Author: Anne Stuart

It was huge, dark and dismal. No light shone from the myriad of windows that looked out over the overgrown driveway, and there was a sharp chill in the air. “Am I allowed to know where we are?”

“Of course, my love. This is Pawlfrey House. It’s been in my family for generations, and indeed, it’s the only place left from our original estate. The rest were sold to pay my grandfather’s and father’s gaming debts, but apparently no one was interested in buying this, so it remained in the family.”

“I wonder why,” Miranda said in an undertone. It looked truly dreadful—a pile of dark, wet stones that no one, not even money-lenders and creditors, wanted. And this was where he intended to keep her. “And where are we?”

“In the Lake District. A particularly remote part of it, I’m afraid. We’re tucked in a valley with mountains all around, and the house is extremely difficult to find.”

“Lovely!” she said with breathless delight. “And such a very large house! I know I’m going to enjoy it tremendously.”

“Exactly how much wine did you drink?” Lucien asked suspiciously.

“Enough,” she said sweetly. “Shall we stand in the rain or will you show me my new home?”

Indeed, the rain was coming down more heavily now, soaking through Miranda’s pelisse, and she only hoped there was at least a fire laid in the mausoleum that confronted her.

“Of course,” he said immediately, taking her arm and leading her up the front steps. “Mind your step. Some of the stones are broken.”

The front door opened, and Miranda felt a surge of relief. A woman was standing there, a branch of candles in her hand, and she could see light coming from behind her. “Welcome home, Master Lucien.” The woman cast her eyes over Miranda with clear disapproval.

“Thank you, Mrs. Humber. And this is my new bride. Or shall be, as soon as the vicar can be found.” He glanced down at Miranda, and she tried to control the chill that had sunk into her body, from the cold, damp air, the gloomy household, and the decidedly unfriendly housekeeper. Not to mention her future husband, assuming she couldn’t change his mind.

“Oh, it all looks lovely!” she said in breathless accents. “But, darling, I could do with a nice warm fire and a cup of tea.” She started forward but Lucien caught her arm, halting her.

“This is a bit precipitate, but we may as well follow custom,” he said, and before she realized what he was going to do he’d scooped her up in his arms and carried her across the threshold of the old mansion, setting her down inside a cavernous and chilly hallway.

He easily read the surprise she couldn’t hide. “My leg is really quite strong, my love. I’ve adapted very well to its limitations.”

“Indeed,” she managed to come up with. Being picked up by him had been an unnerving experience, reminding her of those clandestine moments on his lap at the inn, as well as reinforcing how strong he really was. Strong and warm and hard.

“I assume you have rooms that are habitable for my bride,” he said in his silken tone, and the sour woman in her starchy black nodded, clearly under his spell, as most women seemed to be. Even Jane had shown signs of blind obedience.

“There’s a fire in the green saloon, as well as one in your study, your lordship. I’ve also had the girls in from the village to clean and dust your bedroom and the brown bedroom in the east wing. I hope you’ll find that acceptable.”

His lip curved. “That will be quite a walk to my wife’s bed when I choose to join her.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, darling,” Miranda said cheerfully. “Just open your door and give a shout and I’ll come running. Now where is this green salon? I’m chilled to the bone.” She unfastened her pelisse and dumped it in Mrs. Humber’s unwelcoming hands, handing over her gloves and bonnet, as well. The woman just looked at her, a solid lump like the house she oversaw. No help there, Miranda thought.

Lucien looked at her as if wondering who was this alien creature. “I’ll take her, Mrs. Humber. And tea would be an excellent idea. I think she’s had a surfeit of wine for one day.”

Miranda smiled up at him, wanting to kick him in the shins. Preferably in his bad leg. “You take such good care of me,” she crooned.

“And you’re quite drunk.” Taking her arm he led her down the dark, gloomy hallway to a small room that was so blissfully warm she ignored its other imperfections. She sank down in a chair by the fire, holding out her chilled hands and breathing a sigh of relief. Lucien was standing a ways away from her, staring at her.

“Don’t you want to come closer to the fire?” she said. “You must be absolutely frozen.”

“I don’t pay much attention to the weather…. What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Taking off my shoes. They’re wet.” She’d pulled off the demiboots, then wiggled her stocking-clad toes in front of the fire. She glanced up at him. “Don’t look so shocked. We’re going to be married, after all. And I’ve decided that suits me very well indeed. I was growing quite tired of my own company and that of the few who visited, and I hardly thought I’d achieve a marriage, particularly such a good one. You’re quite a prize, you know, despite your physical imperfections,” she said lightly. “You’re wealthy, you’re relatively young, though not quite in the first bloom of youth, and you’re an earl. The main thing that’s bothering me is will I be Countess Rochdale, or will I continue as Lady Miranda? I believe the hereditary title takes precedence, and I’m the daughter of a marquess, but I never paid much attention to these things. I’m certain my sister-in-law will know—she’s a stickler for details like this. I’ll write her …”

“The wine makes you talkative,” he observed, coming to sit opposite her, his pale eyes hooded and predatory.

“Oh, I suppose I’m a bit nervous.” She was actually finding this quite easy. The cheerful, prattling bride, finding roses in a dung heap. And Pawlfrey House was most certainly a dung heap—it smelled of mold and dry rot and layers of dust. She beamed at him. “After all, I’m to be married. I would like to bathe and change my clothes first, if you don’t mind. I’d like to look my best for you.”

“I doubt the vicar will be located today, my love,” he said, watching her as one might watch a rabid dog, waiting for it to attack.

“What a shame. And I was so looking forward to my wedding night.” She pouted, making it as provocative as she could.

He laughed at that, and she wondered if she’d overplayed her hand. “Of course you are, my pet. If wine makes you this affable I’ll have to see you get a regular supply of it.”

“That would be delightful.”

He rose. “I’ll have Mrs. Humber arrange for your bath. In the meantime I have duties to attend to.”

“And what will I wear after I bathe? I didn’t have a chance to pack.”

“I made arrangements for a suitable wardrobe. It was simple enough to contact your dressmaker. Madame Clotilde on St. James Street, am I right?”

“Oh, you think of everything!” she said with perfect, breathless delight.

He gave her a slight, ironic bow. “I try. In the meantime I’ll leave you to Mrs. Humber’s good graces. She’s been in my family all her life. In fact I believe she’s a third cousin or something, and we’re all very fond of her. Treat her with respect.”

Miranda controlled her instinctive growl. “But of course, darling! I always treat underlings with kindness and respect.”

“Mrs. Humber doesn’t consider herself an underling.”

“No, I imagine she doesn’t. Nevertheless, she’s your housekeeper, and therefore an upper servant. Or is she your mistress?”

He laughed. “She’s my housekeeper. Tread warily, dear Miranda. She would make a formidable enemy, like all of my family.”

She already was, Miranda thought, still managing her idiot smile. At this rate her cheeks were going to hurt and she’d have premature wrinkles around her eyes. Go away, she thought. Give me some quiet moments by the fire.

And thank God, he did.

His careful plans had suddenly become upended, Lucien thought as he limped down the hall to his study. It had been an act of sheer bravado, carrying her over the threshold like that, and his leg was paying for it. He did well enough in the best of circumstances, but the incessant rain always made his old wounds act up, and Miranda had been too tipsy to notice one way or another.

She was really quite ridiculous, staring at this dismal pile of stones and cooing. She didn’t like Elsie Humber, that much was certain. They’d have a royal battle once he left them alone, and he was only sorry he wouldn’t be there to see it.

So she was happy to be getting married, was she? He took leave to doubt that, and she most certainly was not looking forward to the marriage bed. She’d been nervous as a kitten in his arms. That idiot St. John must have been clumsy indeed.

He’d expected her to be in tears. Pleading for escape. Instead she was settling in by the fire, taking off her shoes, of all things, and demanding baths and cups of tea instead of rescue.

He shook his head. She was playing some game, and he wasn’t sure what the rules were. But he was a seasoned gamester, and he knew how to adapt. She was happy to be getting married, was she?

Maybe marriage was a bad idea. She was already a disgraced woman. He could keep her as his mistress and there was nothing the Rohans could do about it. They’d never find their way through these tortuous roads.

And if they weren’t to be married, why then he could have her tonight. If he wanted to hold to a sham of a ceremony it would be at least tomorrow before they could lawfully be joined.

She said she was delighted to be married. Perhaps he would have to disappoint her.

And see how much wine she needed to keep that calm, annoying smile.

Miss Jane Pagett was safely stowed in the post-chaise, with Long Molly by her side, Jacob thought, climbing into the driver’s seat and taking the reins. Molly was a good old soul. She’d worked her way up from the streets to run her own very expensive brothel, which she kept with an iron hand. But she’d always had a hankering for the stage, and Jacob knew she’d jump at the chance to play a motherly soul.