Breathless (18 page)

She wasn't one easily given to tears, and she wasn't about to succumb at that particular moment. But she doubted if she'd ever felt so alone in her entire life. Off in the middle of nowhere, and no one, not family nor friends, would know where to find her. Tomorrow she'd face her altered world with energy and determination. Here in the midnight hours things felt relatively hopeless.

“You think a chair would keep me out?”

She shrieked, bolting up in bed, slamming a hand to her racing heart and then turned and cast a bitter expression at Lucien de Malheur. “You almost gave me apoplexy!” she said. “You shouldn't sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn't sneak up on you. I've been standing here watching you for the last five minutes, listening to you snore.”

“I do not snore!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it's more like a purr. I trust it won't keep me awake at night.”

“I doubt it will, since we're not likely to be anywhere near each other when we sleep,” she snapped. And then belatedly remembered her strategy. It was with huge reluctance that she plastered a smile on her face. “Unless you've changed your mind about marrying me.”

She had the unpleasant suspicion that he could see right through her, but he replied in a civil enough manner. “Which would you prefer, my precious? Living in sin or holy matrimony?”

She knew perfectly well he'd go with the opposite of whatever she picked. She'd already survived one
clandestine elopement against her will. A second one could hardly make things worse.

“I think above all things I should love to be married,” she said in a nauseatingly breathless voice. “I do realize we can't have a large wedding—most likely only the two of us at the local church—but every girl dreams about being married. Besides, that would make me a countess, and think how lovely that would be!” She smiled brightly.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Marriage it is,” he said, and then he laughed. “Don't look so crestfallen, dear Miranda. We'll have our small private marriage ceremony, but then I promise you a full-blown wedding with lots of guests.”

“Really?” she said doubtfully.

“Trust me,” he said in a charming voice. “Now move over. And don't annoy me with any more lies about your menses. Yes, I'm in awe of the lengths you're willing to go to manipulate me.”

Miranda stayed exactly where she was. “Why? Don't you want to wait for our wedding night?”

“Perhaps. At this point I don't know if I want more than a taste. Just to make certain I'm still interested.”

“And how will you discover that?”

“It will depend on how much I want to continue what I'm doing. Whether your responses bore or inspire me. Mind you, I'm perfectly capable of handling the business whether I find you attractive or not, and I will do so. I'm just curious to see whether you're still as attracted to me as you were initially.”

She couldn't help her derisive snort of laughter. “La, sir, you do think highly of yourself. Why would you presume I'd be attracted to you?”

“You mean because I'm scarred and lame?” he asked mildly, entirely at ease.

Color flooded her face. “I'm sorry, I didn't even think of
that.
I don't really notice it.”

His face was unreadable. “That's quite touching, my angel. If I were a foolish man I'd believe you.”

She managed to regain her composure. “And you are certainly not a foolish man,” she said, hoping the color would fade from her cheeks. “What exactly did you want? Another kiss?”

“No, my love,” he said easily. “I want to get between your legs.” And he reached out and began to pull the covers down.

L
ucien de Malheur was amused. Lady Miranda Rohan was looking at him as if he had suggested he was going to sprout wings and fly. Did she seriously think he was going to leave her alone in her chaste, albeit not virginal bed? He wondered if she'd grow angry or burst into tears.

Instead, to his momentary discomfort, she let out a trill of laughter. “Oh, heavens, my lord, you had me worried for a moment. Of course you aren't serious.” She'd grabbed for the covers and was trying to yank them back up over her, but he was a great deal stronger and had no intention of letting her pull them up.

“Of course I am, dear lady. Are you cold? Perhaps I should build up the fire?”

“W-w-why?” she said, stammering only slightly.

“Because you aren't going to have anything covering you. Except me.”

She gulped. And somehow managed to reach inside herself and pull out that flashing smile of hers. “You're extremely saucy, my lord. I don't think so.”

He'd moved away from her. His leg was giving him
trouble, but he didn't bother to disguise it. He was still bothered by her artless statement. She'd meant it. She didn't see his scars or lameness. In fact, she was embarrassed that she hadn't been more aware. When she looked at him she saw him, not his scars, and that was rare and oddly disturbing. He felt as if he'd been thrown off balance.

It was a shock, when he was so used to keeping to the shadows. He was acutely aware of his own dragging walk whenever his leg pained him too much. And he'd never been fond of mirrors. He didn't like to be reminded of the claw marks on his skin, those permanent memories of a barbed whip brandished by a madwoman. His back was worse, a horror. Even Jacob Donnelly had been shocked the first time he'd seen it, and Jacob knew nightmares beyond measure.

Lucien rose from the bed to put wood on the fire, watching her out of the corner of one eye to make certain she didn't try to run. There were hardly enough servants to keep this place going, and he was more than capable of loading a fire himself. Mrs. Humber had already complained that his future bride was insisting she hire more servants, and she maintained there weren't any available, but he knew she lied. Most women lied, including the one in bed watching him with warm brown eyes.

“Why don't you start by taking off that oh so fetching nightgown, my pet?” he murmured, moving back toward her. “After all, why should there be any secrets between us? We're to be man and wife, after all. You're getting a title and a considerably advantageous marriage, given that you managed to ruin yourself. I may as well see what I'm getting out of the bargain.”

“Alas, nothing very exciting, my lord, I assure you,” Miranda said in her mock cheerful voice. “I'm nothing above ordinary. Some might even consider me a little plump, but they'd be rude.”

“And I would never be rude,” he murmured, watching her. She was making no move to unfasten her clothing. “Tell me more.”

He took a seat at the foot of her bed and she let out a little squeak of dismay as she pulled her feet out of the way. And then she laughed, with almost all trace of nervousness vanished. “I'm not very tall and not very short. In truth, average. My breasts are too small, my hips a little too generous, I have excellent teeth and skin and while my hair is a boring brown its length and texture are to be admired.”

“I haven't seen it down yet. Why don't you unfasten your plaits and show me?”

She shook a playfully admonishing finger. She really had no idea this was a losing battle. “If I did my hair would be a mare's nest of tangles and I'd spend the better part of the day combing them out. It's not that interesting—it's simply long and brown.”

“Is it long enough to cover you like Lady Godiva?”

“I have no idea. The idea of being naked on a horse never appealed to me.”

“That's a great deal too bad. I find the notion quite entrancing.”

Just a flicker of a glare, and then she gave him her sunny smile once more. “Indeed, I can't fathom why you'd want to bother with me, my lord. I know perfectly well that you've had some of the great beauties of the world as your mistresses.”

“And haven't you wondered why?”

Her lovely forehead furrowed. “Why?” she echoed, puzzled. And then she remembered. “Oh. Well, I expect you make love in the dark,” she said naively. “Christopher St. John always did.”

He couldn't stop himself; he laughed. “No, my love, my soon-to-discover wife, I do not make love in the dark. I like to see what I'm enjoying. If women have objections to my appearance I soon make them forget about them.”

“Well, you see!” she said, faintly exasperated. “You sounded as if you didn't believe me when I said I forgot about your scars. But you wander around like Lord Byron, all broody and interesting and romantical and it's no wonder women fall at your feet like…like things that fall at your feet. And Byron's almost as lame as you are.”

He stared at her in real horror. “Romantical?” he echoed in total disgust. “Broody? Like that ass Byron? My dear Miranda, you have a tongue like a barbed whip.” He used the phrase deliberately, like prodding a sore tooth to see if it still hurt.

It did.

This time her smile was genuine, a pleased grin that she'd managed to wound his amour propre. “Well, if you don't want to be a mysterious, romantic hero you need to gain at least two or three stone, talk about finance and belch. Your clothes are too dramatic, as well. I think colors would suit you rather than the funereal black you mope around in. Perhaps a nice puce, or a pale chartreuse. And you could cut your hair. It's too long for fashion nowadays. Something à la Brutus would make you very much more ordinary.”

“My hair covers my scarring.”

“But we've agreed that no one notices your scarring once they're around you. You woo them like a big, fat hairy black spider, and no matter how much they struggle they're helpless.”

“For some reason I can't quite imagine a spider wooing.” He didn't even bother trying to hide his amusement. “And I haven't noticed you being particularly helpless. The top button if you please.”

“I don't please. The room is cold and we're not yet married and…”

“The top button, or I'll do it myself.”

She reached for the top button of her high-necked nightdress. The buttons were small and delicate, mother-of-pearl, and there were far too many of them. He was going to enjoy the slow unveiling, unless she argued too much. In which case he was simply going to rip them open, letting buttons fly everywhere.

The first button came undone, and he could see the hollow at the base of her throat. Such an erotic spot, he thought absently.

“Isn't it rather late for a social call, my lord?” she said, putting her hands back in her lap and clasping them firmly.

“This isn't a social call. It's a conjugal one. Next button.”

“Not likely.”

“The next button.”

There was the briefest hint of a glare, and then that sunny smile. She unfastened it, and he could see the lovely little indent where her collarbones met. “I presume you aren't a practitioner of rape, my lord,” she said in a tranquil voice.

“You presume correctly.”

“So no matter how many buttons I unfasten you aren't about to force yourself upon me, are you?”

“No. You may strip down naked and dance around the room like a houri and I won't take you unless you ask me to.”

She considered him for a moment. “I would feel more secure if not for the occasion of our wager in the coaching inn. You're uncommonly skillful in the manipulation of women.”

“I've studied the art quite thoroughly.” He crossed his knees. “Toss me a pillow, love, before you undo the next button. I want to be comfortable.”

He could read her mind so easily. She wanted to tell him she needed all her pillows, but that would give him the excuse to move up on the bed and she certainly didn't want that. She pulled a soft pillow from behind her back and tossed it to him, then unfastened the third button.

He pushed back his hair, his long, Byronic hair, damn her, and watched her. He liked this part the best, the slow, steady arousal that would become overwhelming until he spent himself in her soft, sweet body. Only her feet were still under the covers, and he wanted to rip the sheets away and toss them on the floor, then put his hands on her calves, spreading her legs for him. This was going to be a challenge, getting her to let go, but he'd always enjoyed challenges. He stayed very still.

“One more,” he said softly. That button would open the white nightgown to the tops of her breasts, the ones she said were too small. They seemed quite lovely to him, beneath their virginal covering. He was looking forward to seeing them. Tasting them. Sucking on them as he slowly thrust in and out of her body.

“Don't look at me like that,” she said, forgetting to hide the nervousness in her voice.

“Like what, my sweet?”

“Like a predator.” And then she pulled herself together, letting out a little trill of laughter that normally would have annoyed him. He knew Miranda too well, knew the nervousness beneath her insouciant behavior, and he recognized it for the paltry defense it was. He was going to be interested to see how long she could keep it up. If she would smile and chatter even as he pushed inside her.

“Listen to me! What a fanciful creature I have become,” she said gaily. “No doubt it is due to our very Gothic mansion, my lord.”

“You're about to undo another button on your nightgown. You should call me Lucien. You did before.”

Her eyes met his for a moment, devoid of artifice, and then she batted her eyelashes at him. “That was a different man, I'm afraid. You weren't who I thought you were.”

It shouldn't bother him. It didn't
bother
him. It was too bad she wanted a Caliban to her Miranda. How simplistic. He was a villain, and he would be a fool to pretend otherwise. “I can always unfasten that button for you.”

She undid it. Her nightgown was now open partway down the valley between her breasts. They were small, but as far as he could tell, quite perfect. “Pull your gown apart,” he said lazily.

She looked at him in utter stillness. “You're going to lie with me tonight, aren't you?”

“I already told you, yes. And it won't be rape.”

And to his surprise she let out a huge, long-suffering
sigh. “Very well, if you insist,” she said in a bored tone of voice. “I do think we should wait till we're married but if you're that eager I can hardly deny you.” She pushed the gown toward her shoulders, exposing the swell of her breasts, the valley between them.

“You aren't going to fight me?”

“It would be a waste of time. I've told you more than once, I'm pragmatic. Why make something even more unpleasant than it already is?”

“I do believe my lovemaking is not generally considered to be unpleasant,” he murmured.

“Well, they'd hardly tell you the truth, would they?”

Such an innocent! Such a delightfully untried innocent, who still blessedly had gotten rid of her infernal hymen so he didn't have to bother with that part, the blood and the pain and the tears. He'd only taken one virgin in his life, when he himself had been untried, and he swore he would never do it again.

But someone who was almost totally unaware of what actually could lie between a man and a woman was delightful beyond belief.

“I believe there are ways to tell, my darling Miranda.”

She looked doubtful, but she lay back against the pillows, her long brown plaits making her look absurdly young. “If you say so. Are you certain I can't change your mind about this?”

“Absolutely certain.” And he started toward her, moving up the bed like the stalking beast she'd likened him to.

 

She could smash a ewer over his head, Miranda thought. But there were none in reach. She could get
up, tell him she must use the necessary, but he'd probably insist on accompanying her. She'd tried arguing, she'd tried charming him, and nothing had worked.

She had really hoped to get out of this predicament without having to endure lovemaking again, but that had always been an unlikely goal. And in truth, it would be no epic disaster. She had no maidenhead or reputation to lose. He could do whatever he wanted with her and it would make no difference.

The worst thing that could happen is that she'd respond to his touch, his kiss, assuming he was going to kiss her as part of the whole act. Christopher hadn't, but then, he hadn't liked kissing.

Miranda had discovered that she did. At least, unfortunately, she liked kissing Lucien, no matter what a snake in the grass he was. Whether she wanted to or not, her body reacted to his mouth and hands on her. Which might make the invasion and pain and humiliation of the sex act all the worse. Not that it would matter to him. He was too intent on getting what he wanted.

He was moving toward her like the predator he was, and she lay very still, watching him approach. She could do this if she had to. And clearly she must.

“Do you mind blowing out the candles?” she asked politely. “I think I'd be more comfortable in the dark.”

“I imagine you would be. Then you could pretend I'm someone else.” He was leaning over her, and she felt very small and helpless. She didn't like that feeling, not one bit. “Tell me, my precious, is there anyone who's taken your fancy over the last few years? Some stalwart young man you could have taken to husband if you hadn't had your fall from grace?”

She wondered what he'd do if he knew the truth.
“Only you, my dove,” she said with facetious sweetness to hide her honesty. He would assume she was taunting him, and she was happy with that. Perhaps she could even convince him that her helpless response was all part of the game.

Because, in fact, he was the only man she'd ever thought about willingly bedding, about marrying. About loving.