“Mrs. Humber?” Miranda echoed, astonished. “She’s twice his age, and his housekeeper, as well.”

“No one says that love has to be practical, my lady.”

The thought that the stern, sturdy Mrs. Humber could be in love with Lucien was so bizarre that Miranda left the subject for the one that was more troubling. “So he’s brought other ladies up here?” she asked, toying with a loose thread on her bedraggled dress.

“No, miss. Not ladies, exactly. You know how gentlemen are—they like a bit of fun now and then.”

“I doubt Lord Rochdale knows the meaning of fun,” Miranda said dryly. “Well, I suppose I should be happy to hear he’s brought whores up here on occasion. At least the place isn’t totally unused to female inhabitants.”

“They haven’t stayed long, miss. His lordship tires of things very quickly.”

“Let’s hope so,” Miranda said sweetly. With any luck he’d tire of her and the battle long before he’d won. In the end he was the stronger, and for some odd reason she was abominably vulnerable when he touched her. So, she simply had to avoid letting him touch her until he grew weary of the game. It had to happen, sooner or later.

“I beg your pardon, my lady?” Bridget said, carefully pulling the heavy brown velvet curtains without disturbing the dust.

“Just talking to myself.”

Her bath was filled with steaming water within half an hour. Bridget took over the feeding of the fire, and was even bold enough to tell the bully to bring more logs and a tea tray with something solid to eat.

When Miranda slid into the copper tub she moaned with sheer ecstasy. The heat on her stiff muscles was better than any physical sensation she’d ever enjoyed, and the thought of being clean as well, after two days in that wretched gray dress, was dizzying. Bridget did a decent job of washing her long hair, then pulled out a beautiful nightdress and robe from the wardrobe.

Miranda had a normal woman’s interest in new clothes, but at that point Father Christmas himself couldn’t have raised her attention. She stepped out of the bath and into the large Turkish towel that Bridget held for her, looking at the nightclothes.

“I won’t be dining with his lordship?” she inquired. It couldn’t be that late. It was still light when they’d arrived.

“He’s gone out, miss, and there’s no telling when he’ll be back. He told them not to hold supper for him but to send you a tray in your room.”

“You don’t suppose he’s gone to find the minister?” Miranda said, pulling the lacy wrapper around her. The clothes were gorgeous, elegant, even better than what she was used to. Lucien had expensive tastes.

“I wouldn’t know, miss. When he goes out like that he’s often gone for days.”

“One can only hope.” She tied the lacy combing jacket around her. It wasn’t nearly enough protection against the cold, unfriendly house, but she was loath to climb into that big bed and await her seducer.

Because she strongly doubted he had any intention of waiting for the marriage vows.

And she had no intention of giving in, ever.

But at least the tray they brought her had a sensible amount of food, even if it was bland and overcooked. This household needed some serious sorting out. If she could just get rid of Lucien she could enjoy herself tremendously. She’d always had an affection for decorating things—even her surly brother Charles said she had a real gift. This house was like a huge, dirty, smelly, moth-eaten blank canvas, and if she was going to be trapped here she was going to do her best to have fun.

She dismissed Bridget for the night, propped a chair under the door handle and climbed up into the big bed. The large, shabby chamber was sufficiently warm now, but as she lay back among the pillows she realized she had absolutely nothing to do. Nothing to read, no one to talk to, no piano—did this wretched place even come with a piano? If so, it was no doubt dreadfully out of tune. How many bedrooms were there? And how many public rooms? There was the dank salon she’d first come to, and Lucien had disappeared to his study. There’d be a large formal dining room, perhaps a morning room, and.

Bloody hell, she wasn’t going to lie there, wide-awake, wondering. She slid out of bed and into the slippers Bridget had set out for her, lit her candle with the fire, moved the chair out of the way and began to explore.

It wasn’t until she reached the ground floor that she realized she was more vulnerable, wandering around like this. He’d said he wasn’t interested, and she was counting on that. If he changed his mind she was going to be in a more precarious position, and she almost headed back. But the house was still and silent, and she was the only one moving around in the darkness. She and the mice.

The pianoforte was in what was likely called the music room. There were plaster images of cherubs playing instruments along the cornices, and a harp stood in the corner as well as the pianoforte. She dusted off the seat and sat down, playing a quick Mozart piece she’d memorized. To her astonishment the instrument was in almost perfect tune. Someone here must play, but she couldn’t imagine who.

There were three salons of varying sizes, a breakfast room, an office clearly meant for the estate manager but now covered with dust. There were stuffed heads of moth-eaten stags, and more ancient armaments adorning the walls than they had in the British Museum, one of her favorite haunts. If she ever decided she had to defend her honor she had more than enough weapons at hand to make efficient work of her fiancé. It was reassuring.

Lucien’s study was the only room that looked relatively clean and comfortable, and the servants knew better than to let his fire die down. There was a rich wool throw tossed carelessly over one chair, and Miranda immediately claimed it, wrapping it around her slender shoulders.

She moved on. There was a set of double doors at the end of the room, and she pushed them open, expecting to see a ballroom. Instead she found the largest library she’d ever seen in her life, and for the first time since she’d discovered Lucien’s perfidy she was absolutely, perfectly happy. It took no time at all to find a book to her liking, a French novel short on improving aspects and long on entertainment. The room had no fewer than six window seats, each partially enclosed by heavy curtains, and she took the nearest one, setting her candle down on a convenient shelf as she curled up to read, the woolen throw wrapped tightly around her.

Lucien de Malheur was in a very ugly mood when he returned to the cold, miserable confines of Pawlfrey House. When he’d imagined imprisoning his unwilling bride here he’d forgotten that he’d have to put up with it himself. Not that he didn’t have a certain fondness for the place, and he cherished the isolation.

But winter and early spring were both miserable times to be up there. Snow could trap one quite easily. The rain was so cold it could freeze your very bones, and Pawlfrey House was made for consequence, not comfort.

Not the best place to take a new bride, but then, he wasn’t looking for her comfort. In truth, quite the opposite. He needed to bed her and get it done with, then leave her to molder in the old place while her family went mad with fury.

It was enough to warm his cold, cold heart. It was well past midnight when he returned to the last ancestral home the poor de Malheurs had managed to hold on to, and even Mrs. Humber was in bed. He let himself in, just as glad not to deal with servants, and went upstairs to his new plaything.

She wasn’t in her room. He even looked under the bed and in the wardrobe, in case she was hiding, and then felt utterly silly doing so. He could raise a search party, but that would make him feel like a complete fool. If she’d run off in this cold, wintry rain she’d be in trouble, but they might as well wait for morning to go in search of her. If she was hiding somewhere in the house he’d deal with it later.

He let the anger simmer in the pit of his stomach. He’d had mixed feelings about bedding her; he hadn’t decided which would be worse, with or without marriage. He wanted a warm house, a warm bed and a warm, willing woman, and he was going to find none of those things at Pawlfrey House.

He headed down to his study for a late night glass of brandy. He sat at his desk, telling himself he was annoyed, not worried, when he noticed the doors to the library were slightly ajar. He rose, going over to them, about to close them, when he noticed the faint light over in one corner.

Aha, he thought. He crossed the large room on silent feet, coming to stand over Lady Miranda Rohan.

She was sound asleep. Her hair was loosely braided, and he was astonished to see how long it was. It must go down past her hips. How unexpectedly erotic. She had a racy French novel in her lap, but even the remarkable doings of Mme. Lapine weren’t enough to keep her awake. She’d wrapped herself up in his best throw, and she looked so peaceful he couldn’t bring himself to wake her.

Besides, he reminded himself, his leg was throbbing, he still had a chill running through his body, and his reluctant fiancée looked far too peaceful to disturb. If he did he’d have to get her upstairs, either to his or her bedroom, and have at her.

She looked so innocent, asleep like that. She wasn’t—he knew that. Thanks to him and his elaborate schemes. That first one had failed, due to the idiocy and inadequacies of his representative. He wasn’t so easily distracted.

On impulse he reached out and touched her hair, brushing it back from her smooth, silken cheek. She didn’t stir, deep in slumber, and he found himself smiling. Tomorrow would be time enough. For now she could sleep, thinking she’d outwitted him.

He leaned over and blew out the candle, brushing her skin as he did. She made a sound, a low moan of protest or pleasure, and he was immediately aroused. Which annoyed him—he’d decided to wait until she was really frightened, but his body seemed to have other ideas.

He pulled the curtains around her, closing her into her little nest. The morning sun would wake and warm her.

And the battle would begin again.

14

The library windows faced east, and the first brief glimpse of morning sun awoke Miranda from her delightful slumber. She sat up with a start—she’d slid down onto the seat, curled up under the blanket and had a wonderful, dreamless sleep. She’d left the candle burning—a good thing she hadn’t burned the house down. Not that the house didn’t deserve to be leveled, but she preferred not to be in it when it happened.