His fiancée was sitting at the piano, dressed in a frock of rose-pink. Her brown hair had been simply arranged around her face, and he could see the bite mark on her shoulder and was instantly aroused.

She looked up at him, and there wasn’t a tear, not a shadow in her eye. She beamed at him. “That was absolutely lovely, darling,” she said brightly. “When can we do it again?”

He stood motionless, looking at her. Her color was high, making her look even prettier, and her mouth was slightly swollen from the pressure of his. But it was the bite mark on her neck that was most arousing, most disturbing. He couldn’t believe he’d been so out of control that he’d done that. It was primal, animalistic, something he wasn’t used to feeling. Except when he looked at her.

He was half tempted to cross the room, lift her up onto the piano, shove up her skirts and take her there. But he didn’t move, giving her a faint, cool smile that belied that turmoil inside him. The sheer, barely controlled lust that would doubtless terrify her. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it, my precious. I’m afraid we’ll have to wait for an encore until I return from London.”

Her mouth pouted in disappointment, the look in her eyes less easy to read. “Must you go?”

“I’m afraid so. I have a very special house party planned, and I must see to the arrangements.”

Her eyebrows rose. “A house party? Here?”

“Not this time. My friends don’t mind the dust and decay—in fact, I rather think they enjoy it. But it’s not my turn to play host. I simply promised to see that our main event takes place as ordered. Our wedding, my dear.”

She blinked. “We’re getting married at a house party? That’s scarcely legal, is it? And who might the guests be, dearest? Jewel thieves?”

“Among others. You’ll find all sorts of guests at these house parties. From royal dukes to anarchists, in fact. I think you’ll be quite entertained. As for legalities, we can always deal with that later.”

“How entertaining,” she said in an unaltered voice. “And do we have a date on this momentous gathering?”

“Friday next, my love. I’ll be gone until then—I find you much too distracting, but in my absence you may do anything you please. This house is yours, and my finances are at your disposal. You’ll have to entertain yourself as best you can without me.”

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.

19

Miss 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.”