Breathless (4 page)

She didn't blink. He was a tall man, and lean, almost gaunt. The scars across his face were old but nonetheless vicious, and she couldn't quite identify their origins. Something had raked across his face, leaving furrows, and there were other deeper, neater lines from something else even more cutting. He was dressed in the first degree of elegance, all in funeral black, and he leaned on a gold-headed cane.

“Look your fill, Lady Miranda,” he said softly in that well-remembered voice. “I owe you at least that much for failing to protect you from an oaf like Panelle. Would you care to see me walk? You don't get the full effect of my monstrousness until you see me move.” He turned around slowly, leaning heavily on the cane, and she could see that one leg was bent slightly, twisted, as if broken and never set properly.

He had long dark hair, but he'd tied it back from his face rather than use it to shield himself, and when he faced her she looked more closely, past the scars. He had a narrow, clever face with high cheekbones, and his eyes looked faintly exotic, tilted. She couldn't see their color in the moon-washed landscape, but they were very pale, unusually so. His nose was thin, strong, with a slight twist to it. Oddly enough, his mouth had scarcely been touched by whatever horror had befallen the rest of him. His upper lip was narrow, thoughtful. His lower one full and sensuous. What did it feel like to kiss that mouth? she thought with distant, shocking curiosity.

“As you see, I'm quite appalling,” he said in that gentle, seductive voice. “I thought it better if you were warned. Doubtless any number of people told you not to come tonight, not to allow my friendship.”

“No,” she said calmly. “No one said anything at all.”

For a moment he looked surprised. “Dear me… All that effort in building a terrifying reputation and it fails me completely.”

“Well, to be sure, I don't go out much in society, so there wasn't much of a chance for anyone to head me off,” she said in a placating voice. “I'm sure if any of my friends or family knew I'd made the acquaintance of such a hardened villain they would have warned me away, but they're all out of town.”

For a moment an odd expression crossed his face. “Then I can only be glad for your absence of company,” he said in that soft, drawling voice. “This way we can get to know each other without helpful relatives interfering.” His expression was just on the very edge of a smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. “I've bespoke dinner for the two of us in my study. I would hope you'd agree to join me.”

“But what about your guests?”

“Signor Tebaldi will doubtless sing until at least half the guests are asleep or drunk, and then Mr. Kean will attempt to wake them up with some stunning orations, and no one will notice whether I am there or not. In fact, I quite often fail to attend my own parties. It's part of my delightful eccentricity.”

“Oh, I
would
like to be delightfully eccentric,” she said, unguarded. “It seems that only men can get away with it.”

“I will give you lessons, child. Join me for supper and we won't even have to think about those people.”

In for a penny, in for a pound. She glanced down at Mr. Panelle, who was still making whistling noises between his teeth. “What shall we do about him?”

“The servants can dispose of him. Unless you'd like
to hit him again. I doubt he'd even notice a sharp kick in the kidneys if you were so inclined.”

Had he read her thoughts? “I think he's suffering quite sufficiently,” she finally pronounced, ignoring the temptation.

“I would offer you my arm but I'm afraid my gait is quite clumsy and it would be uncomfortable for you,” he murmured. “There's a servant at the end of the terrace with a candelabrum in his hand. He'll see you to my study while I make arrangements to rid us of this piece of detritus.”

She'd already spent half the night hesitating. She could do the safe, boring thing, go back to listen to Signor Tebaldi and take a hackney home.

But she'd never been fond of tenors.

 

Lucien de Malheur leaned over the agonized body, and the tip of his cane caressed the man's pale, sweating face. “Well done, Gregory. You acquitted yourself admirably. It's too bad that's she's so effective at defending her honor, but in truth I expect I might have hurt you more. And I think it's better that I don't come off as a gallant rescuer. Not yet.”

Gregory didn't say anything. He couldn't—he was still making high-pitched noises through his nose. “Don't worry, I'll take excellent care of her,” Lucien continued. “I know you have enough sense not to speak of this night's work, lest you end up unable to speak ever again.” His voice was soft, like that of a lover.

“Girl…deserves to be schooled…” Gregory gasped out. “Beaten.”

“She'll be schooled, Gregory. Broken to my bridle most effectively, I promise you, though I find there are
much more effective ways than brute force. Now go home and avail yourself of some ice if you can procure it. All your parts should be working well enough in a week or so.”

As he followed his guest across the broad terrace he heard the belated, muffled shriek of his Judas goat, and he smiled.

T
he door led to a study, bathed in warm candlelight, mercifully quiet after Signor Tebaldi's famous fortissimo, and Miranda stepped inside, breathing a sigh of relief. There was a table set for two, a blazing fire taking the chill out of the air, and some of her apprehension began to fade.

She'd felt the eyes on her as she'd headed out onto the terrace. She would have hoped that a similar outcast like the earl would have fewer gossip-minded guests, but even among the demi-ton curiosity seemed to run rampant.

She should never have come. And she would tell her host that she should leave—he could send her home in his carriage, or at the very least have one of his servants call her a hackney.

She heard him approach—the steady strike of his cane, the faint drag of his leg. She supposed she should feel a sense of dread; the stories about this man were legend. But she didn't. The brief glimpse of him on the shadowed terrace had been enough of a forewarning.
She would sit across from him over a candlelit dinner and view his ruined beauty without blinking.

Because beneath the scoring across his face he was indeed beautiful, and she wondered what or who could have caused such cruel damage.

He moved into the room, a peculiar grace to his broken gait. But then, he struck her as a man who was never less than graceful. He sank down into the chair opposite and she met his gaze calmly.

“Most women keep their eyes in the general area of my shoulder, Lady Miranda. Do you have a particular fascination for horrors?”

She couldn't help it, she laughed, and he looked genuinely startled. “Hardly a horror, my lord. You had me expecting something out of a Gothic romance.”

“I've disappointed you?” His voice was silky, his sangfroid back in place. “You continue to surprise me. Would there be a difference in your response if I were the deformed creature you were expecting?”

“I imagine I'd be compassionate, understanding. But all you've got is some scarring and a bad leg. Hardly the stuff of nightmares.”

He seemed to have gotten over his initial surprise, and he simply looked at her coolly. He poured her a glass of wine, then one for himself. “So I have no call on your compassion and patience as I am?”

“Of course you do, if you need it. I must say, you don't seem to be particularly needy.”

“Very astute. I have most of what I need in this life, save one thing, and I imagine it's something you could do with, as well.” He leaned back in the chair, languid and elegant, and yet beneath his light tone she sensed
a truth. “I have business partners, enemies, lovers and social acquaintances. I need a friend.”

It was, of course, the one thing he could say that would move her, but she kept her own face as impassive as his. “You think we can be friends? I must admit friends have been in very short supply recently. But simple friendship between a man and a woman tends to be misinterpreted. Would society approve?” The last trace of her wariness had vanished.

“I doubt it, and I doubt you care. It does seem like we don't have a large pool of prospective friends to pick from. Tolerant people are fairly thin on the ground around here. I don't think one should dismiss possibilities too swiftly without due consideration.”

She looked at him for a long, meditative moment. In some ways he seemed like a little boy, cherishing his differences even as he hated them. And yet it wouldn't do to underestimate him. Despite his scarred face and wounded body he seemed oddly…potent. Masculine. And after her wretched mistake, she'd learned to beware of that trait.

But still, his offer of friendship felt genuine. As if he actually cared about her empty life. And he was right—there hadn't been many other options.

“I would be honored to count you my friend,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself.

His answering smile was a revelation. Lucien de Malheur would have been an Adonis if it weren't for the scarring. When he smiled everything else disappeared.

She smiled back.

 

To her astonishment the hours slipped by as they talked, and she realized he was someone she had
dreamed about. A friend, rather than a lover. Someone who saw things the way she did, slightly askew. He made her laugh, particularly when he was doing his best to sound tortured and villainous, and she loved puncturing his perverted vanity.

“I can see you as some plucky Shakespearian heroine,” he said at one point. “Not quite a Miranda—you're no wizard's daughter. More likely someone who dresses in boy's clothes and runs into the forest, like Rosalind or Viola, and tricks the poor young hero into being fool enough to think he's fallen in love with another man.”

“Perhaps. I'm sure you'd like to think of yourself as Othello, all broody and tortured, but I see you as more of a Caliban, not nearly so monstrous as you'd like to believe.”

He looked at her for a long moment, and she met his gaze fearlessly. “No, my lady,” He said gently. “Wrong play. I'm Richard the Third, determined to prove a villain.”

She laughed, because there was no other response, and his answering smile was faint enough that she felt some lingering unease surface again. He was joking, of course. But looking into his pale eyes she wasn't quite certain.

She was still thinking about that moment as she rode home, comfortably ensconced in his elegant carriage, the same one that had carried her in the rain. It had been brought to a side door, and he'd accompanied her out there, away from the guests, tucking her in, catching her hand in his and holding it for a breathless moment while he looked up at her in the darkness, and she'd waited for his mouth to touch her skin.

But instead, he released it, and she immediately
pulled her gloves on, knowing to her shame that she'd paused there because she'd wanted to feel his mouth against her hand. A moment later he'd closed the carriage door and she was bowling down the narrow alley away from his huge, dark house, and she sank back against the tufted cushions and closed her eyes.

Good God. What was wrong with her? Was it simply because she'd been so isolated for so long, that even a reputed monster would arouse her banked interest? Not that he was a monster at all. Within moments she'd looked past the scars and only seen his face, the beautiful bones, the pale, watchful eyes, the mouth that kept drawing her gaze. He had beautiful hands, as well—long fingers, hands that looked capable of great strength and elegant tenderness.

Indeed, he was neither Richard the Third nor Caliban. He was a dark prince under an enchantment, and she was…

Out of her bloody mind. She laughed out loud. She'd had too much of his wonderful wine, even though her family had taught her how to hold her liquor. She'd had too much of his wonderful voice, his attention, his intelligence and sly humor, the faint, bewitching malice that was irresistible. She was drunk on Lucien de Malheur.

Indeed, it was a safe enough attraction. No one would ever guess she'd become enamored of the Scorpion, certainly not the man himself. It seemed as if it had been forever since she'd indulged in daydreams and fantasies, and now she had a perfectly safe subject for them. She could dream of rescuing him from his darkness, taking away his bitterness. She could dream of happy endings. For him, if not for her.

 

Lucien de Malheur moved through the halls of his townhouse, well-pleased with his night's work. He had her. She'd been ridiculously easy, falling into his hands with only the most delicate of lures. She'd been so isolated she had become enamored of the first man who knew how to play her, even a damaged creature such as himself.

Caliban. He laughed beneath his breath. She certainly was fearless, mocking his melodramatic airs. He'd thought playing the wounded spirit would draw her sympathy. Instead she'd laughed at him, seeing right through him, and he found himself unwittingly caught by her, as well.

It was going to make the whole endeavor so much more interesting. Miranda Rohan looked at him directly and felt no pity or fear. By midnight he'd felt her first stirrings of attraction. By the time he saw her to his carriage it was after three, and she was already trapped in his web, caught in his snare.

It should have bored him. He thought she'd be silly and emotional and missish and he'd have to patiently work through her childish fussing. Instead she'd been direct and challenging.

She would make an excellent wife for the short period he planned.

The house wasn't yet devoid of guests. He was known for his openness to misbehavior, and couples had found hidden places to indulge in more than flirtation. He could hear the occasional sounds of passion filter through as he moved down the corridor, and he felt a faint stirring in his own body. Miranda Rohan had
skin like cream touched with honey. He was going to enjoy discovering all of it.

He went straight to his study, his real study, the one he used for business and nothing else. As he expected, his guest was waiting, sitting by the fire, his booted feet propped on the brass fender, a glass of French brandy in his hand.

Lucien could hardly begrudge him the brandy—Jacob Donnelly was in full control of the trade that brought smuggled brandy into London, and he kept the house well-supplied.

“To what do I owe this honor?” Lucien drawled, pouring himself a glass. His servants knew better than to come anywhere near this room, and he was used to waiting on himself.

Jacob glanced up at him from beneath his shaggy hair. He was an extraordinarily handsome man. He was tall and long-limbed, with the kind of face that won scullery maids and whores and countesses. The two of them couldn't have been more different—the maimed aristocrat and the handsome king of London thieves. It was little wonder they worked so well together.

Donnelly leaned back, casting a look up at him. “I heard some things on the street,” he said, his deep voice a strange mishmash of Irish, street slang and the aristocratic phrasings he'd picked up. The man was a born mimic, who'd made his life on his own since he'd run away from wealthy male planters who used him as a slave. Donnelly had been eight years old, and Lucien had no illusions about what the boy had done to survive. One could see it in his dark, dark eyes.

“I expect you hear a great many things on the street,” Lucien said, moving to stand by the fire. It was a cold
night, and his bad leg ached. “Is it anything that would interest me?”

“It may. Apparently the Duke of Carrimore and his pretty young wife are coming to town. Complete with the diamonds she drapes herself with. I think she needs to be relieved of some of them…. They…distract from her natural beauty.”

Lucien laughed. “The idea has merit. The old man is so besotted he'd simply buy her more, and she'd enjoy the chance to shop. Eugenia is easily bored, as I know only too well, and she's probably tired of her jewelry by now. Were you interested in all of them or just a measured selection?”

“Oh, I think we should take them all,” Jacob said idly. “Why go to all that trouble for half measures?”

“Indeed. If things follow as they usually do then they'll hold a ball to celebrate their return to London. Who did you want to play my servant for the night? I know that Billy Banks is your best cracksman, and he's excellent at playing the bored footman, but I think we may have used him too much. Have you got someone else who could handle it?”

“I was thinking of doing it myself.”

He'd managed to surprise Lucien. “Yourself? Do you think that's wise? A general doesn't join the ranks of the soldiers—he gives the orders. Surely you have an army of able thieves who can come in as my footman, make their way upstairs and relieve Lady Carrimore of her excess diamonds.”

“Of course I do. Perhaps I just want to see if I my skills are still sharp. They can grow stale from lack of use, and I want to make certain I can still support myself if the whole organization goes belly up. Besides, I've
got my share of enemies, men who want to take over my part of London, and I suspect it wouldn't do me harm to show everyone I can still handle a simple job. Though who knows, I may even retire. I've been feeling the urge to travel of late.”

“Don't be ridiculous. You're barely in your thirties—how could you possibly have grown stale? I say it's much too great a risk. If you get caught your entire empire is ruined and I lose a very nice bit of my income. Not that I need it, but as you know, I rather like the game.”

“I know you do. We've shared many schemes since we first met, and we both enjoy the challenge. In truth, neither of us really need those diamonds, and Carrimore is damned protective of them. Last I heard he had a servant dedicated to keeping guard over them night and day.”

“A challenge you'd have no trouble dealing with, old friend, but why risk it?” Lucien said. And then he laughed. “What an absurd question—you'll risk it for the same reasons I would.” He laughed again. “You're a little tall for a footman.”

“I can stoop.”

Lucien took the seat opposite him, stretching out his bad leg gingerly. “I don't know that I have anyone in my service who's quite your strapping size, and I'm certainly not about to let someone who works for me dress in an ill-fitting coat.”

“I've got people who can see to it faster and won't ask any questions.”

“Dear boy, are you suggesting that people dare ask me questions?” Lucien said, affronted.

“No, but they'll talk behind your back. My people wouldn't even dare do that.”

“Clearly you have better control over your employees.” He eyed him lazily. “If you're willing to run the risk, then I suppose I am, as well. After all, I can pretend I've never seen you in my life if they catch you.”

“If they snabble me I'm not going to wait around to answer questions, and I'm not letting them send me away. I have an aversion to cramped quarters.”

“And who can blame you? Then it's settled. I'll send word to you as soon as I receive an invitation.” Lucien paused. “Was there something else?”