Ruthless (24 page)

He could come up with no excuse for it. He still had the man's blood on him. He smelled of sex, of the full erotic flowering of her desire, and he was growing hard again, curse it. He had to get away from her—she'd bewitched him, and he would be dependent on no woman.

He moved down the dark hallways, almost at a run. His servants could come and clean up the mess that he'd left behind. He'd keep her back there, away from everyone, until he figured out what the hell he was going to do with her.

In the meantime, he needed to wash the blood, the sex from his body. Wash away her touch and her scent. Wash away the memory of weakness.

He needed to remind himself who and what he was. Francis Rohan, Comte de Giverney, Viscount Rohan, Baron of Glencoe. The Prince of Darkness, the King of Hell. A thoroughly bad man.

With no room in his life for a good woman.

 

When Elinor awoke she was alone, and the sun was up. It looked to be early morning, and someone had come in and lit a fire. There was even a pitcher of lukewarm water on the dresser. But there was no sign of Rohan.

She sat up, dazed. She was entirely naked save her stockings and garters. She'd forgotten she had them on. One of the garters had come untied, lost some
where in the tangled bedclothes. She looked down at her body, timidly, and then frowned. She had blood on her. Rohan's blood. She hadn't even asked him what had happened.

She sat in the middle of the bed, naked, unmoving, while she considered the strange turn her life had taken. It wasn't so much that she had fallen in love with a libertine, a rakehell, a Very Bad Man. That had happened weeks ago, and she hadn't been alert enough to nip it in the bud. Now it was full-blown, and she had no idea what, if anything, could destroy it.

She also discovered exactly why everyone wanted him. The pleasure he had given her last night was astonishing. If he could do that with anyone it was small wonder the world was ready to worship the King of Hell.

He must have had hundreds of women. And now he'd had her, body and soul. The question was, would he want her again? Or had she served her purpose, like so many others before her? The novelty had been experienced, there was no reason why he'd still want her. Not a man who was constantly looking for new and different sensations.

She reached for the cloth, slowly washing him from her skin. She didn't want to. She didn't want to wash anything away, she wanted to keep it all. The blood, the seed, the touch and the sweat. She was being ridiculous, she told herself, striving for her usual common sense. Though where her common sense had disappeared to last night she couldn't begin to guess.
She finished washing, pulling on the fresh chemise some thoughtful servant had brought her.

There were clothes as well, though no sign that Rohan had ever been here, except for the various stains on the sheets and her body. Someone, presumably Jeanne-Louise, had chosen a dress that was simple to put on by herself, though she had a bit of a struggle doing it up. Her entire body ached, in places she didn't know she could hurt, and a brief, worried smile crossed her face.

She'd seen it happen with her mother so many times she knew how these things worked. The blush of attraction, the wild, irresponsible passion. And then parting. And Viscount Rohan was known for his partings.

There was a pair of sturdy shoes, as well. And, she noticed with sudden horror, her cloak. Not the cheap one that she had tried to sneak out with. But the one provided for her. The money had been collected and put back in the small purse as well. She stared at it all for a long moment.

Did he want her to leave? Now that he'd had her, was he done? It certainly looked that way. And did that mean that Lydia was free as well?

If he thought she was now going to slink away like a soiled dove he was mistaken. If he wanted her gone he would have to tell her to her face. She picked up the cloak and purse and opened the door.

A footman was waiting, not her friend Antoine. “Good morning, mademoiselle. Do you need some assistance?”

“I need to find my way back to my rooms.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but those rooms have now been filled by his lordship's guests.”

She didn't know if her face whitened. It felt like it. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her body.

“Then I wish to speak to his lordship. Can you take me to him?”

“Of course, mademoiselle. I am not quite sure where he is right now, but I will take you to his library and send word that you wish to speak to him. May I tell him what it is about?”

“You may not,” she said, clutching the purse tightly. And she followed the footman down the long, dark hall.

 

Rohan was sitting at his desk, looking through papers, when Charles Reading stormed in. “What did you do with her?”

Rohan looked up, deceptively calm. “What do you think I did with her, Charles? Exactly what I said I would.” He reached for his glass of burgundy. “Would you care for a glass?”

“No. I need to know what you're going to do now.”

“My dear Charles, are you enamored? I thought it was the silly chit of a sister you wanted,” Rohan said in his silken voice. His hand didn't have a tremor, he noticed. He had moved past the debacle of the last twelve hours quite well, he thought.

“Don't play games with me, Francis,” Charles said bitterly.

“In truth,” Rohan said, “I'm much more interested
in what happened after I…decamped last night. Is the late Sir Christopher stinking up one of my rooms?”

Charles shook his head. “Of course not. Your cousin came and took him. He'll see to it that the man gets a decent burial.”

“Knowing Etienne, he'll probably cut him apart and observe his organs first,” Rohan said in his light, airy voice. “So no unfortunate aftermath?”

“Only that your guests are at fever pitch. They seem to like the smell of blood.”

“I'm so glad I could be of service,” he said smoothly.

“What are you going to do with her, Francis? She's a gentlewoman. You can't treat her like one of your whores.”

“Oh, my dear Charles, that's exactly what I did, and I assure you she liked it enormously.” He gave Charles his most angelic smile. “There are two choices, I suppose. Send her on her way with enough money to support her for a reasonable amount of time. After all, one night's tup shouldn't equal a lifetime of support. But perhaps enough to get her to England.”

“And the other choice?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I had considered introducing her to some of the Host's more moderate behaviors. Veronique was extremely interested in her, and you know how she likes an audience. And I'd be more than happy to see her drifting around here in scanty clothes, enjoying herself with some of our young bucks.”

Charles looked at him, long and hard. “I don't believe you,” he said flatly. “You're lying to me.”

“My dear Charles, why should I lie? Miss Harriman means absolutely nothing to me. Since I'm a charitable man I have no problem with seeing her safely settled elsewhere if she's not interested in our revels.”

“Last night she was Elinor.”

“Well, today she is Miss Harriman.”

“And her sister?” Charles demanded, barely containing his temper.

Some good could come of all this, Rohan thought wearily. He smiled at Charles. “I think I might have her after all. Miss Harriman makes the most delicious noises when she comes, and it would be interesting if Miss Lydia did the same.”

He barely got to finish the sentence before Charles flew across the desk, crashing onto the floor with him.

It was what he needed. A violent outlet, to hit and be hit. The battle was short and immediate, punctuated by grunts and curses seldom heard outside a stable. They were too-well matched, and eventually they both lay on their backs, bloody and bruised and struggling to catch their breath.

“Hardly a fair fight,” Rohan wheezed. “I'm still recovering from a duel.”

“You bastard,” Reading said, his chest going up and down. “You touch Miss Lydia and I'll kill you.”

“Perhaps, dear Charles, I wouldn't mind,” he said, and then laughed at himself. “My, how maudlin I'm being.” He managed to sit up, groaning. “There's only one way to keep her safe from me, Charles. Marry the chit. If you're worried about money I suggest that is
a mere trifle in the face of nauseating true love. I expect you will find a way to manage things.”

Charles stared at him. “Never in all my life have I ever heard you advocate marriage.”

“Of course you have! I thought Etienne should marry Miss Harriman. He thought he should marry Miss Lydia. If he does, I get her. And I don't think you want that, do you?”

Charles sprung to his feet with an agility Rohan could envy. “I won't let you touch her.”

“So you said. Well, do something about it.”

Charles slammed out of the office. With luck he wouldn't realize he'd been manipulated until he arrived at the château. Any earlier and he might turn around and come back. He expected one look at Lydia Harriman's exquisite face and tear-filled blue eyes and the last amount of his reserve would leave.

Love was a tedious thing, he thought wearily, reaching for his ale. He was heartily glad he was above such things. He'd been ridiculously sentimental last night, but then physical pleasure on that level caused its own kind of madness.
Amour fou,
the French called it. Mad, passionate love, the kind that drove one crazy and made no sense.

He was very lucky he was able to put all that aside. It was going to be difficult, handing Elinor the money to get away. And whether she'd go without her sister was always a question, but he expected, once she was certain Lydia was well taken care of, that she would be more than happy to quit these shores. Secure in the knowledge that she'd be in the one place he couldn't reach her.

Sanity would hit her as it had hit him, and her disgust would be total. Anything would be better than fancying herself in love with him. Love was the one thing he couldn't tolerate.

Perhaps he could count on Charles to make the arrangements, once he realized that Rohan had no real interest in his virgin bride. In the meantime he needed to stay away from Elinor.
Amour fou
was for the young and resilient.

Not for the old and jaded, who knew there were no such things as happy endings, true love, or the dangerous, deceptive peace that had swept over him last night.

Best to dispense with it before it crumbled beneath his touch. She would be far better off without him. His hands and his soul were stained with too much blood, and there was no washing them clean.

He leaned back in his chair. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the Revels, going full tilt. And he closed his eyes and began to curse.

 

Elinor backed away from the door. “You can't treat her like one of your whores,” Charles had said.

And his devastating reply: “That is exactly what I did, and she liked it enormously…one night's tup shouldn't equal a lifetime of support.”

She listened until she could listen no more, each word like a sharp stone thrown at her, until she felt as if she were dying from the constant, cruel blows. She backed away, too numb to cry, until she knocked into someone.

She turned, ready to snarl at the first hapless libertine she saw, but instead found herself looking up into her cousin's handsome face.

“Cousin Marcus,” she said, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

He was still wearing his cloak, and he gestured for her to move away with him, to a deserted alcove far out of hearing. “Dear Elinor, I've come for you. I know that Rohan has some kind of hold over you, and I thought to help you escape. I had servants smuggle in a cloak and shoes for you last night, and my carriage was waiting, but you never arrived.”

“That was you?” she said, disoriented.

“Of course it was me,” he said. “Why else would I be at such a foul place? Do you know your host murdered a man last night?”

The blood on his shirt, on her nightgown. “He did?”

“It was the pretext of a duel, but it was more wholesale slaughter. The poor man was no match for him, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rohan was so angry he wanted to kill someone, and that poor man was the first one he came to.”

And she was the second, she thought miserably. She looked up at her handsome cousin and his Harriman Nose. “I would be most grateful if you would take me out of here,” she said in a low voice.

“I shall indeed, cousin. I have several things I wish to tell you that you might find interesting, plus a proposal you might not find unappealing.”

“I need to see my sister,” she said, trying to control the utter misery in her voice.

“Of course you do, Cousin Elinor. We'll discuss that. Come with me.”

She had Rohan's fur-trimmed cloak with the matching muff. She would have preferred the rough one, but that was gone. She pulled the new one around her neck. “Yes,” she said, and put her hand in his. “Yes.”

L
ydia sat by the window, staring out at the gray day. She'd trained herself not to cry. It always grieved Elinor so, and besides, it did no good. It didn't change things. It wouldn't bring Nanny Maude back, it wouldn't erase the fire and her mother's agonizing death. It wouldn't even give her back her sister when she needed her. Tears were a waste of time, and she had no intention of indulging herself, not when Mrs. Clarke and Janet were so good to her.

And it wasn't as if she was actually worried about Elinor. Lord Rohan couldn't keep his eyes off her, and despite his swagger, she knew he wouldn't hurt her. It was too much to hope for a good outcome, but if Elinor could claim even a small portion of happiness then Lydia could only be glad for her.

Though why she should think happiness would come from a rakehell like Rohan was quite ridiculous. If she had any common sense she'd be terrified for her sister and her future.

But she had something better than common sense.
She had her almost infallible instincts when it came to people. She knew who were the good ones and who were the bad. Not by society's rules—if you went by them you'd know that Rohan was despicable and the man she had once thought was her father to be stalwart and upstanding.

That man had abandoned his real daughter as well as his false one, and while Lydia never held grudges, she knew that a truly good man wouldn't turn a child away no matter how dubious the parentage. Rohan wouldn't have.

No, Rohan wouldn't abandon, wouldn't force. And Lydia knew that Elinor was more than a match for him, or she never would have left Paris peaceably. They would have had to carry her out screaming. For a few short weeks, or even days, Elinor was going to have the novel experience of being charmed, courted, even seduced. She was going to have to face the fact that she was beautiful, outside as well as in. And if her virtue was the cost it would be her own decision, and well worth it. Elinor wouldn't give up anything she didn't truly want to.

And if truth be told, she wasn't certain that Elinor was still a maid. Oh, she knew Elinor would never have given herself willingly to anyone in the past, but there were secrets, whispers and lies that had moved beneath the surface of their small family. Angry comments Nanny Maude had made, the grief and loss on Elinor's face when she'd disappeared for a time when they were younger. Whatever had happened, it had been bad, and for her sister's sake Lydia had chosen not to pry.

She'd instinctively known who to blame. The one person she could never forgive, the one person who had doted on her to the exclusion of everyone else. The author of their destruction. Their mother.

Somewhere along the way Lady Caroline had lost her right to the compassion Lydia held for everyone else. Not for her feckless ways and the disaster she'd drawn them into. But for her sister's sake. Lydia could overlook anything, forgive anything. Except when it came to Elinor.

If she was wrong about Rohan, if he hurt Nell, she would find a way to make him pay. But she wasn't wrong. She had seen him look at her when he thought no one was watching. Bad man or not, Lydia had faith in him. He might be the King of Hell, but there was redemption slipping past the brimstone.

And Lydia could do her part. She'd made up her mind, and indeed, as far as sacrifice went, it was little indeed. She'd learned long ago that bright pretty things were all well and good, but settling for dull and sturdy was the wise, the generous thing to do.

Not that anyone would consider Etienne de Giverney dull and sturdy. He was a very handsome man. A little lacking in humor, perhaps. A bit stiff, and most of his understanding had gone into his study of medicine and little into the rest of the world. There was something else beneath the surface, something she didn't quite understand. It disturbed her, but she decided that was simply her own reluctance. A reluctance she had every intention of ignoring.

Which would be no problem. Her mother had been
the same, and she knew just how to deal with it, fashioning conversation around them, rearranging life and the past to best flatter them. Etienne saw her as a pretty ornament to his life, and he would treat her well, never hit her, give her children and a secure life.

But even more important was what he would give Elinor. The freedom from worrying about her baby sister.

It was a small enough sacrifice after all Nell had done for her. And it wasn't as if she'd had any choice. Charles Reading had never said or done anything to suggest she was of any importance to him. She only knew that he was beautiful and scarred and that she was no possible mate for someone in need of an heiress. She'd seen him only a few times, and for some reason when it came to him her instincts failed. She couldn't read anything in his stormy gaze, in his polite behavior. Not admiration or desire or even regret. And she was mad to dream about anything else.

Etienne had been the one to bring her out here, when she'd been secretly hoping Charles Reading would appear by the carriage, and he'd come to visit each day, drinking tea and giving her such long accounts of all the ways Viscount Rohan had robbed him of his birthright that Lydia ought to be outraged at the injustice of it all. Lydia had listened to the repeated litany of offenses and murmured all the right things, and Etienne had slowly begun to calm himself and even preen a bit.

And surely that was a good role for a woman in life.
He was a doctor, a man given to helping people. And she could help him, by soothing him, bolstering him, tending to his feelings of ill usage and resentment.

It just wasn't what she wanted.

But what she wanted didn't matter. At least, not to her. She'd never been able to do much for Elinor, to help shoulder the burden of living with Lady Caroline, and for all Elinor's efforts their mother only had eyes for Lydia. She could only assume her dislike for Elinor's father had been passed on to his daughter, but it was cruel and wicked and Lydia had hated her for it.

Now she could finally pay her sister back, just a little. How could she possibly resent such a choice?

She'd left her bedroom door ajar. Mrs. Clarke poked her head in, her plain face smiling. “You've got a visitor, dearie.”

Lydia rose. Etienne again. He'd said he wouldn't be able to come today, announcing it with the air of a great treat to be denied her. She'd said all the right things, of course. She knew her duty, she owed it to Elinor. She smoothed the front of her dress, one of the pretty ones that Rohan had provided, put the perfect smile on her face and followed Mrs. Clarke down the broad staircase of the château with its odd architecture.

It was bisected—one half was kept locked, and Mrs. Clarke warned her against wandering into
those
parts. Her imagination had gone wild, and she'd tried to peek through windows when she'd walked out on the grounds, but it all looked distressingly normal. A little ornate and ostentatious, unlike the comfortable quarters of the rest of the house, including her bedroom.

“He's in the library, miss,” Mrs. Clarke said, barely concealing her smile. Lydia paused by the door, just for a moment to remind herself why she was doing this. Clearly Mrs. Clarke approved, though she hadn't seemed to have much of an opinion of Etienne before, and Etienne treated the housekeeper like a peasant. But if Mrs. Clarke had decided she liked him then clearly there was more to Etienne than Lydia had at first imagined.

She pushed open the door, breezing through. “Etienne, I had no idea you'd be able to make it today…” Her words trailed off, and Charles Reading turned to look at her, and she froze where she was halfway across the room.

“I'm sorry, I'm not Etienne,” he said, his rueful smile twisting his face.

Oh, merciful heavens, she thought, swallowing. How was she going to get through this? If she was just assured that she'd never have to see Charles Reading again, never be alone with him, never look into his dark, unreadable eyes, then she might be able to do what she needed to do.

“Why…why are you here?” she stammered. “I'm sorry, that's unforgivably rude. It's just I was so surprised. May I have Mrs. Clarke bring you some tea? You've had a long ride. Perhaps something to eat? It's no trouble, I assure you, I can just…”

While she nattered on he crossed the room to her, taking her hand. “Hush,” he said. “Hush, Lydia.”

She stared up at him, and a sudden dread filled her. For him to have used her name meant dire things
were afoot. “Has something happened to Elinor? Is she all right?”

“She's fine. Rohan says she may leave, and I thought I would see if you wanted to return to Paris.”

“He's letting her go?” The panic did a quick dip into pain. Elinor loved him. Lydia knew it as well as she knew her own heart, hopeless as it was. She'd hoped for some kind of happiness for one of them. If he was letting her go then that hope was dashed.

“He is.”

She suddenly realized he was still holding her hand in his gloved one. She pulled it away quickly. “And where will we go?”

“He's an honorable man…”

“Lord Rohan?” Lydia said, walking away from him. Her earlier approval had vanished with his release of Elinor. Clearly she'd mistaken his interest. “I take leave to doubt that.”

“He has an honor of his own. He'll see to it that she has enough money to return to England and live there.”

“That's a high price for a short-term whore,” she said bitterly.

“You shouldn't call your sister names.”

“It's not my sister's fault. And you, you're part and parcel of this. Did you take your turn at her as well?”

The ice had built up in his eyes again, and his expression was blank. “Hardly,” he said.

“Oh, that's right, the Revels were in full swing. You probably had half a dozen other women to service.”

He looked at her long and hard, and then a light came into his eyes. “No,” he said simply.

“No? Don't tell me you've reformed?”

“I wouldn't go that far. But I lost interest in whores long ago, I'm afraid.”

“How noble.” She didn't know her voice could sound so harsh. “And what do you do instead?”

“Fall in love with unsuitable young ladies.”

That silenced her for a moment. And then she rallied. “How many?”

“How many what?”

“Unsuitable young ladies have you fallen in love with?”

“Only one.”

She was halfway across the room from him, the settee in between them. She liked it that way; he wouldn't see that her knees were trembling. “And what do you intend to do about it?”

He turned, so she could see only the ruined side of his face. He did so deliberately, the foolish man, not realizing that she loved both halves of him. The whole of him. “I thought I'd be stupid enough to see if she would marry me anyway, instead of the wealthy doctor and heir to a title. She'd be a fool to do so, and I don't think she's a fool, but something Francis said convinced me that I couldn't possibly be as stupid as he's planning to be and turn my back on my heart's desire.”

She took a deep breath. “So we've established that she'd be a fool to have you, and you'd be a fool not to have her. How in the world do you reconcile such a dilemma?” She kept her face sober and concerned, while inside her heart was singing.

“I would think I'd have to ask her, just to make certain I'd done everything I could. But I'd warn her. I have no money, no prospects, an exceedingly ugly face, and my dearest friend is the King of Hell.”

“You think that would stop her?”

“I have no idea. Would it, Lydia?”

She looked into his eyes, the eyes she could never read, and shock washed over her. Of course she hadn't been able to read the look in his eyes. She was used to admiration, lust, flirtation, acquisitiveness. She'd simply never seen love before.

“Nothing would stop her, if she loved you,” she said. “And she does, Charles. She loves your pretty face and your scarred face. She loves your past and your present and she most especially loves your future. Just ask.”

“Marry me, Lydia.”

Nanny Maude would have been most distressed. Lydia leaped over the low-backed settee and threw herself at him. He caught her, quite handily, and kissed her, more thoroughly than she'd ever been kissed, with such tender longing that she wanted to weep. When he lifted his head to look down into her eyes she knew they were swimming with tears.

“I'm sorry I'm fool enough to want you, dearest,” she said, looking up at him. “But since you've suddenly become so wise you'll have to instruct me.”

He kissed her again, and no instruction was needed.

 

Her cousin's carriage was warm and well-sprung, though a far cry from the elegance of Rohan's equi
page. The coach took off immediately once they were inside, and within moments they were far away from Maison de Giverney. Away from Rohan, with his cold, cold words.

She still felt numb inside. She sat back in the corner, the cloak pulled tight around her, pain and sorrow threading through her body. She sat silent, lost, until she saw that they were following the river, the wrong way to the château.

“Where are we going? You said you'd take me to Lydia,” she said sharply. If one more man betrayed her—

“My dear cousin,” he said smoothly, “I told you I had much to report. Your dear sister is fine, staying with her fiancé, Etienne de Giverney. You needn't worry, there are proper chaperones, and they're planning a small wedding as soon as they can manage it. She sends you her love, and tells you not to worry about her.”

“She's going to marry Etienne?” Elinor said, doubtful. It had seemed the best solution, but she remembered Lydia's wailing confession that she loved Charles Reading. Something had brought her to her senses—love was a trick, a trap, an illusion. Etienne would take care of her—there was no need for this sudden apprehension.