Breathless (20 page)

She rose, and he saw another mark at the side of her neck, from his mouth, not his teeth, and he wondered if he dared wait a few hours just so that he might have her again. He wanted to see what other marks he had left on her pale, beautiful flesh.

“I will be devastated without you, my darling, but I expect I'll manage to contrive.”

There was his sweet Miranda, hiding the barb of sarcasm beneath her limpid smile. That was almost more arousing than the love marks, he thought absently. “I'm sure you will. My factor is Robert Johnson. He'll see to whatever expenses you incur.”

“I can be very expensive, my love,” she purred.

“I imagine you can. I have a very great deal of money.” He cocked his head, surveying her. “Come and kiss your lover goodbye.”

It wasn't a suggestion and she knew it. She moved across the floor with the perfect simulation of eagerness, standing before him with an overbright smile on her face. “Do you want me to kiss you, my darling?” she inquired limpidly. “Or will you kiss me?”

But he was no longer interested in games. He simply pulled her against him, kissing her, putting his mouth on hers in raw, elemental demand. Then realized with surprise that her arms had slid around his waist, holding on, as she kissed him back.

She probably hadn't meant to. There was a distressed expression in her eyes before she quickly shuttered it, and she took a step back the moment he released her. “Goodbye, Lucien.”

Lucien. She was calling him by his name again, or
perhaps it had only been a slip. But how could you stay formal with a man when you'd had him pumping away between your legs?

He could give her that same courtesy, that same trace of vulnerability. “Goodbye, Miranda. I'm happy that you were pleased with my poor efforts last night.” And he brushed a last kiss across her forehead, his lips feathering her pale, composed face.

 

Poor efforts,
Miranda thought, watching as the door closed behind him. If those were poor efforts, she wouldn't survive.

He hadn't hurt her, at least not much, and she'd been braced for it. He was much bigger than Christopher had been, so big that she wondered if he was misshapen. She only had the two men to judge by, and she'd assumed that Christopher had been the norm.

She went back to the piano and sat, gingerly. She didn't know what was wrong with her. Why had she kissed him back? Did she really not want him to go? Her breasts tingled, and when she tightened her legs together odd tremors rippled through her. What in God's name had he done to her?

No, it wasn't in God's name. More like the devil's. He touched her in ways she hadn't imagined, put his mouth between her legs, and when he'd pushed inside her she'd felt…she'd felt…complete. As if she'd found her other half. She'd been naked, he'd still been fully clothed except for his open breeches, and she hadn't seen him, hadn't been able to touch his skin. She was already suffused with a dangerous arousal—what would it be like when he did it again? When his clothes were off,
and the candles were lit, and it wasn't such a new and shocking pleasure.

She should be happy he was going away. It would give her time to regain her self-control, to understand what he'd done to her body. It gave him complete power over her, and she couldn't let that happen.

Oh, bloody hell, of course she could, she thought, impatient with herself. If she ended up married to the man she was duty bound to be in his bed, and she'd be an idiot not to take any pleasure she could. Even if it left her weak, helpless, vulnerable, it was really too wonderful to deny. What had been foul with Christopher St. John was glorious with Lucien de Malheur.

And she wanted more.

M
iss Jane Pagett stepped out into the early morning air. Jacobs the randy coachman was already mounted on the driver's box of the landaulet, his heavy greatcoat on, his hat pulled low, and he stayed put, waiting for the hostler from the inn to help them board the small carriage.

At least it wasn't raining today, and it was warmer. If Jane were to be wildly optimistic she might even say she could sense spring in the air, but she was too busy worrying about what her family, and even more importantly, Mr. Bothwell, were going to say when she reappeared. At least the redoubtable Mrs. Grudge would set their minds at ease once they saw her. With a friendly, proper companion like Mrs. Grudge they would hardly suspect anything untoward.

And in fact there had been nothing untoward, at least as far as she was concerned. She'd simply gone for a journey with her dearest friend to see her married, even if that marriage hadn't, in fact, taken place as yet. Not that they needed to know that. And what was the harm in going on a journey with Miranda to keep her
bridal nerves at bay? Even the censorious Mr. Bothwell couldn't have any objections. Could he?

Of course he probably knew perfectly well that if anyone needed her nerves soothed it was Jane herself, not Miranda, who sailed through disaster with admirable calm. She could only hope her dear friend wasn't heading into disaster with the Earl of Rochdale.

“You look tired, lass,” Mrs. Grudge said comfortably. “Did you na' sleep well last night?”

“Not too well. Too long in the carriage, I think. I woke up at two and couldn't get back to sleep. I even went down and slept in front of the fire for a while.”

“Tha' did?” Mrs. Grudge was looking disturbed at the notion. “And where was yon coachman? Last I saw Jacobs was in a chair by the fire hisself. Happen he might ha' found companionship for the night.”

Jane didn't know whether to defend him or not. Her companion was looking so disturbed that she thought it might be better not to mention their odd meeting.

She'd only slept in the chair for an hour or two, returning to her lumpy bed before the inn came to life, and by the time she woke up she realized how absurd her suspicions had been. Jacobs reminded her of the mysterious man who'd kissed her. And the reason was quite simple—they were both men who knew how to flatter and seduce women. She'd experienced the coachman's easy charm and recognized its familiarity.

In truth, no one flattered and charmed her at the parties she attended. Not even Mr. Bothwell, who had addressed her father before she even knew he was interested.

Simon Pagett was an enlightened man, and he told him it was up to his daughter, a fact Mr. Bothwell found
distasteful but not offensive enough to turn him away. And she'd said yes, though now she wasn't quite sure why. She was twenty-three and no one had shown the slightest bit of interest in her. When her father had inherited his cousin Montague's estate there'd been little money left, though her mother had a comfortable amount from her first, miserable marriage. Neither of them liked Mr. Bothwell very much, but Jane insisted she was in love, and they gave in after much arguing. She wanted a home of her own. She wanted children. She wanted a husband, and Mr. Bothwell was tall and handsome, if a bit severe. So she'd lied.

It was astonishing what a few days away could do. Astonishing to have a man kiss her with real passion, astonishing to have another man flirt with her. Granted, the second would have flirted with a tree stump if nothing else had been around, and the first was a criminal, but still.

She looked down at the diamond ring on her finger. It really was astonishingly beautiful. Her mother had jewels that were as valuable, jewels to suit her glorious beauty. But there was something about this ring that she loved. Perhaps because it felt as if it was hers. Which of course it wasn't.

“You certain you want to take that ring off, Miss Jane?” Mrs. Grudge said, eyeing it with only a trace of covetousness. And who could blame her—any woman would want a ring like this one. “Must be at least two carats.”

Mrs. Grudge would have been quite striking in her youth, and even in drab clothes she was still more than attractive. How she knew the weight of diamonds was beyond Jane's comprehension, but perhaps she'd had a
misspent youth before she married the unfortunate Mr. Grudge. She wore no jewels of any kind, but Jane could almost imagine her dressed in something glorious, be-decked with rubies.

And then she laughed. Her imagination was really going wild nowadays. She looked down at the ring. “I have my reasons.”

“Your fiancé must love you very much to give you a ring like that. I wouldn't toss him over without a good reason.”

That was the same thing Brandon had said. Why did people equate love with expensive jewels? If that were the case then the stranger with the midnight kiss loved her very much indeed, and he didn't even know her name.

And how did Mrs. Grudge know she was having second thoughts about Mr. Bothwell? Though it was a logical leap, if she was trying to remove an engagement ring, and Jane was hardly about to explain that the diamond came from someone else altogether.

She folded her hands, hiding the diamond from her own sight and that of Mrs. Grudge. She would have to give it up sooner or later, and the truth was, she wouldn't need axle grease. It came off quite easily this morning when she was washing her hands, and she was going to have to do something about it before long.

But not right now. Right now it was hers. A gift from a fantasy lover.

She turned her attention back to Mrs. Grudge. “When do you think we'll reach London?”

“I should think one more night on tha' road and happen we'll be there,” she said in her comfortable voice. “We'll try to find you a better bed tonight. Jacobs
has been keeping to back roads, but I'll tell him to find a place better suited to the gentry.”

Where she wouldn't run across a handsome driver in the middle of the night. “Oh, I like the smaller inns,” she found herself saying. One more night of freedom. One more night before she had to face Mr. Bothwell and make up her mind when she thought she'd done that long ago.

Well, she'd wanted adventure, and she'd gotten it. Midnight kisses, elopements, raffish carriage drivers with charming smiles, and it had thrown her safely ordered future in disarray. And she was glad of it. It was simply getting through the shifts in circumstance that were uncomfortable.

“I'll tell Jacobs when we stop for lunch,” Mrs. Grudge murmured, closing her eyes. “I had such a night ma' self, Miss Jane. Tossed and turned.” A faint smile curved her full mouth.

“Oh, then maybe we should push on ahead,” Jane said, feeling guilty. The sooner she faced Mr. Bothwell the sooner she could move on. She was being a coward.

“Nah, there's na reason ta hurry, Miss Jane. I like a bit of the countryside meself. Tomorrow we'll arrive early, all right and tight, with no harm to anyone. Does tha' suit you?”

She should hurry home. She should get rid of the diamond ring; she should be a dutiful wife to Mr. Bothwell.

And she would. Tomorrow. One more night, she promised herself. One more night to indulge the wild child who was trapped inside her ordinary body, and then she'd once more be what people expected her to be.

 

One more night, Jacob thought. God knew what was going on in his thieves' ken—there were any number of people willing to take over at the first sign of weakness. He'd done the job at the Carrimores' to make a point, that he could do anything any one of them could do, and do it better. He was a dead shot, wicked with a knife and always ready with his fists, which he preferred. He didn't fancy killing people, though at times it was necessary. Some people just needed killing, and he wasn't a man to shy away from doing what had to be done.

He just hoped that Marley hadn't decided it was time to make his move while the King of Thieves was out of town on what was the most ridiculous, trumped-up excuse he could imagine.

Scorpion wasn't going to be happy with him, taking over like this, but he should have known he could never resist Miss Jane. Besides, Scorpion wanted him to get the bloody ring back, and this was as good a way as any. Except that he didn't care about the damned ring, and neither did Scorpion. He just liked loose ends dealt with.

He would hardly be surprised once he found Jacob had taken over. They knew each other too well.

He didn't know if a man like Lucien de Malheur was capable of falling in love, but he was coming damned close with his unwilling bride. Jacob had known him for more than half his life, and he'd never seen him so wound up, so angry, so twisted. It must be love, he thought with a grin.

Lucien wouldn't have his head for taking over the job, simply because he wanted his best friend in the same rotten condition. That was Scorpion, out to share
the misery. What he'd failed to take into account was that Jacob loved easily. He loved them and left them, making the entire process much less onerous.

He wasn't about to love and leave Miss Jane Pagett. He wasn't about to love her in the first place. There was trouble in a tall, sweet package, and he was smart enough to avoid it in the first place. His taking over as driver was simply a way of proving to himself and to Scorpion that he wasn't going to weaken. That kiss had been irresistible, but he wouldn't do it again. If he could manage it, he wouldn't even talk to her again. She looked at him out of her sweet brown eyes and he fancied she could see right through him.

Which of course, is exactly what her type would do. Look straight through their inferiors, not even noticing they were human. Except…she'd been concerned about him riding in the rain. She hadn't wanted to take his chair by the fire. Foolish girl, she'd even suggested they sit side by side.

Lord, he could get under her skirts in no time flat, she was that innocent and trusting. He liked his women wise and experienced. What did he need with a chit who trusted everyone and had a mouth that tasted like magic?

One more night at some small, out-of-the-way inn. He'd survive just fine.

 

The army of maidservants arrived the next day, and Miranda set them all to work, Mrs. Humber and Bridget included. She herself tied a scarf around her head, rolled up her sleeves and donned an apron. She could dust as well as the next one, and she wanted to make certain
the place was cleaned to her specifications, which were exacting, after so many years of neglect.

It took five days to get everything swept and scrubbed and dusted. Each night Miranda would fall into bed, too tired to ring for a bath, too softhearted to make her already overworked servants lug the water for her. On the fifth day, when everything was finally clean and smelling of lemon oil, she twirled around the large front hall with its walls of medieval weapons, laughing.

Mrs. Humber observed her with a grim expression on her face. She'd taken the flurry of cleaning badly, but after one or two weak attempts at intimidation she gave in, following Miranda's orders with an ill grace. “He won't even notice. We've done all this work for nothing.”

“I notice,” Miranda said in a tranquil voice. “The next thing we need are painters.”

“Painters, my lady? You'll be wanting your portrait done?” Her tone suggested that was a waste of time.

“No, to paint Lord Rochdale's bedroom. It's much too dark and dingy in there. I'm surprised he can see his way at all. We'll need new curtains as well—where's the nearest mercer?”

“The master prefers his bedroom dark.”

“The master prefers his life dark. That was before he made the mistake of proposing to me,” she said in the sweet voice she usually reserved for Lucien. Calling it a proposal was stretching the truth just a tiny bit, but life with Mrs. Humber was an ongoing struggle and she needed to keep her in line. “I hope to have everything finished by the time he returns, so clearly we must waste no time.”

Mrs. Humber stared at her. “It would be a very great
mistake to interfere with the master's rooms. I told you we shouldn't even be cleaning it. He's given strict orders that we weren't to go in there without his express permission.”

“Well, we did, and we didn't find anything the slightest bit interesting or romantic. I was expecting the bodies of seven brides, but there was nary a one to be seen. Find me painters and have them here in the morning, Mrs. Humber.” Her voice left no room for argument.

“And what color would you be wanting to paint his rooms, my lady?”

Miranda considered it for a long moment, and then a smile lit her face.

“Pink.”

 

Jacob leaned against the railing, drinking his mug of ale, thinking about the woman he couldn't see. The inn, a small but clean establishment with a motherly landlady and a jocular master of the house, had a private room for the gentry, one with a closed door so he couldn't get a glimpse of her.

Which was a good thing. He'd been too long without a woman—since the night of the Carrimores' ball, in fact, and he wasn't a man made for celibacy. He should have taken the barmaid up on her offer last night. That would have settled things.

But he'd been a right idiot and said no and here he was, needy, with the only tapmaid some forty years old and bearing a mustache. No, he wouldn't be enjoying anything but his own hand tonight, more's the pity.

Long Molly would be more than happy to take care of his needs, but they'd been lovers a long time ago, and
the friendship they had now was too important to risk on a casual tup.

Besides, if truth be told, he didn't want Long Molly or the buxom maid at the last tavern. He didn't want Lady Blanche Carlisle, whom he'd been bedding on a regular basis when her husband was out of town, and he didn't want Gracie, who ran Beggar's Ken with an iron fist and a lovely smile. Everyone wanted Gracie, and she was right generous with her favors, but she was partial to him, and he enjoyed that partiality.