Breathless (6 page)

But the dowagers began to annoy her as they found fault with everyone they could recognize, and with their attempts to draw her into their disdain, and eventually Miranda rose, drifting farther into the shadows, away from everyone. The room was too warm, and she longed for the cool night air, but there was no terrace outside the Carrimore ballroom, and no place to escape to. She simply moved back into the deepest shadows, where her bright red domino turned black in the absence of light, and found a delicate table and chair. If Jane remembered she might sneak a cake or something that Miranda could devour when no one was looking. In the meantime she would simply wait.

She didn't hear him approach, but then, the room was noisy, filled with the orchestra playing at top volume, the chatter of voices trying to drown out the music, the sounds of feet on the dance floor, the clink of glasses.

One moment she was blessedly, peacefully alone.

In the next, she wasn't.

“Did you tire of dancing, Lady Miranda?”

There was no mistaking Lucien de Malheur's sinuous voice. It came as such a surprise she jerked her head up, then wished to God she hadn't. It would have been so much better if she'd simply ignored him, but it was already too late for that. So she blundered her way
through it. “Lord Rochdale,” she murmured with cool courtesy. “I didn't expect to see you here.”

“Didn't you? The Carrimores are known for their open hospitality. Even a damaged rogue like me is included.”

“As well as damaged goods like me,” she said in a sweet voice. “Don't let me keep you, my lord. I'm certain you have more important things to attend to.”

He grew very still, looking down at her. “I seem to have offended the lady. Pray, what did I do to earn your ire?”

She could hardly tell him, not without sounding ridiculous. “Not a thing,” she said breezily.

She didn't like the smile that played around his mouth. He hadn't bothered with a loo mask, which would have covered a great deal of his scarred face. Instead he was dressed in the height of elegance, all black and silver, and the walking stick he carried had a huge ruby on the top of it. “I rejoice to hear it. May I join you?”

“I'm waiting for someone.”

“Are you indeed?” There was a note in his voice she couldn't quite recognize.

“Yes,” she said firmly. “The person who accompanied me.”

“Ah.” He sank into the chair opposite her anyway. “You wouldn't deprive a cripple of a moment of rest, would you? Even though I couldn't indulge in the riotous dancing I find my leg is paining me damnably.”

“You're hardly a cripple,” she said, not interested in playing his games.

He ignored her statement. “So tell me, my child, are you awaiting a man or a woman? Who brought you to
this party, because I'm certain you wouldn't have come on your own.”

“I was invited, my lord.”

“Of course you were. I saw to it.”

He'd managed to surprise her. She'd suspected as much, but not that he'd admit it. “Why?”

His smile was secretive. “I'll tell you when you answer my question. Who brought you here, a man or a woman?”

“Why should it matter?”

“Because if you came with another man I'd have to have him killed.” The words were spoken with the lightest touch, accompanied by a faint smile, and she wondered why she wanted to shiver.

“I believe the crown frowns on dueling.”

“Oh, I rarely duel. I'm not light enough on my feet. I'd have him set upon by Mohocks and stabbed. It would be expensive, but, fortunately, easy enough to arrange.”

“Really? If I gave you a name could you see to it?”

“I believe Christopher St. John is no longer in England, or I'd be more than happy to have him killed for you.”

She froze. She should have known he'd be aware of all the intimate details of her fall from grace and the man who engineered it. “Too bad,” she said calmly. “That would have suited my amour propre very well.”

“Who brought you?” There was steel in his persistent question beneath the pleasant smile, and she was tempted to lie, just to see what would happen.

“My dearest friend Jane and I came together. We thought no one would recognize us in our dominos and masks, and Jane is about to be trapped into an unpleas
ant marriage. She wanted to enjoy herself before that happened.”

“I knew you the instant I saw you, Lady Miranda. But, pray tell me, isn't that how you got into such trouble in the first place? Indulging in one last evening of harmless fun?”

She looked at him. “How is that you're so intimately aware of the details of my downfall?”

“The entire ton knows the details of your downfall, child. Could you doubt it?”

“A gentleman wouldn't mention that.”

“I'm not particularly a gentleman.”

She didn't bother arguing. “If Jane causes a scandal and her husband-to-be cries off then it would be all to the good. She'd be better living life as a spinster than marrying someone she doesn't love.”

“You're still so young,” he murmured fondly. “Tell me this man's name and I'll get rid of him.”

“Why are you so bloodthirsty tonight?”

“I wasn't going to have him killed, Miranda.” This time his voice faintly caressed her name without the title. “I was just going to throw a roadblock in the way of this marriage, since you seem so set against it.”

“Jane thinks she wants it.”

“And you think Jane's wrong. I trust your judgment. What's his name?”

She finally laughed. He was being absurd and charming, and he hadn't forgotten her after all. “George Bothwell, but you're not to do anything about it. Jane would never forgive me.”

“Jane need never know.” He rose, towering over her, leaning on his cane. In the shadows his scars were barely discernible. “Come with me, Lady Miranda. You need
to admire her grace's extraordinarily vulgar jewels. You need to get some fresh air. You need to stop hiding in the shadows like some kind of leper. Not that I don't prefer you with me, but you need to be back out there dancing as your friend is. You looked…luminous.” He nodded as Jane waltzed by, too busy to notice anyone around her. Miranda wondered how he happened to recognize her friend, but she decided not to ask.

“Are you asking me to dance?”

His smile was twisted. “Hardly. You would find the effect quite gruesome. But I could find you any number of eligible partners who know better than to presume. Or we could simply go for a walk. Carrimore House is huge and possessed of mile upon mile of hallways. We could find someplace quiet to sit and talk.”

“You haven't made any effort at all to talk with me in the last week.” It came out unexpectedly, and she could have bit her tongue.

“Did you miss me? I thought you would prefer not to be besieged. Had I known you were pining for me, I would have sought you out sooner.”

“I was hardly pining for you!” she snapped.

“Of course not, my child.” He held out his arm. “Shall we walk?”

And like a fool she rose and threaded her arm through his.

I
n fact, Jane was not having a particularly good time. She should have known better than to badger Miranda into coming to this ball. She hadn't really expected to have fun, but Miranda had been isolated for so long she thought it would do her good, with no risk of anyone giving her the cut direct.

And indeed, things had started out well enough. Miranda had danced, and even as Jane suffered the clumsy feet of her slightly inebriated partner she could see Miranda's joy as she'd moved across the dance floor, and Jane had put on the appearance of having a grand time while she was tossed around like a sack of potatoes. But, in truth, balls were excruciating. She was shy; there was no way around it, and to make conversation with strangers while trying to remember the intricate steps of a country dance was her idea of hell.

It was her fault they were there, of course. She had a very bad tendency to try to fix things, Jane thought, and she'd always felt guilty that she'd let Miranda go out that night so long ago and not run screaming to her brothers. Because she'd kept quiet Miranda's life had
been ruined, and there'd been nothing Jane could do to make up for it.

Miranda would have laughed at her if she knew how guilty she felt. No, she wouldn't—Miranda never laughed at her megrims. She was the best, dearest friend a girl could have, and Jane just wished she could give back even a tiny portion of all Miranda had given her.

She'd made her brave when she wanted to cower. She'd made her laugh when she wanted to weep. She made her dance when she wanted to sit in the corner, and now Jane had finally been able to do the same thing for Miranda.

Until she'd disappeared.

It took some doing to extricate herself from the dance floor. With the mask covering her plain, unremarkable face she suddenly had limitless partners, and she was exhausted from trying to sound like someone she wasn't. It wasn't that she didn't like to dance. She loved to, with the right partner, but she seldom found anyone willing to stand up with her and to put the right attention and energy into the production. Mr. Bothwell was stiff as a board, and disliked dancing, and as an engaged woman she could scarcely stand up with anyone else. She'd hoped to have a lovely time even as she helped Miranda, but the anonymous dancing had been unsatisfactory, and if Miranda had decided to hide out then Jane was more than ready to leave. She simply had to find her first.

Escaping from the ballroom was her first task, and easier said than done. When she tried the open doors someone would catch her arm and spin her back onto the dance floor, and her demurrals were swallowed up by the noise of the crowd and the vigor of the orchestra.
Eventually she gave up, moving instead toward the back of the massive ballroom. If Carrimore House were anything like the houses she grew up in, there was most likely a hidden door near the back to allow the servants to come and go.

She slipped into a corner near the back of the room, waiting, and eventually her patience was rewarded when a door opened in the wall. She darted through, startling the servant who'd opened it, and found herself in one of the back hallways, clearly meant only for the staff. No rugs on the floor, no pictures on the grim walls, and she panicked, looking for a way back. There must be a trick to the door, because it wouldn't move. She looked to her right and to her left, but she had no idea which would be the best way to go, and she was frozen with indecision. She thought the grand staircase was to the left, and she headed in that direction. Not that she could actually leave—she had to find Miranda first. God willing, she might be there waiting for her.

Jane was dying from the heat. She slipped off the enveloping domino and mask, draping both over one arm as she made her way down the narrow hallway as swiftly as she could. If she were home she'd take the dancing slippers off her aching feet, as well. But she could hardly do that in the Carrimore's house, so she persevered, until she came to the end of the hallway, with no obvious way out.

She stared around her for a moment, then recognized the outline of a door beside her. She pushed, and it opened, silently, into a dark, deserted room.

At least, she thought it was deserted. She heard the noise first, a quiet, scratching sound, and a faint light was coming from across the room. As her eyes adjusted,
she could just determine the outlines of a huge bed, and she flushed with embarrassment, reaching behind her for the door to make her escape before whoever was in there realized their privacy had been breached. But the door had already swung closed again, and she turned, desperately trying to find the edge of it. Her fingers finally caught the slight rim, and she had just managed to pry it open when something loomed up behind her, and the door was pushed shut again.

Jane wasn't the kind of girl who screamed, though she couldn't help a smothered yelp of surprise. Smothered, because whoever had come up behind her had hauled her away from the door, back against a hard male body and one hand was clamped across her mouth.

They stood that way for a long moment, while she struggled to catch her breath. Her heart was beating wildly, there was no way she could disguise it. It was a far cry from the man behind her. His heartbeat was slow and steady, completely calm, as if sneaking up on young ladies and imprisoning them was something he did every day.

“Now what in the world is a lass like you doing wandering around the bedrooms, alone?” The voice in her ear was low, faintly amused. It wasn't the voice of an aristocrat, but she knew a servant would never dare put his hands on her. “If I move my hand are you going to scream?”

She shook her head, as much as his imprisoning hand would allow. As he pulled it away he murmured, “Good girl.”

Of course she ought to scream for help, but she was so frightened she doubted she could make more than a squeak. Besides, the man hadn't threatened her, and
she'd told him she wouldn't shriek. It would feel as if she'd broken a promise. She tried to clear her throat, struggling for her voice. “I was looking for someone,” she managed to whisper.

“Now what fool left you to find a bedroom all by yourself? If it had been me I wouldn't have given you a chance to get lost. I would have had you tucked away beneath the sheets before anyone noticed we were gone.”

Color flamed her face. He was being absurd, she thought, saying such things to her. He wouldn't have done it if he'd gotten a clear look at her. Men didn't put their hands on her, risk their livelihood, whatever it might be, by assaulting a member of the ton. It was clear by his voice that he was not a member of the ruling class, but what was he? Who was he?

“I was looking for my friend,” she said in a stiff voice. “My female friend.”

“Oh, do not say so, lass!” he crooned. “I hate to see you wasting yourself on another woman when there are so many men who would worship at your feet.”

All right, she was getting annoyed, enough that it overshadowed her usual timidity. “The room is dark, whoever you are. If you got a good look at me you'd know that no one is worshipping at my feet.”

He was still pressed against her, and his body was warm in the cool room. She realized suddenly that one of the tall windows leading out onto the tiny balconies that adorned Carrimore House was open.

“Ah, but I saw you quite clearly. I have eyes like a cat—I can see in the dark.”

She wasn't quite sure how to respond to that, par
ticularly since he didn't let her move. “I don't imagine you're here for any good reason.”

“I'm afraid not.” He sounded almost apologetic. “I'm here for Lady Carrimore's diamonds.”

She breathed in, shocked. “She's wearing them.”

“Oh, that's only a very small part of her diamonds. She has cases of them. Or she did. They now reside in a silk bag, and they're damned heavy.”

“You're a thief!” she gasped. “That's awful.”

“Not particularly,” he said in a cheerful voice. “I make a good living at it. And you needn't cry for the poor duchess. Her husband makes his money in the slave trade—those stones don't belong to her.”

“Then who do they belong to? Are you going to send them back to Africa along with the stolen natives?”

“Of course not. They belong to me, as of fifteen minutes ago. I would have been long gone but I heard you fumbling about behind the walls and I wanted to make certain I was safe. And I am safe, aren't I, me darling?”

She wanted to deny it. “Why would you think you were?”

To her amazement he turned her in his arms, suddenly, still keeping her tight against his body, and she looked up, trying to see him. “Because you're a pirate at heart, lass. I can feel it. You aren't going to turn me in. Are you?” His voice was low, his face so close. His fingers caught her chin and tilted it up to his face. “Are you?”

“I…I ought to,” she stammered.

She couldn't see much of him. Just a broad smile, and the glitter of his eyes. “You know I'm going to kiss
you, don't you? I shouldn't. But I can't resist. And you're going to kiss me back.”

She was more shocked by that than by discovering he was a jewel thief. “I most certainly am not! I'm engaged to be married.”

“I hope he appreciates you. That's not much of a ring on your finger—you deserve far better.”

She hid her hand and the pathetic ring in her skirts. “It's good enough for me.”

“No, it's not. He's not. But there's nothing I can do about that. Brace yourself, lass.” His mouth covered hers, and she jerked in surprise.

It wasn't an indiscreet pressure of his lips against hers. It was his mouth, hot and wet and open, and the fingers that held her chin stroked her, tugging it, and she tasted his tongue.

She froze, not certain what she should do. This was ridiculous, it was bizarre, it was shocking. She couldn't scream, and she didn't want to fight. He slowly seduced her with his tongue, sliding it against hers with a steady, sinuous rhythm that she felt in her breasts, the pit of her stomach, between her legs. It was a kiss that caught her soul, wrapped it up and stole it away from her, and when he finally lifted his head she was breathless. And so was he.

“He doesn't even know how to kiss you,” he said, a mixture of regret and laughter in his voice. “Such a waste, lass.”

She looked up at him in the darkness. And then said something she never would have thought she'd utter, not in a million years. “Kiss me again.”

And he did. She was clamped against his hard body, and he was very strong, and he lifted her, with seeming
effortlessness, carried her, and she thought he was taking her to the bed, and she didn't care. He moved her across the room, kissing her so deeply her brain was whirling, and they came up against a solid surface, and she wondered if he was going to take her there.

He moved his mouth, trailing kisses along her cheek. “Goodbye, lass,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. And a moment later she was out in a hallway, alone, no sign of a door in the damask-covered walls.

She was shaking. She realized with shock that he'd managed to fasten her domino back around her neck, though he hadn't bothered with the loo mask, and she quickly reached for the hood and pulled it low over her flaming face. She rested her forehead against the wall, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the pounding of her heart to slow. She could hear the noise and music from the ballroom, and she pushed away, moving toward it in a daze, walking until she came upon some of the guests, until she found a cushioned chair near a window. She sank into it, sitting there in breathless shock. And it was there Miranda found her.

 

She shouldn't be going off with him, Miranda thought, her hand on his arm, her gloved fingers resting on the superfine of his black coat. She could feel the eyes on them as they moved through the halls, but for once she knew those guarded, disapproving eyes weren't meant for her. The Scorpion put the strumpet's sins in the shade.

“Where are we going?” she demanded.

“Someplace where we can talk. I have a small task to perform and I thought you could bear me company while I did it.”

“A task?” That seemed absurd. What kind of task did one have in the middle of a ball? And Lucien de Malheur had people to perform his tasks—she couldn't imagine him exerting himself for anything less than monumental.

“I think it would probably be better if I didn't explain too much. We simply need to keep guard in a hallway, keep anyone from going into any of the bedrooms.”

“Why would people go into the bedrooms?”

“Oh, child, how can you be a fallen woman and still such an innocent! The Carrimores are very liberal hosts. They make certain there are bedrooms available for couples who feel the need to fornicate.”

The word startled her, but she was determined not to show it. “Why should they?” she said in a caustic voice. “Why can't they just go home?”

“Because most of them have a husband or wife they have to take home with them, not the one they want to fuck.”

She ripped her arm from his, moving away from him. “You disappoint me, Lord Rochdale,” she said in a shaky voice. “I hadn't realized you had the same low opinion of me that others have.”

“Now why would you say that? Haven't you ever heard that word before? It's what those guests are doing, and using prettier words for it is being disingenuous. I meant no offense.”

She stared at him. “Now who's being disingenuous? You can't use a word like that without expecting a reaction, not to a young lady of the ton. But then, you know I'm not a proper young lady. The truth is when I was part of polite society I was protected from such harsh realities. Once I was considered persona non grata I
had no idea how people conducted themselves. So why use such words with me? Were you planning on seducing me? Oh, excuse me. Were you planning on
fucking
me?” She'd never spoken that word out loud, and the very utterance of it made her faintly breathless, but she was too angry to care. She'd trusted him, fool that she was.