, while her sister resides at the château. And her signature on the bottom, written with a hostile flourish.

It was far from the first contract she'd signed. While most of working-class Paris made do with a handshake, there were still any number of issues in
volving her mother and their motley family that had required contracts of one sort or another.

And she was about to break one.

She could tell herself it was
his
fault. He'd forced her, blackmailed her into this position, and she was simply doing what she had to do. They were his just deserts.

So why did it feel so dishonorable?

It didn't matter. Someone in this vast household had taken pity on her. The ordinary cloak and new boots had appeared hidden in her bed, like one of the pillows, with a note and purseful of coins.
Escape when you can,
the note read, and Elinor would be a fool not to.

She had friends in this household. She could even count Willis and Jeanne-Louise as people with sympathy toward her situation.

But it was unlikely that any of them could write, particularly with a fine, masculine hand.

And then it came to her. Mr. Reading. He was enamored of Lydia, though for some reason he'd kept his distance. Maybe rescuing her gauche older sister was his way of winning Lydia's favor. Except as far as she could see, Lydia's favor was a foregone conclusion, and it was Mr. Reading who was diffident.

Escape was all well and good, she thought, feeling particularly cranky. But where did one go, if one managed to actually leave the house? Obviously she'd head for the château and extricate Lydia. Mrs. Clarke certainly wouldn't stop her. But how did one leave in the first place when one was a prisoner? She had no
idea how to get out without running afoul of Jeanne-Louise, or, heaven spare her, Rohan himself. He seemed to roam the halls like a bat, waiting to pounce.

She had no idea whether bats actually pounced or not. And Rohan wasn't at all like a bat, which were horribly ratlike and not to her preference at all.

Rohan was like some kind of cat. When she was very young Nanny Maude had taken her to an exhibition of wild animals in Hyde Park, and there were all sorts of huge, exotic cats. Rohan wasn't a lion, he was one of the others. Sleek and black and dangerous, with hard eyes and a strange beauty. Rohan was like some kind of cat.

And she was a mouse. A mouse who snarled. And had teeth. An angry little mouse who fought back.

For the first time in what seemed like forever she giggled.

“What's so amusing, my precious?”

She jumped. She'd given up locking and barring her doors—he always seemed to find a way past them. This time he'd simply strolled in from her dressing room, moving as silently as…a cat.

She couldn't help it, she giggled again. Once started, it was very hard to regain her composure. “I was thinking about you, my lord,” she said in a dulcet tone.

He raised an eyebrow. He looked particularly elegant tonight, and she remembered it was the beginning of the Revels. “You were thinking about me and laughing? How very damaging to my self-esteem.”