He’d forced her to come with him. Brandon had warned her he was capable of evil things, and she hadn’t believed him. He’d threatened to kill her brother in cold blood, and she had no choice but to believe him. She couldn’t risk Brandon’s life on the chance that Lucien was merely bluffing. And in truth, she didn’t think he was. He was determined to gain revenge for his sister’s death, of that there was no doubt.
But what was he planning for her? Not rape, not murder, not a vicious beating. His brutal plan was to marry her. Hardly the stuff of epic villainy.
No, he was no Richard the Third, no matter how much he wished to be. And he had her pegged right. She was a woman who’d dress in men’s clothes and take off into the forest to find her future. She wasn’t one to curl up in the corner of the carriage and weep.
Though she was ready to weep from sheer achiness. Her family tended to travel at a more leisurely pace, with lengthy stops for meals and walks to work out the kinks in one’s muscles, and they tended to spend the night at a comfortable inn or with friends along the way, rather than risk the danger of driving in the dark. Right now Miranda felt as if she’d been locked inside a box for days, and every muscle, every joint hurt.
The last of the sun disappeared, and a soft mist enveloped the coach, making the intimidating landscape even gloomier. There was a basket of food on the opposite bench, something she’d steadfastly ignored, but hunger finally got the best of her, and she opened it, discovering fresh bread and cheese, a tart of dried apples, and even a bottle of wine.
She devoured everything, washing it down with the wine. It was much more than she usually drank, and she knew she was probably a bit tipsy, but it would help her sleep during this interminable journey and—
The coach came to a stop again, and she sighed. This time she was going to leave the carriage whether he liked it or not. Assuming she could walk without wobbling.
The door opened, and Lucien stood there in the light rain, looking none the worse for it. “We’ve arrived,” he said. “Welcome to your new home.”
He would have expected anger and despair. She could play this game as well, and the last thing she intended to do was what he expected. She gave him a dazzling smile, taking his hand, and his ironic expression faltered for a moment. “How delightful. I’m afraid I drank a bit too much wine—I didn’t realize we were so close to our destination.” She managed to climb down the steps well enough with the support of his arm, and she looked up at the grim edifice that was to be her home. And wished she’d had a second bottle of wine.
It was huge, dark and dismal. No light shone from the myriad of windows that looked out over the overgrown driveway, and there was a sharp chill in the air. “Am I allowed to know where we are?”
“Of course, my love. This is Pawlfrey House. It’s been in my family for generations, and indeed, it’s the only place left from our original estate. The rest were sold to pay my grandfather’s and father’s gaming debts, but apparently no one was interested in buying this, so it remained in the family.”
“I wonder why,” Miranda said in an undertone. It looked truly dreadful—a pile of dark, wet stones that no one, not even money-lenders and creditors, wanted. And this was where he intended to keep her. “And where are we?”
“In the Lake District. A particularly remote part of it, I’m afraid. We’re tucked in a valley with mountains all around, and the house is extremely difficult to find.”
“Lovely!” she said with breathless delight. “And such a very large house! I know I’m going to enjoy it tremendously.”
“Exactly how much wine did you drink?” Lucien asked suspiciously.
“Enough,” she said sweetly. “Shall we stand in the rain or will you show me my new home?”
Indeed, the rain was coming down more heavily now, soaking through Miranda’s pelisse, and she only hoped there was at least a fire laid in the mausoleum that confronted her.
“Of course,” he said immediately, taking her arm and leading her up the front steps. “Mind your step. Some of the stones are broken.”
The front door opened, and Miranda felt a surge of relief. A woman was standing there, a branch of candles in her hand, and she could see light coming from behind her. “Welcome home, Master Lucien.” The woman cast her eyes over Miranda with clear disapproval.
“Thank you, Mrs. Humber. And this is my new bride. Or shall be, as soon as the vicar can be found.” He glanced down at Miranda, and she tried to control the chill that had sunk into her body, from the cold, damp air, the gloomy household, and the decidedly unfriendly housekeeper. Not to mention her future husband, assuming she couldn’t change his mind.
“Oh, it all looks lovely!” she said in breathless accents. “But, darling, I could do with a nice warm fire and a cup of tea.” She started forward but Lucien caught her arm, halting her.
“This is a bit precipitate, but we may as well follow custom,” he said, and before she realized what he was going to do he’d scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold of the old mansion, setting her down inside a cavernous and chilly hallway.
He easily read the surprise she couldn’t hide. “My leg is really quite strong, my love. I’ve adapted very well to its limitations.”
“Indeed,” she managed to come up with. Being picked up by him had been an unnerving experience, reminding her of those clandestine moments on his lap at the inn, as well as reinforcing how strong he really was. Strong and warm and hard.
“I assume you have rooms that are habitable for my bride,” he said in his silken tone, and the sour woman in her starchy black nodded, clearly under his spell, as most women seemed to be. Even Jane had shown signs of blind obedience.
“There’s a fire in the green saloon, as well as one in your study, your lordship. I’ve also had the girls in from the village to clean and dust your bedroom and the brown bedroom in the east wing. I hope you’ll find that acceptable.”
His lip curved. “That will be quite a walk to my wife’s bed when I choose to join her.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, darling,” Miranda said cheerfully. “Just open your door and give a shout and I’ll come running. Now where is this green salon? I’m chilled to the bone.” She unfastened her pelisse and dumped it in Mrs. Humber’s unwelcoming hands, handing over her gloves and bonnet, as well. The woman just looked at her, a solid lump like the house she oversaw. No help there, Miranda thought.
Lucien looked at her as if wondering who was this alien creature. “I’ll take her, Mrs. Humber. And tea would be an excellent idea. I think she’s had a surfeit of wine for one day.”
Miranda smiled up at him, wanting to kick him in the shins. Preferably in his bad leg. “You take such good care of me,” she crooned.
“And you’re quite drunk.” Taking her arm he led her down the dark, gloomy hallway to a small room that was so blissfully warm she ignored its other imperfections. She sank down in a chair by the fire, holding out her chilled hands and breathing a sigh of relief. Lucien was standing a ways away from her, staring at her.
“Don’t you want to come closer to the fire?” she said. “You must be absolutely frozen.”
“I don’t pay much attention to the weather…. What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Taking off my shoes. They’re wet.” She’d pulled off the demiboots, then wiggled her stocking-clad toes in front of the fire. She glanced up at him. “Don’t look so shocked. We’re going to be married, after all. And I’ve decided that suits me very well indeed. I was growing quite tired of my own company and that of the few who visited, and I hardly thought I’d achieve a marriage, particularly such a good one. You’re quite a prize, you know, despite your physical imperfections,” she said lightly. “You’re wealthy, you’re relatively young, though not quite in the first bloom of youth, and you’re an earl. The main thing that’s bothering me is will I be Countess Rochdale, or will I continue as Lady Miranda? I believe the hereditary title takes precedence, and I’m the daughter of a marquess, but I never paid much attention to these things. I’m certain my sister-in-law will know—she’s a stickler for details like this. I’ll write her…”
“The wine makes you talkative,” he observed, coming to sit opposite her, his pale eyes hooded and predatory.
“Oh, I suppose I’m a bit nervous.” She was actually finding this quite easy. The cheerful, prattling bride, finding roses in a dung heap. And Pawlfrey House was most certainly a dung heap—it smelled of mold and dry rot and layers of dust. She beamed at him. “After all, I’m to be married. I would like to bathe and change my clothes first, if you don’t mind. I’d like to look my best for you.”
“I doubt the vicar will be located today, my love,” he said, watching her as one might watch a rabid dog, waiting for it to attack.
“What a shame. And I was so looking forward to my wedding night.” She pouted, making it as provocative as she could.
He laughed at that, and she wondered if she’d over-played her hand. “Of course you are, my pet. If wine makes you this affable I’ll have to see you get a regular supply of it.”
“That would be delightful.”
He rose. “I’ll have Mrs. Humber arrange for your bath. In the meantime I have duties to attend to.”
“And what will I wear after I bathe? I didn’t have a chance to pack.”
“I made arrangements for a suitable wardrobe. It was simple enough to contact your dressmaker. Madame Clotilde on St. James Street, am I right?”
“Oh, you think of everything!” she said with perfect, breathless delight.
He gave her a slight, ironic bow. “I try. In the meantime I’ll leave you to Mrs. Humber’s good graces. She’s been in my family all her life. In fact I believe she’s a third cousin or something, and we’re all very fond of her. Treat her with respect.”
Miranda controlled her instinctive growl. “But of course, darling! I always treat underlings with kindness and respect.”
“Mrs. Humber doesn’t consider herself an underling.”
“No, I imagine she doesn’t. Nevertheless, she’s your housekeeper, and therefore an upper servant. Or is she your mistress?”
He laughed. “She’s my housekeeper. Tread warily, dear Miranda. She would make a formidable enemy, like all of my family.”
She already was, Miranda thought, still managing her idiot smile. At this rate her cheeks were going to hurt and she’d have premature wrinkles around her eyes. Go away, she thought. Give me some quiet moments by the fire.
And thank God, he did.
She was really quite ridiculous, staring at this dismal pile of stones and cooing. She didn’t like Elsie Humber, that much was certain. They’d have a royal battle once he left them alone, and he was only sorry he wouldn’t be there to see it.
So she was happy to be getting married, was she? He took leave to doubt that, and she most certainly was not looking forward to the marriage bed. She’d been nervous as a kitten in his arms. That idiot St. John must have been clumsy indeed.
He’d expected her to be in tears. Pleading for escape. Instead she was settling in by the fire, taking off her shoes, of all things, and demanding baths and cups of tea instead of rescue.
He shook his head. She was playing some game, and he wasn’t sure what the rules were. But he was a seasoned gamester, and he knew how to adapt. She was happy to be getting married, was she?
Maybe marriage was a bad idea. She was already a disgraced woman. He could keep her as his mistress and there was nothing the Rohans could do about it. They’d never find their way through these tortuous roads.
And if they weren’t to be married, why then he could have her tonight. If he wanted to hold to a sham of a ceremony it would be at least tomorrow before they could lawfully be joined.
She said she was delighted to be married. Perhaps he would have to disappoint her.
And see how much wine she needed to keep that calm, annoying smile.
Besides, in truth she did have a strong maternal streak. She looked after her girls, keeping them safe and clean, banishing any gentleman who didn’t know to follow the rules or dared to hurt any of her little chickies. He had no doubt she’d be just as protective of Miss Jane Pagett, and a good thing, that. When he’d received Lucien’s note he should have done as requested and sent one of his best men along with Molly to see Miss Jane safely back to the bosom of her family. But he hadn’t been able to resist the chance to see her in full daylight, to see if her mouth was as kissable. Lucien was going to be very annoyed with him.
He didn’t care. Her mouth was just as kissable as he’d thought. Even more so. She had a cold, her nose and eyes were red and swollen, and she was still the prettiest morsel he’d seen in God knew how long. He couldn’t quite understand why he was so infatuated. It wasn’t as if he’d suddenly developed a taste for quality—he’d had any number of titled ladies and they’d been no better than one of Molly’s doxies. Sometimes even less honest with their favors.
She was no particular beauty, but he’d had plainer girls, prettier girls, taller girls, shorter girls, thinner girls, fatter girls. He’d long ago lost count of the women he’d had—when he’d had the itch there had always been someone available to scratch it.
So why was he suddenly so interested in a little bit of fluff from the upper classes?
She was still wearing the ring. That had been a devilish impulse on his part. He’d known the ring was too small but he’d still managed to get it on her when he’d been busy seducing her with his mouth. A treat like Miss Jane Pagett shouldn’t have to settle for that miserable little piece of shit her fiancé had provided for her.
She was still wearing that as well, though on the wrong hand. Not that he’d given her any choice. If she wanted his ring off she’d have to stop thinking about it, and he could think of only one way to do that.
Scorpion had been right mad at him for tossing away such a valuable piece of glimmer. Too bad. A sad little girl like that needed diamonds more than some over-bred whore like the Duchess of Carrimore. If he got the chance he’d take it off her finger, but he’d do it for her sake and no one else’s.
It looked pretty on her hand. A big, brassy, tacky diamond on her elegant bone structure. He looked at it and thought mine, in a totally irrational spurt of emotion. But she wasn’t, and he certainly didn’t want her to be. He’d just really like to get a better taste of her.
That wasn’t going to happen. She was engaged to someone worthy, and he made it a rule never to interfere with someone’s life simply because he was hungry. She’d be safely deposited at her family home in London, still a virgin, minus the telltale ring, and she could forget all about the blackguard who kissed her in the darkness as he stole diamonds.
And if he had to kiss her to do it, so be it.
Molly was probably telling her all sorts of stories about him. Lies, of course, but he doubted he was going to come off in a good light. It didn’t matter. She’d given him a good long look and hadn’t recognized him, which didn’t surprise him. That room had been pitch-dark, but he had eyes like a cat, and he’d seen her very clearly. She definitely wouldn’t have seen him, and today he’d kept his head down, the cap pulled low so that even if she remembered him she’d have a hard time thinking of her jewel thief as the driver with a rough Yorkshire accent.
It would be a longer trip back. He wasn’t going to change cattle, and there was a limit to which he would push his horses.
And to be entirely truthful, which wasn’t like him, he wanted more time with Miss Jane Pagett. No, he wasn’t going to touch her. That one kiss had been dangerous enough, and he couldn’t afford to get tangled with a young lady of quality. He made it a habit not to despoil virgins or people who didn’t have it coming. Not out of any essential goodness, he told himself. Such things were just more trouble than they were worth.
It was a cold night, and he wondered if Long Molly had remembered to get some warm bricks for their feet. Probably not. He jumped down off the driver’s seat, headed back into the inn, and a moment later came back out with two warm bricks wrapped in wool shawls that he’d had to pay dearly for, opened the carriage door and found himself looking up, directly into Jane Pagett’s face.
He quickly ducked his head, shoving the hot bricks toward her. “These mun keep tha warm,” he said in his thick Yorkshire accent before backing out and closing the door behind him. He cursed. She’d had a good look at him, but that meant nothing. She’d never seen him before in the clear light.
Worse was the good look he’d had of her. Her soft, kissable mouth, her huge brown eyes, his diamond ring flashing on her finger.
He vaulted into the driver’s seat, grabbed the reins and started forward with a sudden jerk, no doubt throwing his passengers into disarray. It was nothing compared to his state of mind.
Maybe he’d better not take his time. He had a certain love of danger, but Miss Jane Pagett put the fear of God into him.