Breathless (13 page)

And fat lot that would have done, she thought, staring into the fire as she awaited her own carriage. Lucien de Malheur didn't strike her as the kind of man who accepted refusal any more than Miranda was the kind who meekly did as she was bid. They would have a fiery marriage. Full of adventure, Jane thought dismally. She had Mr. Bothwell.

She availed herself of her crumpled handkerchief, dabbing her eyes and her nose. It and she were in fairly bedraggled condition by now, and the thought of climbing into another carriage was her personal idea of hell. She loved to travel, but she definitely preferred a more leisurely pace, and this time she'd simply be heading back home. She had watched as the earl's carriage pulled away, and slow tears began to slide down her cheeks. When next she saw Miranda she'd be a married woman, while Jane had little doubt that Mr. Bothwell would take one look at the huge diamond on her finger and promptly renounce her. Perhaps she'd be ruined. Miranda's house on Half Moon Street would be vacant—she could take up residence there and become eccentric.

Or so she could only hope. In truth, she wasn't sure
she wanted to get the diamond off her hand. Once she did so, and disposed of it, then Mr. Bothwell would have every right to kiss her with his hard, dry mouth. He could continue to criticize her dress and her behavior, and even if he gave her children he would doubtless be the kind of man with strong opinions on child-rearing, ones that were ridiculous and the opposite of her own.

Two extremes stood before her: the life of an outcast or the life of Mrs. George Bothwell. It was little wonder the diamond wouldn't come off.

She brought her handkerchief up to her eyes again, not sure if she was crying for herself or for Miranda as she disappeared on her strange bride trip. All she knew was that she hurt, inside, and her tears, instead of abating, were flowing more freely, and her disgusting handkerchief was useless against the flow….

A snowy-white handkerchief appeared in her blurred vision, and she took it gratefully, wiping her streaming eyes and blowing her nose before looking up at her savior. And for a moment she froze.

It was one of the earl's servants—she could recognize the deep black livery. Though, he was quite tall for someone who worked with horses. Most people preferred their grooms to be small but strong, keeping the burden on the horses light. This man must weigh fourteen stone at the least.

Before he could say anything he stepped back into the shadows, replaced by the plump, cozy figure of a woman dressed in neat black clothes with a dark blue shawl around her shoulders. “Miss Pagett, I'm Mrs. Grudge. The Earl of Rochdale has hired me to escort you home. I promise Jacobs and I will take good care of you while we're on the road.”

Jane wanted to crane her head around, to look at the man who'd given her the handkerchief, but he was gone, and she tried to school her reaction. “Who was that?” she found herself asking, when she should have been much more polite.

But Mrs. Grudge clearly didn't live up to her unfriendly name. She smiled at her. “That? Oh, that's Jacobs, our driver. He's one of the grooms. Quite the likely lad, isn't he? All the servant girls are mad for him, of course. I believe he's married to Cook's daughter, but that doesn't keep him from looking about, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes,” Jane said in a hollow voice, thoroughly appalled. What was wrong with her? She'd barely had a glance at him and yet she'd felt this instinctive leap inside her, an odd sense of recognition. As if she'd recognize some womanizing servant of a man like the Scorpion.

“We only just arrived, miss,” the older lady continued, “and the horses need a rest. I've ordered you a good breakfast. I gather you've been sick, and I promise you we'll take our time getting back.”

“We're not that far from London, are we? I think I would prefer to return as soon as possible.”

“Bless you, miss, we're up near the Lake District, a good two and a half days away from London.”

“We've only been gone overnight!” she protested.

“His lordship travels very fast, with the best horses. We'll be needing to be a bit more careful. But not to worry, miss. Jacobs took your note to your parents himself and they were unalarmed. You needn't fret if it takes us a few days to get back.”

And if she didn't eat anything for those days the ring
was bound to come off. That was what she wanted, wasn't it?

No, it wasn't. She wanted rashers of bacon and coddled eggs and toast and butter, she wanted thick cream and strawberry jam, she wanted hot chocolate and biscuits to nibble on.

And she wasn't in the mood to face her fiancé, who doubtless would be less likely to accept her absence than her indulgent parents. Her parents knew their daughter and trusted her intelligence. Mr. Bothwell seemed to think she had only half a brain and needed to be led around like a prize calf, lest she get lost.

She yanked at the ring again, but her knuckle was getting red and swollen, so she let it be.

“Oh, what a pretty ring! May I see it?”

It was a surprisingly impertinent question from little more than a servant, but Jane would have been more than happy to have given her the damned thing. “It won't come off. I don't suppose you have any remedy for that, do you?”

“Duck grease!” the woman said triumphantly. “I'll go ask the kitchen…”

“Tried it,” Jane said flatly. “Also soap, butter, hot compresses, cold compresses, yanking, pulling. It won't come off.”

There was a speculative expression in Mrs. Grudge's eyes. “We'll see about that, miss. In the meantime, what can I get you for breakfast? The cook's just made up a fresh batch of muffins, and there's the usual—bacon and eggs, beefsteak and fried sausage and tripe.”

“Just dry toast and tea, thank you,” she said, ignoring the lovely smells wafting from what was probably the taproom.

“That's not enough to keep a mouse alive!”

“I'll be fine. Please see to it, Mrs. Grudge.” She could feel the tears welling up again, and she dabbed the wicked groom's handkerchief to her eyes.

It wasn't until Mrs. Grudge had left that she stopped to look at the cloth in her hand. It was of a finer weave than a servant usually carried, and she expected to see Lucien's initials in one corner. Instead the man had his own initials there—J.D. Except that his last name was Jacobs. He must have stolen it from someone.

What a bold, wicked man, she thought dismally. Why had she suddenly become attracted to the saucy, totally inappropriate ones? Like the jewel thief who'd effectively married her with this damned ring. And now the cook's womanizing son-in-law.

She shook her head. The sooner she was back home, the ring safely stowed, or tossed, or whatever seemed the best fate for something of such intrinsic value and inestimable trouble, the better she'd be. Mr. Bothwell was a good man, and she was lucky to have attracted him. Maybe he reserved real kisses for the marriage bed, and he would put all thought of jewel thieves out of her wayward mind.

She could only hope.

W
hen Miranda awoke it was bright daylight and she was blessedly alone. Lucien hadn't rejoined the carriage after the last change. They had driven on into what appeared to be a dark, mountainous landscape, and she racked her brain, trying to remember what she knew of England's geography. They hadn't traveled far enough to reach Scotland, but these might be the fells of Yorkshire, or the brooding mountains of Northern Wales. She knew for certain they had headed north; to the south there was only the sea. She wished she could reason how far they'd traveled, but Lucien's coach moved so smoothly, so swiftly, that she really had no idea.

The sun was out only fitfully, peeping from behind dark, ominous clouds. The Scorpion had ordered the weather to fit with his evil plans. And the question was, exactly how evil was this man? What was he capable of?

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.

 

His careful plans had suddenly become upended, Lucien thought as he limped down the hall to his study. It had been an act of sheer bravado, carrying her over the threshold like that, and his leg was paying for it. He did well enough in the best of circumstances, but the incessant rain always made his old wounds act up, and Miranda had been too tipsy to notice one way or another.

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.

 

Miss Jane Pagett was safely stowed in the post-chaise, with Long Molly by her side, Jacob thought, climbing into the driver's seat and taking the reins. Molly was a good old soul. She'd worked her way up from the streets to run her own very expensive brothel, which she kept with an iron hand. But she'd always had a hankering for
the stage, and Jacob knew she'd jump at the chance to play a motherly soul.

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.