Ruthless (6 page)

“Not once she discovers you spent the night with me.”

She rose. Huddling in the chair was a sign of weakness, and standing he still towered over her not
inconsiderable height. But sitting gave him an even greater advantage. “There's no reason that would happen. You have nothing to gain by spreading such vile rumors.”

“They aren't rumors, my pet. It's the simple truth. As for what I have to gain, I'm afraid you put far too low a price on your charms. I've told you, you're a rarity in these parts, and I find myself reluctantly fascinated.”

“Listen to your reluctance,” she said briskly. “I'm not worth the trouble. And charming though this conversation is, I need to get home and see to my mother.”

“But what if I don't want to let you go? You can hardly walk all the way back to the city, and you continue to fascinate me.” He flicked an imaginary speck off the snowy-white shirt he wore.

He moved closer, and she moved back, surreptitiously, putting the chair between them with a casual air. Not that she seriously distrusted him—this was a game he was playing, nothing more. Like a great hungry tomcat playing with a little white mouse. Or so he thought.

“I've walked more than five miles before, I can do it now.”

“In bare feet?” he said pointedly.

She immediately crouched so that her threadbare skirts covered her feet.

“Now, that distresses me,” he said. “You have quite lovely feet. Most women have fat little toes and broad feet. And dancers—God help me, they have the ugliest feet of all. But you really have exquisite…”

“I would appreciate it if you would stop rhapsodizing over my anatomy and summon a carriage,” she said, mortified. He might well have been talking about her breasts, and she wondered what else he'd been observing in such a familiar manner.

“Your hands,” he said, startling her. “You're quite ridiculously easy to read. You were wondering what I was going to go on about next. I'm quite fascinated by your hands.”

She immediately tucked her hands into her shawl, but he wasn't deterred. “They don't look particularly soft. Not the plump, white, useless hands most women have. You have long, beautiful fingers, narrow palms, and yet there's strength in those hands. I rather think I want to feel them on my body.”

She let out a hiss of breath, ridiculously, undeniably shocked. So shocked she forgot to move as he came closer. Dangerously close. “Don't look so horrified, sweeting. Surely you didn't mistake my interest in you as any humanitarian behavior on my part. I don't give a damn if your mother dies, and I don't let myself be distracted from my activities unless there's something I want more. That would be you.”

She stared at him. “And how long have you suffered this disorder of the brain, my lord?”

“And how long have you disregarded your worth, Miss Harriman?” he replied.

Six years,
she could have told him. But she didn't. That time was over, long forgotten, and she didn't have to think about it.

He was playing a game with her—he'd already
admitted he was very good at games, and she'd seen the women who surrounded him. “If you will please summon your housekeeper I have no doubt she'll be able to retrieve my shoes and then I'll be on my way.” Her manner was brisk and practical, the perfect counterpoint to his absurdly seductive manner. To prove her point she rose to her full height again, exposing her bare feet.

“Miss Harriman, are you possibly so unwise as to call my bluff?” he asked, his voice silken.

“Certainly not, Monsieur le Comte. I simply choose not to play this little game of yours.” There was a bellpull by the door, and she crossed the room and yanked it.

She half expected him to come after her. To catch her hand as she reached for the bellpull, to pull her into his arms, tight against his body, as he had last night.

He took one step toward her, and then halted, his self-deprecating smile back in place as he dropped back down on the settee. “So be it.” He waved one pale hand in her direction. “Mrs. Clarke will see you to the carriage.”

The door opened as he spoke. “Mrs. Clarke will do no such thing,” that lady pronounced. “You will get up and take this young woman home, like the gentleman you once were.”

Elinor expected to see him explode. Instead he merely leaned back with a sigh of acquiescence. “Call me when the carriage is ready.”

“This is no way to entertain a young lady, Master Francis,” Mrs. Clarke said in a scolding voice.

“Then remove her,” he said in a bored voice.

“Master Francis.”
Mrs. Clarke's comfortable Scots voice held a note of warning, and he opened his eyes again.

“Why I ever brought you with me to France is a matter beyond my comprehension,” he said wearily, sitting back up.

“You didn't bring me. We followed you, against your express orders. Which should make it clear that I'm going to do what I think is right, at least in my part of the house, and anyone you bring here will have to be treated respectfully.”

“Yes, Mrs. Clarke,” he said in a mockingly subdued voice. “You will allow me to change before I escort the young lady home, won't you? I have standards I need to uphold. And for that matter, she seems to be in need of shoes.”

“I have them with me, sir,” Mrs. Clarke said, perfectly obsequious now that she'd gotten her way. “Go ahead and change. We'll be waiting for you.”

“We? If you're going then there's no need for me…”

“I'm not going, Master Francis. You know I have a grave aversion to Paris. I'll merely be keeping the young lady company until you change your clothes. And it would behoove you to hurry—the longer we're together the more things I could tell her.”

She expected Rohan to look more than a little disgruntled, but he simply laughed. “I doubt anything you tell her would surprise her. She already knows I'm a total wastrel.”

“If you take too long, I'll be telling her all the good things I know of you.”

“Good god,” he said in tones of absolute horror. “I'll be as quick as the devil.” He'd reached the door, then stopped for a moment, looking back at Elinor, staring at her.

“Master Francis…” Mrs. Clarke said in a warning tone.

“I just wanted to take a last glance at her exquisite feet before you covered them up again. It might be a while before I see them again.”

“It will be never,” Elinor said, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Don't count on it, my pet. Whatever scurrilous lies Mrs. Clarke spreads about my so-called goodness, she'll have to admit that I always get what I want.”

And before she could say another word he vanished, closing the door quietly behind him.

“T
here's really no need for him to accompany me,” Elinor said hurriedly, suddenly able to breathe again. “In fact, I'd be much more comfortable traveling back to Paris alone. If you could just help me find my shoes and direct me to the carriage you could tell his lordship that his assistance was not needed.”

“Don't you worry, Miss Harriman,” Mrs. Clarke said briskly. “He'll behave himself. And I've got my girl Janet finding some nice warm boots for you. The ones you wore have fallen apart, and there's snow in the air.”

“Find some boots for me?”

On a less dignified personage, Mrs. Clarke's smile would have looked positively mischievous. “Lady Carlton looks to be about your size. Whenever she comes she brings several trunks of clothing and shoes, which seems ridiculous, because according to Janet she spends the entire time wearing nothing at all. She'll never notice if one of her pairs of boots has gone missing.”

“I can't wear stolen boots!” Elinor said, scandalized.

“Of course you can.”

The door opened and Janet appeared, bearing a tea tray with a pair of kid-leather boots under her arm. She looked like a younger version of Mrs. Clarke, and she set both her offerings in front of Elinor. There were toast strips on the tray as well as tea, and a pair of silk stockings with the boots, and Elinor gave up being virtuous.

“No disasters, pet?” Mrs. Clarke inquired of Janet.

“They're all sleeping it off, most of them starkers,” Janet said. “No worries.”

“I never do,” her mother said. “Drink your tea, Miss Harriman. The doings of this household, while shocking, needn't concern you any more than they concern me.”

“They don't concern you?” Elinor said with a mouthful of toast.

“I never venture into that part of the château. His lordship likes to misbehave, but as long as no one is hurt I keep out of it. This part of the house is small but cozy, with no strumpets allowed.”

“You don't think I could be a strumpet?” She poured her tea and put obscene amounts of sugar in the cup. She might as well enjoy it while it lasted. “I suppose it's The Nose,” she said resignedly.

“The nose?” Mrs. Clarke said, her forehead wrinkling. “You mean your nose? What's wrong with it?”

“It's the Harriman Nose,” she said gloomily. “Strumpets are pretty.”

“Strumpets are tarts. As for your nose, it's nothing that extraordinary. It gives your face character, something those foolish girls lack.”

“Lucky me,” Elinor murmured. She took another toast sliver. Then jumped, as she realized Janet had knelt before her and reached for one bare foot.

“I'll take care of this, miss,” Janet said. “Me mother wanted me to train as a lady's maid.”

“Unfortunately there are never any ladies at his lordship's house parties,” Mrs. Clarke said grimly. “And Master Francis should be returning momentarily—you wouldn't want to be flaunting your bare feet in front of him, now, would you?”

Trapped. “Thank you, Janet,” she said. “You're very kind to help me.”

It was almost seductive. The warm, sweet, rich tea, the toast slivers with lashings of butter and a sprinkle of cinnamon sugar, a maid assisting with her clothes. It had been so long since they'd had a lady's maid that she could barely remember what it was like. Janet drew the silk stocking up her leg for her, and the feeling was decadently wonderful, too splendid to fight. Besides, she could give the stockings to Lydia, who'd delight in the extravagance. She'd have to somehow convince her younger sister that she herself couldn't wear them—Lydia had grown suspicious of Elinor's stratagems. Her sudden dislike of sugar, her inability to drink cream, the discomfort of the one decent pair of boots between them. She'd be hard put to come up with a reason why Lydia simply must accept the silk stockings as her own, but she could prevaricate with the best of them. She'd had her mother as an example.

The boots were a perfect fit, roomy for her less-
than-dainty feet. By the time she'd finished her tea and toast and had the kid-leather boots neatly fastened she felt she could face any kind of ogre. Including the one who'd reappeared in the door of the cozy drawing room, looking enigmatic.

“I've had the carriage brought round,” he said. “Where's your cloak?”

“Here it is, sir,” Janet said, reappearing from behind him, carrying a fur pelisse. The sort of thing that was shockingly expensive and deliciously warm.

Elinor set the tray away and rose, speechless for the moment. Janet came up behind her to assist her into the pilfered cloak, and Elinor whispered a protest to the maid. “I can't take this.”

“There you go, Miss Harriman,” Janet said in a loud voice, taking one of Elinor's arms and shoving it into the sleeve. She could either have a wrestling match with the maid, something she might very likely lose, or give in. She was taller than the sturdy Janet, but Janet was very strong.

“Are you two going to fight?” the King of Hell asked in a lazy tone. “There are few things more entertaining than watching two females try to tear each other apart, but if you're going to go at it you might give me time to get my own tea and perhaps find a better venue.”

Elinor stopped struggling, and the cloak slid up her arms. Janet stepped around her and began fastening it, and it took all of Elinor's self-control not to bat at her hands. Stolen boots and silk stockings were one thing, a rich fur cloak quite another. But the garment was so blessedly warm.

“No catfights? I'm shattered. But then, I've learned to live with disappointment. Come along, then, Miss Harriman. The sooner I leave you in Paris the sooner I can get back to vigorous dissipation, since you seem determined to resist my blandishments. And frolicking with my guests. Or was it trifling?”

“As long as you don't frolic with Miss Harriman,” Mrs. Clarke said sternly. She turned to Elinor. “Goodbye, miss. I'll look forward to seeing you again.”

That was most certainly not going to happen, Elinor thought, thanking the woman.

Rohan held out his arm, and she hesitated for a moment. He simply took her hand and pulled her to his side, ungently. “You must at least pretend to be on speaking terms with me, Miss Harriman,” he drawled.

“Why?”

He simply glanced down at her. It was an unnerving experience. She was so very much taller than most of the men, particularly the French ones, that having to look up into those hard, merciless blue eyes only added to the sense of unreality.

But if she didn't want to wrestle with Janet for fear she might lose, fighting with Lord Rohan would be even worse. Because she knew he wouldn't be following any of the rules of civilized behavior.

There was a light snow falling when they stepped outside the massive front portico of the château, and Elinor drew the stolen fur cloak closer around her, trying to ignore her guilt. The liveried footman immediately opened the coach door for her, and she pulled away from Rohan and scrambled up before he could
assist her. He'd barely touched her, but she didn't trust those large, beautiful hands.

A moment later he was inside as well, dwarfing the spacious interior, and they were on their way. It had been so very long since she'd been in such an elegant coach, perhaps never. Her father had been wealthy but not on the scale of Rohan, and he had never sent his young daughters out in his best carriage. She tucked her hands in the folds of the pelisse, lifting her eyes to look at her reluctant companion.

Stretched out on the seat, perfectly comfortable, he was eyeing her with calm curiosity.

“You should have had Mrs. Clarke steal you some warm gloves and a bonnet while she was at it,” he said. “Lady Carlton would never miss them.”

She'd been warm enough before, but the heat that flushed her face was uncomfortable, and she immediately reached up to unfasten the cloak. One look at his face stopped her. “You really don't want to get into a wrestling match with me, now, do you, my sweet?” His voice was amused. “I'd like nothing more than an excuse to put my hands on you in the privacy of the carriage. It's a long, cold drive into Paris and I can think of any number of things that would make the time pass more quickly, all of which involve touching you. Lady Carlton has a dozen fur cloaks, and your shabby cloak was probably infested with vermin.”

“It was not!” she said, incensed.

“If you say so.” His eyes narrowed, and he yawned. “I assume you aren't interested in…er…frolicking with me?”

“No!”

“Trifling? We've already been flirting…”

“We have not!” she said, aghast.

“Oh, yes, child, we most certainly have, even if you don't recognize it. Why don't we simply dispense with all the pleasantries and descend into hot, nasty fornication?”

For perhaps the first time in her life Elinor was at a loss for words. And in the end, only the most foolish ones escaped her mouth. “In a carriage?”

He laughed. “Oh, most definitely in a carriage. Though if you prefer a bed we can always return to the château, though we'd have to avoid Mrs. Clarke's evil eye.”

His words were shocking, disturbing. No doubt meant to be, she realized. He had no more amatory interest in her than he had in Mrs. Clarke, but if she charged him with it he'd doubtless strive to prove her wrong. She managed to meet his dark, wicked gaze with a deceptive calm. “You promised her you'd behave with propriety.”

“Such promises, had I made them, would have been hollow, but in fact I did no such thing. Mrs. Clarke has known me for decades, Miss Harriman. She has no illusions about my true nature—she simply never gives up hope.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you really so inured to temptation? I've managed to seduce nuns and Sapphists, and I'm unused to having my attempts ignored.”

Curiosity got the better of her. “Sapphists?”

“Women who prefer the love of other women, child.”

Her brow wrinkled. “How?”

“Allow me to explain.” He moved to her side of the carriage before she realized what he was doing. She tried to leap to the other side, but he managed to catch hold of her, one arm tight around her waist, keeping her beside him.

She glared up at him. “You seem to have spent a great deal of time mishandling me, my lord, and I don't like it. Take your hands off me.”

“Then don't fight me. I'm just trying to improve your education.” He took one of her hands in his gloved one. It was pathetic—small and rough beneath the patched fingerless glove. He stripped it off and sent it sailing to the other side of the coach. “I'm surprised that Mrs. Clarke didn't come racing after us with a pair of gloves for you.”

“It wasn't my idea.”

“Of course it wasn't, my pet,” he said soothingly. “Mrs. Clarke is a hard woman to argue with. No, just settle back and I will proceed with your education.”

“I don't…”

“Hush,” he said softly, putting one gloved fingertip up against her mouth. “This isn't going to hurt.”

The soft leather that shielded his flesh from hers should have made his touch less intimate. Unfortunately everything he did and said was intimate. He held her hand in his, his thumb rubbing against the center of her palm. It had a curiously calming effect.

“Now, I assume you understand the mechanics of male and female coupling. Most properly brought-up young virgins would be totally ignorant, but your up-
bringing leaves much to be desired. You know what men and women do, and how their parts fit together with such splendid neatness?”

She wouldn't have called it that, she thought, biting her lip. “Of course,” she said in a cold voice. She didn't bother trying to pull her hand away—it would have been a waste of energy. He was so much stronger than she was, and she couldn't believe he intended to hurt her.

“Women, of course, are unequipped with the necessary equipment to complete the act of love. So they employ alternatives. Some use equipment they can strap on that makes them appear masculine.”

Elinor squirmed on the seat.

“Others use their mouths, as men and women do with each other. I imagine you've seen something of that, living as you have.”

“Yes,” she said in a strangled voice.

“But the simplest thing, particularly in a semipublic occasion, is to use their hands upon each other.” He was still stroking her palm, and then his fingers moved up, carefully curling all but her two middle fingers down. “You know about this, don't you, my pet? How to pleasure yourself?”

She didn't…couldn't say a word. The thought of willingly engaging in anything that resembled coupling, even on one's own, seemed the height of madness.

“No?” he whispered, moving her hand down. “This is how it's done.” And he put her hand between her legs.

She fought him then, shocked, but her efforts made her legs part, and he moved her hand closer to the center of her, holding her fingers steady. “You touch,” he whispered, “just lightly as first. Delicately, like a butterfly. Pleasure can't be forced, it must be coaxed.” He pushed her hand a little farther into her skirts, so that her fingertips touched that center core of herself, and she felt an odd shiver of reaction, one that frightened her.

“Please, don't…” she protested, but he simply ignored her.

“Now, my love, you mustn't be shy,” he whispered in admonishment. “If you knew how to do this by yourself I'd leave you alone. Trust me, you'll thank me once you master the trick of it. It makes many a long night more engaging, and it will help if you decide to turn to women for comfort.”

He pushed her hand again, so that it rubbed between her legs, and this time the jolt was stronger, and oddly enough she could feel her breasts tingle. Again, he pushed, and it seemed to have nothing to do with her. It was simply his hand, moving hers, as strange feelings began to build inside her, and she squirmed, moving her legs farther apart, and he laughed softly, increasing the pressure.