Ruthless (22 page)

“Actually I was laughing about me. I was envi
sioning you as some kind of cat, playing games with me, but that, unlike a timid little mouse, I fought back with hisses and fangs.”

“Hisses and fangs, dearest? Oh, surely not. You really do have the strangest notion of your charms.”

Elinor snorted, an act Nanny Maude had always deplored. “To what do I owe the honor of your visit, my lord? Your vast orgy begins tonight. Shouldn't you be planning on ruining some innocent?”

“But you see, poppet, I am.” He took a seat on the divan, glancing around him with great interest, and she could only thank God she'd had the sense to hide the clothes and money. “How have you been entertaining yourself? I sent an array of books to entertain you.”

“And lovely they were, though certain illustrated volumes were not to my taste. I don't know what antiquities those drawings were taken from, and I doubt that such interesting contortions could actually take place. And I took leave to doubt the size of various portions of the anatomy of some of the people represented.” She managed to keep the flush of color, which had flooded her face when she first opened the volumes, away.

“Well, many of them were gods,” Rohan said carelessly. “Those were drawings taken from Roman ruins and temples in India. If you like, we can look at them together and I can explain which are exaggerations and which are not. I do believe most of the positions are feasible. I could be persuaded to attempt some of the more unlikely.”

It did no good to glare at him. “I found the books
very…instructive, but now you may take them back. They are irrelevant to the life I intend to lead.” She could feel some of the color begin to creep up. Unfortunately she was remembering a particular plate, where the young lady, dressed in nothing but a silver girdle, was astride an Indian gentleman of quite astonishing proportions. She seemed quite happy about it, and Elinor inadvertently pictured Rohan in the place of the Indian gentleman.

“Indeed,” Rohan murmured. “You don't intend to procreate?”

“Those books aren't about procreation, they're about…” Words failed her.

Rohan was ever helpful. “Lechery? Degeneracy? Ruination?”

“Pleasure,” she said.

She'd managed to startle him, which was almost worth bringing up such a dangerous word. “I beg your pardon, my dear Elinor. Did you just equate pleasure with coupling?”

“It must provide pleasure,” she said frankly. “Otherwise why would they continue to do it? Why would you hold these ridiculous parties where people can fornicate in public, if they don't find pleasure in it?”

He smiled at her, an enchanting smile that must have seduced a hundred women. Or more. “There
is
great pleasure in it, child. I've offered to show you more than once.”

“It's a pleasure I can do without, my lord,” she said.

“I don't think so,” he said softly. There was a gleam
in his hard blue eyes, at odds with his faint, charming smile, and she was held captive by that look for a long, breathless moment. And then it was past. “So why don't you tell me the truth about your lurid past, my dear? You know I don't believe your tales of music teachers and actors. You would be far more receptive to my delicate overtures if you'd ever consorted with…how did you put it…pleasure?”

She was going to escape, she reminded herself. She would have enough money to get away from him, enough to book passage back to England if that's what she wanted. He could never return to those shores—she would be well and truly safe.

If telling him the truth, which she'd never told another living soul, would keep him occupied for the evening, then so be it. She took a deep breath, determined to be calm and unemotional.

“My mother sold me as a bed partner to a friend of hers, a gentleman who was so terrified of the clap that he only bedded virgins. I remained in his service for three months before he found a replacement.”

“Indeed,” he said, not sounding particularly shocked. “Was he kind to you?”

“No. He didn't speak to me. He rutted.”

“And how old were you, my pet?” His voice was silky soft.

“Just turned seventeen. There's no need to feel sorry for me. I agreed to it. Agreed to become a whore.”

“And why was that?”

“My mother said he preferred Lydia.”

“Ah. And what was this gentleman's name?”

If he'd shown pity it would have been unbearable. His calm curiosity had the desired effect—it kept her recital calm and matter-of-fact. “Why would you want to know that?”

“Simple curiosity, my pet. His name?”

“Sir Christopher Spatts. He went back to England, I believe, and married.”

“Did he indeed?” Rohan was very still and calm, almost unnaturally so. “And did your mother continue to barter you to her acquaintances?”

“Hardly. I've lived a life of blissful celibacy ever since. I'm not made to be a courtesan. My only value to Sir Christopher was my virginity. Without that and lacking a pretty face I had no value to anyone.”

For some reason she wanted him to say something. To tell her she had value to him. God, she wanted him to tell her she was pretty! How pathetic!

He rose, graceful in his cloth-of-gold coat. “I was going to continue your education, my dear Elinor, but I find I have something more important that has arisen. I know it will desolate you to know I'm not going to teach you about your breasts tonight, but there will be other times.”

Odd, but his words set a sudden, ridiculous tingling in her breasts, almost as if he'd touched them. In the pictures, grown men had suckled on the breasts of women, something that surprised her. Now, with the sudden tight sensation his words had inexplicably caused, she could begin to understand.

He crossed the room to her, graceful as ever, and
she didn't move from her chair, managed not to jerk away when one slim, elegant hand reached out to touch her face. “Poor poppet,” he said softly. “With no one to avenge her.”

She wanted to turn her face into his hand, to press her lips against his palm. She was mad. “My mother is dead, sir. I believe she was the one who sold me.”

“Indeed,” he murmured noncommittally. “I'll let you rest tonight. Tomorrow is time enough to continue your education.”

“What if I don't want to learn?” she said, trying not to tremble at the gentle touch.

His smile was genuine. “You will, my child. I assure you, you will.”

F
rancis Rohan moved through the vast hallways of Maison de Giverney, his jeweled heels clicking on the parquet flooring. He no longer bothered to pace himself, to achieve the perfect mincing walk. Most of his guests had retired to places of privacy, and those who were still cavorting in public would be far too interested in their partners to notice the King of Hell striding through their midst.

He found Charles at one of the gaming tables, staring at his hand with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He turned inquiringly when Rohan came to stand over him, and with one look at his face he immediately turned his cards over and rose, following his friend to the empty hallway.

“You look like death,” Charles said. “Was your ‘poppet' that bad in bed?”

Rohan gave him a measured look. “Do you really want to be discussing the sister of your true love in such a crude manner?”

“She's not my true love,” Charles said. “And con
sidering all the blasted effort you're putting into having Elinor Harriman, I would assume a question would not be out of line.”

“Phrase it better.” There was a note of steel in his voice.

Charles looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You, too,” he said ruefully. Before Rohan could respond he went on, “Was your time with Miss Harriman less than you hoped?”

“We held a short conversation. I have something I must do, and I need your help for it.”

“And what is that?”

“I need to kill a man.”

Charles's sleepy eyes opened more widely. “Anyone in particular?”

“The fat man who joined us tonight. Sir Christopher Spatts.”

“I'm not objecting, mind you,” Charles said. “He's a slovenly creature, and there are rumors about some of his less savory activities.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as his preference for children, the younger the better. He was quite disappointed when he heard you don't allow children to be part of the Revels, but decided there were other ways to find pleasure. Why?”

Rohan didn't answer. “Do you have any notion where he is at the moment?”

“I believe he went off with young Wrotham.”

“Where?”

“Dear me,” Charles murmured. “What did he do?”
His eyes narrowed. “Good God, man, are you wearing your sword? You can't fight him. He couldn't possibly be any kind of match for you. It would be murder.”

“Good,” said Rohan. “Where is he?”

For a moment Charles didn't move. And then he nodded. “Come with me.”

 

Now was as good a time as any to leave, Eleanor thought. He'd already made his nightly visit, though departing without touching her, even attempting to, was different. She understood completely. She'd told him the truth of what had happened six years ago and he'd been disgusted. Whatever kind of exotic allure she'd held for him, and while she hadn't understood it she'd come to accept that it existed, had vanished.

She moved to the window, looking out into the street. She was probably being foolish, escaping when there was no earthly need. It was more than likely she'd be taken to a coach tomorrow morning with no explanation, just sent on her way.

As it had happened so many years ago when she'd been trapped by that horrible man.

This had been a different kind of imprisonment, and she told herself she was delighted that Rohan had finally seen the error of his ways. She just didn't want to face him when he set her free.

No, she would leave now, when the house was relatively quiet. She could hear the sounds of gaiety and something else drifting from a distance, and she remembered the frenetic energy as Rohan had led her, blindfolded, through the rooms in the château.

Rohan would clearly be partaking of that gaiety, and for the time, perhaps forever, she was forgotten. Once she was out she had more than enough money to hire a coach to take her out to his château. There, she would collect Lydia and they would run, back to England where no one—at least, one particular person—could follow.

She pulled the cloak around her shoulders. She'd managed to braid her thick hair and tie it with a strip of ribbon. For some reason hairpins and the like had remained absent from the many elegancies provided. She took the plainest dress, since she could scarce leave in her ripped and shredded night rail, and the sturdy boots provided. Tucking the purseful of coins in her pocket, she started for the door, then stopped. The contract lay out on the table, the quill and ink still beside it. She reached for it, planning to tear it into pieces, but something stayed her hand. For some crazed, silly reason she took the pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote “I'm sorry” at the bottom of the page. And then she slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the servants' stairway.

 

It was quick. How could it be anything but, Rohan thought dazedly. He was a gifted fencer, light on his feet, entirely ruthless. Sir Christopher Spatts was slow and fat and stupid, unable to comprehend that he was staring death in the face. He thought it was one more game played by the Heavenly Host, mocking the rules of life and death. It wasn't until he began to realize that he was going to die that he started to fight in
earnest, slashing with the sword that had been provided him.

Murder. Plain and simple. They were no match, and when Rohan drove the blade into his heart the man squealed like a pig, and Rohan wanted to shout in triumph.

Sir Christopher crumpled to the floor, and Rohan turned and walked away, throwing his sword across the room. The man was dead, executed, as he should have been years ago.

He walked out onto the snow-covered terrace, staring up at the night sky, trying to control his racing heart, the dark, murderous rage that had yet to leave him. Sir Christopher had managed to pink him a couple of times, probably luck driven by sheer terror, and there was blood staining his billowing white sleeve and seeping through the shallow cut on his chest. Another set of clothes ruined, he thought, shivering.

Charles came to stand by him, saying nothing. Finally Rohan brought himself to speak. “He's dead?”

“Thoroughly. The seconds are satisfied. It was a fair duel.”

Rohan's laugh was harsh. “What was the fairness in that? It was like fighting a child.”

“You should have let me do it,” Charles said. “I have no qualms killing those who need to be killed.”

Rohan looked at him. “How do you know I have such qualms?”

“Francis, I know you,” he said. “You've abhorred death and violence for as long as we've been friends. Have you ever killed your man before?”

“I don't fight duels.”

“Then before?”

Rohan turned his head away, looking out past the high wall of the stables. “It was Culloden, Charles,” he said wearily. “What do you think? I watched my father and brother slaughtered. I saw good men bayoneted after they surrendered, I saw death everywhere. I saw what men could do, and I swore I would never take a life again, no matter how evil he was.”

“So you changed your mind,” Charles said. “Why didn't you let me handle it?”

“It wasn't your fight.” He looked back at the house, filled with self-loathing. “I want you to take…”

“Who's that?” Charles said, interrupting him.

“Who's what?”

“Moving along the edge of the stables. Someone is sneaking around. I'm not sure if it's a thief or someone's outraged spouse, but I think…”

He saw her quite clearly, though she hid in the shadows, certain he couldn't see her. He recognized her walk, the way she moved, even covered in that hideous cloak. He'd killed for her, betraying everything he believed in, and she was leaving.

The cold anger settled down about him, a rage that should have burned hot if it were a little less powerful. He looked down, expecting to see blood on his hands. Fittingly enough, it was his own.

“Go on in, Francis,” Charles said gently. “Go find Juliette, or perhaps Marianne. I'll bring Miss Harriman back safely.”

He didn't hear him. His rage blinded him, and
nothing seemed to make sense. “Go away, Charles,” he said, his voice like ice. “This is my business.”

Charles grabbed his arm, trying to stop him. “I can't let you hurt her, Francis.”

Rohan slapped him. The same challenging slap he'd administered to Christopher Spatts's soft, pink cheek after he'd tossed his glass of wine in his face. “Anytime, anyplace,” he said in an evil voice.

“Now.”

Rohan's smile was ugly. “No. I'm busy tonight.” He started after her, and Charles made one last attempt to stop him, grabbing for his arm.

“You can't hurt her,” he repeated somewhat desperately.

Rohan stopped, turning to look at his old friend who knew him so little. “I wouldn't think of hurting her.” Everything unbearable in this life had narrowed down to focus on Miss Elinor Harriman. He'd been a fool, and he'd waited too long. The waiting was over. “I merely intend to finish what I started.”

 

Elinor kept close to the sides of the buildings. It was unlikely anyone would see her. Lights spilled from the windows on the upper floors of the house, but the ground floor was mostly dark. Anyone still awake would hardly be looking outside, not when there was such decadent entertainment to be had inside. She was probably worrying needlessly.

Maison de Giverney was huge, the size of an English country house in the heart of Paris. Her newly healed feet were freezing, the night sharp and cold and
clear, like Rohan's heart. She pulled the cloak more tightly around her and moved on. The high walls ended in a narrow gate, and she almost thought she saw a carriage there. In the dark and shadows she couldn't be certain, but it seems her mysterious savior wasn't content with simply helping her escape the house.

She moved away from the shelter of the stables, when a familiar, drawling voice sent chills through her body. “Did I give you permission to leave?”

She spun around, like a fool, when she should have simply run. He was standing in the darkness, a mere silhouette, but there was something about his voice that sent shivers through her body. Something was wrong, something very bad had happened, and her first, mad instinct was to reach out to him, to reassure him, to hold him…

She knew insanity when it blossomed in her heart. She turned to run, but it was already too late. He caught her as she fled, and there was no gentleness in his hands as he imprisoned her wrists, hurting her.

“Your broke your contract,” he said in a cool voice. “I find I have a great dislike of cheats, Miss Harriman.”

“I'm not a cheat,” she said hotly.

“Are you not? You agreed to remain here with your sister as hostage for your good behavior. And now I find you running off in the middle of the night. Though perhaps I was wrong, and it wasn't actual escape you were seeking. Perhaps you were just meeting a lover for an assignation and then planned
to return to your room, once more presenting yourself as the proud demivirgin wounded by a cruel life.”

His voice was mocking, cold. Different. She'd heard him speak in that voice before, when a servant had displeased him, and she remembered the terror in their eyes. She had the same unexpected fear inside her heart.

It was a waste of time but she said it anyway. “Let me go.” She tried to pull away, but his hand tightened on her wrist, so hard she cried out.

“I think not.” He started back toward the house, ignoring her struggles. She had one last, despairing glimpse of the coach waiting for her, and then he yanked her forward.

She stumbled once, falling to her knees in the snow, but he simply hauled her up again, barely pausing. There were servants waiting to open the doors for him when he approached, and she expected him to release her, to order one of the footmen to accompany her to her room, more prison guard than servant. But he didn't, dragging her after him along the wide corridors, up the broad marble stairs, past some of his more flagrant guests. She heard catcalls, a few cries of encouragement, but Rohan ignored them all, ignored her stumbling attempts to slow him down. He was intent, cold, furious, and for the first time since she'd met him she understood the ferocity behind the name. King of Hell. He terrified her.

She tried to talk with him once more when they reached the second floor, tried to reason with him, and he halted, dragging her in front of him. The sight of
his face sent a chill through her. It was cold, blank, emotionless. “Pray refrain from making excuses, Miss Harriman,” he said in that cold, angry voice. “I have yet to hit a woman unless she's requested it in sex play, but I'm always interested in trying something new. Be silent.”

And then he yanked her after him, down the hallways that grew narrower, darker. He wasn't returning her to her rooms, nor was he taking her to his, a small consolation. But there were no lights, only the candelabrum he'd taken from a waiting footman, and the Revels hadn't penetrated this deep into the house. They were alone, beyond sight, beyond hearing.

It wasn't until he kicked open a door that she realized how very dangerous things were. Imperturbable, elegant Lord Rohan had never evinced emotion in her presence, and his anger at his servants had been cold and remote. His rage right now was hot and wicked.

He set the candelabrum down, kicking the door shut behind him, and this time when she tried to pull away he released her, so that she sprawled on the floor. He made no effort to help her up; he simply stood there looking at her out of hooded eyes.

“Oblige me by removing your clothes, Miss Harriman,” he said, his voice cool and clipped, at odds with the wildness in his face.

She could see him clearly now, and the sight shocked her. He was wearing his long waistcoat and billowing shirtsleeves, and he was bleeding. The sleeve was torn and stained bloody red on his arm, and
there was a slash on his chest through the layers of clothing, and she stared at him, uncomprehending. What had happened to him?