“Absolutely,” she said numbly. “Can I see her?”

“It would be wiser not to at the moment. You haven’t yet asked me about my proposition.”

She forced herself to evince an interest. “Of course, cousin. I’m very interested.” Perhaps he had an elderly aunt who needed a companion, or a cousin who needed a governess. Except that he had no family—his family was hers.

“I know this will sound unexpected, but I’ve thought it through in great detail, and it seems as if it would answer everything. It might not be what you want, but I suspect it would work out very well indeed, and…”

“Cousin,” Elinor interrupted him, some of her old fire coming back. “What are you trying to say?”

He took her hand and got down on one knee in the swaying coach, and she watched him in utter horror. “I’m asking you to marry me, Cousin Elinor. I believe we should get on very well together, and I can’t help but feel that all the grand things I’ve inherited really should be yours, but for an accident of birth. I want to share them with you.”

“Cousin…” she said gently, trying to hide her annoyance.

“Indeed, I have the utmost respect for you, dear lady, and…and fondness. I think we can grow to love each other very deeply, and I beg you will consider my offer.”

She stared down at him for a long moment, all the while he attempted to keep his balance as the coach rattled along the rough roads. It would answer everything, she thought numbly. Rohan would hear she’d married, and promptly forget all about her, which is what she wanted. If she couldn’t have him then she wanted it over, completely.

She looked at her handsome cousin, holding her hand in his. “Yes,” she said in practical tones. “But I would like to return to England immediately.”

His smile was beatific. “Dear girl! I have a small ship waiting for us at Calais. We can be in England by tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. She’d be far away from this place, the country where she’d lived for the last ten years, the place she’d grown up in, the place she’d lost the only mother she’d ever known. Not to mention Lady Caroline.

He could never follow her. It didn’t matter if he suddenly came to his senses, remembered the long hours in each others’ arms, the heat, the tenderness. He couldn’t come after her. To follow her would be to risk his life. His miserable, ill-begotten life. “And my sister?”

“We’ll have her and her new husband to visit us as soon as we’re settled,” he said. “We can get married by special license almost as soon as we reach Dorset. You don’t know how happy you’ve made me, my dear. I was afraid it was too much to hope for.”

He rose up, taking the seat beside her, and she immediately jumped up and took the seat opposite him, oddly unwilling to have him so near.

“There is something I must tell you, Cousin Marcus,” she said, “which might cause you to change your mind.”

“I can’t imagine what, my dear.”

“I’ve lived a…a difficult life for the past few years.”

He nodded vigorously. “I know you have. It angers me that your father couldn’t have aided you when you most needed him.”

“I’m afraid…Marcus, I’m no longer a maid.”

He didn’t even blink. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, my dear. I am certainly not one to hold blame. You will be modest and faithful to me, and that is all that matters.”

For a moment she didn’t move. “Yes, Marcus,” she said finally. “Then I will marry you.”

“Darling cousin,” he said, beaming at her.

It wouldn’t be too awful, she thought, leaning back in the corner of the coach. He knew enough not to try to sit beside her again, not to touch her or kiss her. He would be polite, patient. And in truth, she could lie beneath him and let him rut on her body, because she knew with utter certainty that that was all he would do. There would be no touches, hard and then gentle, no kisses. And she would be fine.

She would just need to find someone who would dispense laudanum. Perhaps her new brother-in-law would be so kind, she thought mirthlessly.

She looked over at her husband-to-be. He was quite handsome, all in all, despite the Harriman Nose. His colorless hair was thinning slightly, very different from Rohan’s luxuriant black mane, and his mouth was…

She had to stop thinking about that. She had to remember the cruel, heartbreaking words and hold them close to her, in case she should ever waver, ever long for him. That man was a lie. The truth lay across from her, dozing slightly as they made their way through the night, heading for Calais.

24

Maison de Giverney was dark and silent. Charles Reading looked up at the huge building in astonishment. It was only five days into the two-week Revels, and the place looked abandoned. He’d been gone for only three days, and he knew a moment’s dread when he surveyed the darkness.

He’d waited too long, selfishly assuring himself and Lydia that Elinor was safe under Rohan’s protection. Francis had compromised her—that had been in the cards since the moment he’d laid eyes on her, but despite his threats Charles knew he wouldn’t hurt her. And he’d simply swept Lydia off to the nearest English parson he could find and married her out of hand before anything or anyone could stop them, including his own conscience. He wasn’t good enough for her, and it was totally impractical, and he didn’t give a damn. He was in love, and all the rationalizations couldn’t make it go away.

The nearest English parson had been half a days’ ride outside of Paris, and they’d spent their wedding night in a tiny inn in the countryside. The next two days had passed in a blaze of desire and a burst of tenderness, and it was only after they’d arrived back in Paris, returned to his rooms in the Place des Vosges, that they’d both emerged from their cocoon of happiness to think about Elinor’s rescue.

His wife was safely ensconced there, drowsy-eyed and naked in his bed, and he’d been more than loath to leave her. The only thing that could distract them from their dazed delight in each other was the nagging question of Elinor, and he’d come to retrieve her, take her away from Rohan before he could dispense with her.

He’d known perfectly well that despite Rohan’s threats he’d make no move to get rid of her until after the Revels had concluded, and he would cushion the blow. For all that Rohan strutted around thinking himself the Prince of Darkness, his battered soul contained a bruised nobility that would appall him. Rohan much preferred to fancy himself heartless.

Charles had no idea how Elinor Harriman would take her dismissal. From what he’d seen of her she was a most resilient young woman. If anything, she might come back and smash a vase over Rohan’s elegant head, but she wasn’t the sort to sit in a corner and weep.

Then again, she wasn’t the sort to succumb to Rohan’s notorious powers of seduction, and she had. And Rohan’s usual methods were totally at odds with his current behavior. Reading wasn’t certain if he’d ever seen his friend the way he’d been that night, the savagery of his one-sided duel with the unlamented Sir Christopher, the anger when he’d gone after Elinor during her aborted escape. Something was very wrong in his friend’s life, and the darkness at Maison de Giverney was a clear sign.

He was relieved to see some light behind the windows surrounding the vast front door, and it opened upon his approach, a dour Willis standing there. For a moment he’d wondered if the Heavenly Host had some new conceit—Revels in dark and silence, but he knew immediately that his first surmise had been correct. The place was deserted.

“Is your master here, Willis?” he said.

“He’s here. Everyone else is gone, though, including half the servants,” he muttered. “I’m glad you’re here, sir. He needs you.”

“Where is he?”

“In the library. Drinking or drunk, if I make my guess. No one’s to go near him, and since he almost blew Cavalle’s head off with his dueling pistol the servants, what’s left of them, are keeping their distance.”

“He won’t shoot me,” Charles said, heading off through the dimly lit hallways.

The house was spotless—all signs of the recent party had been swept away. Charles couldn’t imagine how he’d done it—once the Heavenly Host were in full swing it was almost impossible to distract them until excess had exhausted them.

The door to Rohan’s study was closed, and for once no footman sat waiting for a summons. He knocked on the door.

“Go away, damn it,” Rohan’s voice came from behind the door. There was just the faintest suggestion of a slur in it, another astonishment. In their years of heavy drinking he’d never heard Rohan sound anything but cool and in control.

“It’s me.”

“Get the hell out of here, Charles.”

That was welcome enough. He pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The last time he’d been in this room they’d been trying to kill each other. Obviously Rohan had continued that pursuit on his own.

The room was destroyed; a madman had clearly taken a firepoker to every possible surface, smashing and destroying in a blind fury. The massive desk was overturned, chairs were splintered, paintings torn off the walls and sliced through. And Rohan was in the midst of it. On the built-in window seat that even he couldn’t destroy, a bottle of Scots whiskey in his hand.

He looked like holy hell, and Charles could only surmise that he’d been doing nothing but drink and smash things since the moment he left.

One of the overturned chairs looked to have four intact legs, though one arm was gone, and he picked it up and righted it, then sat in it, looking at his old friend. “What have you done with the Heavenly Host?” he inquired politely.

“Got rid of the lot. Drove ’em out of the place, and they won’t be coming back.”

“No, I expect not. Not with their Revels disrupted,” Charles observed. “And where is Miss Harriman? I assume you sent her on her way as well?”