“Oh, precious, I am absolutely that depraved, and more. But in fact I would give the task of deflowering the fair Lydia to Charles Reading, who seems to be oddly enamored of your sister.”

She couldn’t help it, the tiny sound of distress that bubbled up from inside her.

“I beg your pardon, my precious? Did you say something?” he said with exquisite courtesy. She didn’t—couldn’t—answer, and he continued smoothly. “Unfortunately, Charles seems infatuated with your sister, though he denies it. It can go nowhere. He needs to marry a rich woman, and your sister won’t do, and he knows it. He’s got a disturbing streak of decency, but I know he won’t be able to resist if I offer her. I’m afraid she’ll be ruined.”

“I’ll warn Lydia. She’s no fool.”

“Indeed, she’s smarter and more resilient than I gave her credit for. But you won’t warn her. You won’t be going anywhere near her until we come to an agreement.” There was a sudden flare of light as he lit a taper, and she could see his face then, beautiful, brutal, a fallen angel reigning in hell.

“I have a cousin—” she began.

“Marcus Harriman will be of no use to you. My lawyers will ensure it.”

Ice again. Her only recourse was not to show it. “Indeed?” she said coolly. “Then pray tell, what are your terms? What kind of agreement do you wish to come to?”

“You should be glad, my precious. I’m being quite reasonable and almost gentlemanly.” He waited a moment as she laughed in disbelief. “I have no designs upon your so-lovely body. It’s your mind I want. Now, any wise person would understand that that’s a much greater sacrifice, but women tend to be valued for their cunts, and as long as I leave that alone you won’t be totally ruined.”

“Your language is foul.”

“I’m foul, darling. Haven’t you discovered that yet? But as long as you willingly keep me company your sister will be safe.”

“For how long?”

He appeared struck. “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said. “Clearly you are used to haggling in the marketplace—I salute you. How long?” He tapped his long white fingers against his chin. “In truth, I can’t imagine growing tired of you, but I’m bound to, sooner rather than later. And I’m a fair man…don’t scoff, precious…I should pick a reasonable amount of time. Shall we say until the end of Easter? It has a certain lovely symbolism. At the time your God has risen from the dead you get to go free.”

“Not my God,” she snapped.

“You continue to amaze me,” he said. “Consider this—your sister will join Mrs. Clarke at the château, where she will be well looked-after. You will stay here with me on some pretext. You’re a more experienced liar than I am—I don’t usually have to bother. You’ll come up with something. You keep me company during Lent and the Revels of the Heavenly Host and come Easter morn you get to rise from the dead and start a new life. With a generous stipend from me to ensure that life is prosperous. How does that sound?”

“Blasphemy is far from attractive.”

“I thought he wasn’t your God?” he murmured. “And I’m not particularly worried about you finding me attractive, pet.”

“Because you have no designs on my body,” Elinor supplied.

“No, sweetness. Because you’re already completely fascinated by me, and nothing’s going to change that. It doesn’t matter what I say or do. You’re trapped, like a sweet little moth in a spider web.”

“You may find you’re mistaken, my lord. You may have a wasp in your web.”

“Oh, I do hope so, child,” Rohan said, rising. He blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness again. “I’ll have the agreement drawn up for your signature tomorrow morning.”

“Drawn up? You expect me to sign something?”

“But of course. That way, if you renege I have merely to show the contract to a few influential people to destroy you completely.”

She looked at the shadowy form in the darkness. “I’m not sure there’s much difference between my current position and total destruction.”

“Your sister is the difference, my pet. Do we have an agreement?”

She wanted to scream at him, rage at him, beat at him with her fists. She did nothing. Later, when she was alone, in the darkness of her bedroom where no one would see or hear, she would give in to grief and rage. For now she would show him none of it. “We do. Now may I sleep? I find I’m quite fatigued.” She even managed a creditable yawn.

“Indeed. Madame is waiting for me and she tends to be quite insatiable. I can only hope that I have not stayed away so long that three men have taken my place.”

“Why three?”

“Darling, it takes that many to replace my skills.”

To her astonishment she felt a brief caress against her face. An impossibility, because he’d already gone. With shaking hands she lit the candle beside her bed. To scare away the shadows, perhaps. She peered through the darkness, but she was alone.

Elinor slipped out of bed, cursing at the pain in her feet. She’d forgotten about it, but in truth, it was already improving. She limped over to the salon, but there was no sign of him. There were two doors leading into her room—she went to the first to lock it and found it was already bolted from the inside. She hobbled across the room to the second door, the one that led to the dressing room, to find that it, too, was locked from the inside. How had he managed to get in, to materialize through locked doors?

It didn’t matter—he wasn’t going to do it again. She dragged one chair and shoved it under the door handle, then took another chair and tucked it under the other. No one would get past her barricade. She went to the windows. The heavy snow had almost stopped, with only gentle flakes still drifting down, and she could see the rooftops of the building quite well. If need be she could go out that way. She wasn’t going to stay trapped in this room if he chose to disturb her again…

But she was fooling herself. She had nothing to run from. As long as she agreed to his rules Lydia would be safe and she herself would simply suffer the annoyance of his company. Not the insult of his physical attentions.

So why did it feel as if his lack of interest was the true insult? Where did she get these sudden silly ideas, that she might be desired, wanted?

She’d gotten them from him. Part of the games he played, the games she would have to endure for the next six weeks if she remembered her liturgical calendar correctly. But nowhere in his rules did it say she couldn’t fight back. He could play his games all he wanted—that didn’t mean he was going to win.

She limped back to bed, taking a look at the bandages on her feet before she blew out the candle. No fresh blood seeping through—they really were improving. Before long she’d be able to walk. To run. To dance rings around Francis Rohan, who foolishly thought he’d have everything his way. She wouldn’t let him win. She would ensure that he sent Lydia away to the country where she’d be safe, and then she’d start in on him.

She could make his life so miserable he’d be begging to send her away.

Two hours later Francis Rohan lay naked and stretched across his current lover’s equally naked body. Juliette had always been inventive, and he’d found himself particularly inspired tonight. It was a great shame that he was imagining Elinor Harriman’s body naked beneath, above, in front of his, but Juliette wouldn’t mind as long as he gave her the mind-numbing pleasure she demanded. Indeed, even dear Juliette was worn out this evening, taken to her limit and beyond, until she had to beg him to stop.

It was troublesome, this fascination with his reluctant houseguest. A great deal too bad that it was bordering on obsession. His friends, if he could call them that, would be astonished.

He knew his reasons were simple. He was denying himself, when he usually took what he wanted like the rakehell he was. Normally Miss Harriman would be seduced and forgotten by now. But something had stayed his hand. Perhaps it was her calm, pragmatic air, or the curiously vulnerable streak that broke forth occasionally. There was no denying that he was enjoying himself, enjoying the wanting, enjoying spending that need on others while the ultimate prize awaited. Unless he came to his senses before he actually managed to bed her.

He had no idea whether that was going to happen or not. He’d never gone through anything like this, so he had nothing to compare it with. All he knew was he hadn’t felt more alive in years, perhaps decades. He couldn’t remember.

He slipped out of bed, away from Juliette, and frowned for a moment. He was totally unacquainted with guilt or regret—they were the emotions of fools. Nevertheless, as pleasantly exhausted as he was, there was the oddest sense that he’d done something wrong.

Nonsense. Do what thou wilt. He’d wanted a female, quite badly, and Juliette was more than available. Life was too short to stint on pleasures, and if Elinor Harriman started interfering then he’d simply have to ship her back to England where she belonged. He wasn’t about to let anyone or anything interfere with who and what he was.

Juliette stirred, whimpering slightly as she moved, and she could thank him for that. Would he really consider making Elinor submit to the deliciously perverse things he sometimes fancied? Perhaps he wanted to make love to her chastely, like a careful bridegroom.

He was nobody’s bridegroom. He’d have her on her knees in front of him, taking him in her mouth. He’d have her every way he could, and then think of new ways to try it. The Heavenly Host was keeping a chapbook of positions and variations, often named after the lady first willing to attempt them. Perhaps ten years from now he’d open the book and be reminded of the Harriman.

There was something displeasing about that, though he wasn’t going to brood about it. There were no rules in the Host, but the generous sharing of partners was expected. He rather thought he’d skip that with the enchanting Miss Harriman.