Breathless (26 page)

She could escape, perhaps. She'd given Lucien every sign that she was cowed—if he glanced away for even a minute she could run.

Her chances of success would be slim. She had no money, and he would find her easily enough, and then all he had to do was lie if someone tried to help her. Tell them she was a runaway bride. Or a madwoman. Or he could simply kill anyone who offered to assist her—she had no real knowledge of the depths his infamy could go. So the only people who could truly help her would be her family, and they had no idea where she was.

Even Jane didn't know exactly where they were headed. She could direct her family north, but Lucien had taken back roads, and Jane would have little information.

Oh, they would find her eventually. But not soon enough.

If he'd joined her in the coach she might have been able to make him change his mind. Perhaps he knew that, and stayed outside for that very reason. It was just as well. Pulling up her skirts, she took out the knife that was strapped to her calf.

It was a nasty-looking weapon, part of a display of armory used during the Civil War, though she wasn't
sure if it was by the Roundheads or the Royalists. Either way, it was about a foot long with a nice point, even if the blade was sadly dull. She'd slipped it out of the display in the third-floor hallway. It hadn't been dusted in what looked like decades, and there were so many weapons adorning the walls that Lucien would never realize something was gone.

If worse came to worst, she'd stab him.

Oh, no place on his body that would actually kill him. In the arm or leg or something, just enough to shock him and hurt like hell and give her time to get away. She'd considered smashing a ewer on his head as she had with St. John but Lucien probably had too hard a head to make that work. But he could bleed if she stabbed him, she had no doubt.

She tucked the blade back in the garter. Getting into the carriage had been tricky, as dismounting was bound to be, but the groom had handled the honors and Lucien would be busy with other things. Like planning her total subjugation by deviates.

The Heavenly Host! Heaven spare her. She had no fear of blood sacrifice or black masses. She'd heard the stories, much expurgated, from her own family. Both her father and grandfather, the notorious Francis Rohan, had been active in the Heavenly Host, and unless they'd greatly changed in the last twenty years they were nothing but a group of bored aristocrats playing games with God and sex, dressing in outlandish costumes and cavorting. She had no quarrel with their silly doings, as long as they kept their grubby hands off her.

She considered the vain hope that her brothers had lied to her, that they had followed in the family footsteps and joined that group of degenerates, and would, upon
discovering her identity, rescue her, but she doubted it. She knew them too well, and none of them would have any patience with that kind of playacting. The Heavenly Host would hold no interest for them. Benedick and Charles were happily married, and Brandon was such a prig he'd be horrified.

So she could fight, she could run, or she could stab Lucien. While that was definitely the most appealing, she somehow doubted she'd have the courage in the end. Because, appalling, toad-sucking, slime-dwelling bastard that he was, she…

She what? Didn't want to hurt him? That certainly wasn't true—she'd like to bash him in the head. She was fond of him? Hardly. One couldn't be fond of someone who skulked around like a Shakespearean villain. Pitied him? Not likely. He was much too strong to be pitied.

Lusted after him? Perhaps she would say yes, if she were to be honest with herself, but she was fighting it, fighting her own weaknesses. So he was good at making a woman shiver and tremble and dissolve. It was a skill and nothing more. She needed to remember that.

But she could also remember the way he held her as she cried. The expression on his face when he thought she wasn't looking. The way they were so oddly in tune, when they weren't at war.

If he'd just stop being such an arrogant bastard she might start to care for him. Might stop wanting his head on a platter.

But she was much too wise a woman to fall in love with a man who was only intent on vengeance against her family and thought of her as nothing but a weapon.
She was too smart to love a man who couldn't love her back, no matter how easy it was to fall under his spell.

Wasn't she?

T
he rain had begun to fall by midafternoon, but Lucien made no effort to join his bride in the carriage, despite the cold chill. He wasn't particularly happy with himself, which was nothing new. Happiness wasn't something he tended to consider—it was far too ephemeral, and, in fact, he wasn't sure he'd ever really known it.

His mother had died in childbirth, taking his baby brother with her. And his father, inheriting nothing but debts and a fatal propensity for gaming, had had no choice but to decamp to the remaining family estates in the new world, taking his four-year-old son with him.

He'd married again, another émigré, more to warm his bed and his coffers than to provide a mother for his neglected son.

Lucien could remember, if not happiness, at least a form of hope. Cecily was kind to him, and she gave him a sister, Genevieve, before his father had died of cholera.

He must have recognized the darkness that lay within Cecily, that stopped him from giving his child's heart to the only mother he had ever known.

Because it wasn't long before the madness was on her.

In truth, he was much more familiar with solid, long-lasting things like justice and revenge. Happiness is an illusion.

Though there were moments, when he'd been with Miranda Rohan, that he thought he might have caught a glimpse of it.

Why the hell had he ever thought marrying her was a good idea? He never would have tolerated a milksop, never have considered it. But Miranda was a woman with fire and determination, and he'd been reluctantly entranced with her from the moment she stepped inside his carriage in Hyde Park. Before that she'd simply been a catspaw, a tool to bring him what he wanted. He thought he could play with her and then discard her, immure her in Pawlfrey House and not have to think about her again.

He'd greatly underestimated her. She drew him in ways he didn't want to think about. She infuriated him, made him laugh, filled him with lust.

And she weakened him.

This was the greatest danger. He looked at her and something inside him softened, just as his cock hardened. He should have realized what a risk she was and come up with another plan. He was fiendishly inventive—it would have been simple enough to have orchestrated some other design that would leave the Rohans in the dust, sparing Miranda. He'd already had to regroup once when St. John had failed so miserably. He could have done so again.

And there it was again, his ridiculous desire to spare
her, to protect her. When his life's work aimed at using her to hurt the people who loved her most.

It was no wonder he was happier riding in the rain. It suited his gloomy preoccupation.

The current members of the Heavenly Host were ensconced in Bromfield Manor, a house in the countryside beyond Morecombe, their revels already commenced. He'd joined in a number of times, watching their futile black masses with amusement, helping himself from the banquet of sexuality offered. He told himself he would have nothing to feel guilty over. No one, woman or man, was coerced or forced at the revels. All Miranda need do was say no and she would be left alone. She was the mistress of her own fate.

She was also infuriatingly stubborn, and not one to back down. Well, neither was he. In the end it would be up to her, her choice.

It was evening when they arrived at Bromfield Manor. If Miranda had any trepidation she hid it perfectly, keeping up a steady stream of inconsequential chatter as they were shown to their rooms. She only balked when the maid opened her trunk and laid out her outfit for the night.

At first glance it was suitably demure—a Grecian style gown in black, with gold sandals of a classic design, as well. It took but a moment to realize the dress was diaphanous to the point of transparency, and all of his future wife's charms would be revealed to the Host.

He even had Bromley work up a black mass wedding, and he'd done so with his usual enthusiasm. That ceremony included consummation by whomever she accepted, thereby sealing their vows of a nonmonogamous relationship and an openness to indulgences of every
kind. If Miranda accepted this absurdity her subjugation would be complete, and the Rohans would have lost her. A few days with a fortune hunter were one thing. A willing participant in what would quickly become an orgy was a different matter.

“You expect me to wear that?” she said, picking up the sheer fabric and dropping it. Her voice was a bit higher and tighter than usual, but apart from that there was no sign of her uneasiness. “I'll catch my death of cold.”

“They keep the rooms heated,” he said, not moving from his seat by the fire. “And you'll have a domino in the beginning to keep you warm.”

She cast him an acerbic look. “How nice.” Finally her sarcasm was beginning to leak through the cheeriness. “It will be
so
delightful to enjoy new experiences. But did you not say there would be a wedding ceremony with your friends in attendance? I see no wedding dress or anything remotely suitable.”

He took a sip of wine, keeping his face impassive. “It's not precisely a wedding ceremony. The Heavenly Host are intellectuals with inquiring minds. They investigate the existence of God and his counterpart. I believe our wedding is to be in the service of the latter, assuming there is such a thing. We'll have a legal ceremony after we return home.”

She was holding very still. “Indeed,” she said after a moment. “A Satanic wedding. How original! It's a rare bride who can say she was wed in front of God
and
the devil.”

He set his wineglass down with a snap. “During which, instead of promising your eternal fidelity and
devotion, you'll be swearing to keep an open mind. And open legs,” he added with deliberate crudeness.

She didn't flinch, damn her. “Fascinating,” she said faintly. “And will I then be called to act upon this oath?”

“It generally works that way.” A patently ridiculous thing to say, since the Heavenly Host had never held a wedding before.

“Did you know my father and grandfather were members of the Heavenly Host?” she murmured, plucking at the gown she was to wear.

“I did. I thought it made the irony particularly appealing.”

She looked up, and her smile was the one that made him want to smash things. The smile that said “you shan't touch me, no matter what you do.” “Indeed. Well, I shall look forward to tonight's festivities. It will be most instructive to compare other men to you. Clearly you're far superior to a poor creature like Christopher St. John, but I do wonder if you're not oddly made. Surely most men can't be as large as you are.”

For the first time in what seemed like days he wanted to laugh. At this point his darling fiancée was innocent enough not to realize that was a far cry from an insult.

But that would change. “I'll be most interested to hear your observations.”

She came back to the table, poured herself a glass of wine and drained it in one, unappreciative gulp. “When are they expecting us?”

“At any time.”

“Then perhaps you might summon one of the
maids and allow me some privacy in which to prepare myself.”

He'd rather hoped to sit and watch her strip down and attire herself in her Grecian whore's outfit. But she was looking just the slightest bit dangerous, and he hadn't forgotten how she'd managed to dispatch with Christopher St. John. There were no water ewers available, though a wine bottle could make a fairly effective weapon.

He rose, languidly, and he expected that he looked like the very devil in the flickering firelight. “As you wish, my love. Take your time. Perhaps you might like a bath?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I expect I'll be in need of one even more after the festivities,” she drawled. “But yes, if you could procure me one it might settle my nerves.”

“Nerves, my love?”

“All brides are nervous, my dearest.” There was a real edge to the endearment. “And I don't want to disappoint your friends.”

He found he was grinding his teeth. He stopped, immediately. “As you wish.” And he bowed himself out of the room.

 

Miranda watched him leave, a composed expression on her face. The moment the door clicked behind him she would have been tempted to run and lock it, but there were no keys in the doors at Bromfield Manor. The truth was plain but unpalatable. He really didn't care for her, not in the tiniest bit.

She glanced toward the windows. She could try to escape, but they were on the second floor, and she'd
already checked. There was no balustrade or terrace to afford her an easy exit.

She could pull on the plain black domino, Lucien's cloak, eschewing the golden monstrosity he'd brought for her, and she could probably manage to sneak out of the house that way. The only problem being that they were on the edge of the moors, and she was far too pragmatic to court death before dishonor.

She'd hidden the ancient dagger beneath the pillow on the bed, and she pulled it out to look at it. How many men had it killed? Could she bring herself to stab him?

Yes. If he handed her over to his friends, and then brought her back to this bed, then yes, she could stab him before she left. And stab him she would.

She sat silently while they brought a bath and filled it. The maid assigned to her was thankfully subdued, presumably having been accustomed to the foul goings-on between Lord Bromley's friends, and she helped her in silence, washing her back, drying her, helping her dress like a sacrificial vestal virgin in the embarrassing costume. She even plaited and arranged her hair in a pseudoclassical style, bent down and fastened the gold sandals on her feet, and then stood back.

“Will there be anything else, my lady? Some of our ladies prefer to start the evening with a bit of assistance.”

Miranda managed to emerge from her welter of abstracted misery. “Assistance?”

“We're told to offer laudanum, if you prefer it, or brandy to settle the nerves, or the evening's punch, which tends to animate guests most effectively,” the maid said with a blank expression.

Miranda seriously considered, then rejected the idea. She would follow this night through with whatever it held. “No, thank you. I shall be fine.”

The maid opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, and Miranda suspected why. She probably didn't look fine. She probably looked as devastated and broken as she felt.

“Would you please inform his lordship that I'm ready?”

She waited until the girl was gone, then went over to look at the pier glass, curious how she looked as a whore.

She gasped. She might as well be standing naked. She could see the thrust of her small breasts, the dark nipples clear through the wispy fabric. The line of her body, the darker triangle of hair, the outline of her legs. All was revealed and yet disguised in a gown made for sexual titillation.

She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at her face. It was pale and ghostly, and her eyes were nothing but dark holes. They hadn't offered her makeup, but she bit her lips to bring color back to them, pinched her cheeks. She smiled brightly, and to her discerning eyes the effect was ghastly.

Lucien wouldn't even notice.

The door opened behind her and she turned. A great many candles lit the room, brightening it, and he could see her quite clearly. He froze for a moment, staring at her, and she wanted to weep, to scream at him, to beg him to stop this.

And then he moved forward, calm and urbane. “You look quite magnificent, my love. You'll be the perfect blushing bride. Unless you've changed your mind?”

Why was he asking her this? He was the one who'd brought her here; he was the one who was asking this of her. She smiled at him, her face muscles feeling stiff and tight. “I will do whatever you ask of me, my darling. If you desire this, then I desire this.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “So be it,” he said in a tight voice. He picked up the domino and draped it around her shoulders, fastening it at her neck. His hands were surprisingly gentle, caressing at her throat as he fastened the cape, and she wondered what he would do if she lowered her face to rub against his hands. She kept her head still.

Instead he lifted his hand to brush her cheek, gently, and she would have broken, if he hadn't turned away, starting toward the door and opening it. He paused there, holding out his arm. “Shall we join the others, my love?”

She took his arm, and went.

The halls he led her down were dark and shrouded, but he seemed to know where he was going. “Have you been here before?” she asked in a calm tone.

In answer he said, “Bromley holds these gatherings every few months. If I have nothing better to do I join them.”

“You have a taste for degeneracy?”

He looked down at her and smiled grimly. “Haven't you noticed?”

She subsided. She could pull back, cry off. What was the worst thing that would happen?

She would lose. She hated to lose, but most particularly she hated the thought of losing to him. She was gambling on the hope that he wouldn't go through with this, and she just might lose. He cared for her, whether
he could admit it or not. She was certain of it, though she couldn't say why. He would pull back himself, take her away from this terrible place.

But he continued moving forward, and she kept up with him. He was walking swiftly, not bothering with a cane this evening, as if he were in a hurry to get to the dark heart of the night.

She heard the noise from a distance, the soft murmur of voices growing louder until they approached a wide set of doors. Impassive servants stood on either side, and they waited for a nod from her terrible, beautiful lover. The doors were opened, and they were greeted with a roar.