“And do you accept?”

“Do I have a choice, my darling?” she said through slightly clenched teeth.

“Not at all.” And he covered her mouth with his.

It was a light kiss, playful, his tongue running along the tight seam of her mouth, his long fingers stroking her throat. She wanted to open her mouth for him, but she kept her jaw clamped shut. Later, when she came up with a plan, she’d let him kiss her. She’d come up with something ridiculous to think about when he touched her, so she wouldn’t start to tremble and melt as she was right now, and she was parting her lips, ready for more, when he pulled away.

There was a strange look in his eyes. “A week to ten days, you say?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Then clearly I’ll have to find something else to do.”

Miss Jane Pagett smelled like violets, Jacob thought miserably. If there was one fragrance that brought him to his knees, it was violets. It all went back to a sunny afternoon in Jamaica, with those wildflowers all around, crushed beneath their bodies as they made love. And now he couldn’t even remember the girl. All he could remember was the sense of peace, of rightness on that cloudless afternoon.

He was already having a hard enough time with Miss Jane Pagett. Every time they stopped to rest the horses and she walked by him he caught the scent, and it made him crazy. He’d already promised they weren’t driving through the night, or he would have damned well paid for the change of horses himself in order to get temptation away from him. At least she was safely ensconced in a bedroom upstairs, neat and clean in her little bed. Scorpion had arranged for fresh clothes for his bride’s friend, and he’d brought them with him when he’d taken the coachman’s place. They didn’t fit half badly, though he’d estimated she’d had a bit more in the rump and less in chest. Either way, she was too damned tempting for his peace of mind, he thought, sitting in the almost deserted taproom, listening to her move around overhead.

He’d taken a very circuitous route—he didn’t want to risk running smack into an army of rescuers—and the inn was almost deserted. Long Molly still managed to find a likely prospect and was at that moment with her toes to Jesus, having a wonderful time.

And it wasn’t as if there weren’t prospects for him, as well. The barmaid was a buxom blonde, with a pretty face and a saucy smile, and he knew he could have her without trying.

She’d be enough to take his mind off Miss Jane Pagett. Maybe he could see if she could sneak into Miss Jane’s room and steal her violet perfume.

But the fact of the matter was, he didn’t want Nancy, or Betty, or whatever her name was. He wanted Jane. He wanted to see if that kiss was anywhere near what he remembered.

He sat for a long time, nursing his beer. It wouldn’t do to get too drunk the first night out—he’d have a hell of a headache the next day. Though maybe that would help take his mind off his passenger.

The problem was, the more he drank, the more amorous he became, and if he got truly foxed he might very well go up and introduce himself, or at least a good hard part of himself, to Miss Jane Pagett.

The barmaid flounced off to the bed, alone. He had a bed in the stable, clean and warm, but he wasn’t going there. He was going to spend the night beneath Jane, more fool he.

The fire burned down, and Jacob didn’t bother to replenish it. He leaned back, propping his long legs on the brass fender, and contemplated the ridiculousness of life.

And it was there Jane found him, just as the clock on the landing struck two.

15

Miranda was in her room for no more than a few minutes when Bridget appeared, looking slightly nervous as she helped her out of her nightclothes. “I’m that sorry I wasn’t here earlier, my lady. Mrs. Humber kept coming up with things to keep me busy, and then she forgot to make you a breakfast tray, and then his lordship stopped me on my way here, so it’s no wonder it took me that long to get here.” She looked nervous. “I’m talking too much, aren’t I? Mrs. Humber says a proper ladies’ maid never speaks unless spoken to, never volunteers information, and she says I’ll be a ladies’ maid when hell freezes over, begging your pardon, my lady.”

“You’ll be fine,” Miranda said in a soothing voice, ignoring her sudden uneasiness. “What did his lordship want to talk to you about?”

Bridget blushed a fiery red, and Miranda thought, oh merde. She should have known he wouldn’t take her word for things.

“Uh … he wanted to make sure you were comfortable up here, that you had everything you needed….”

“Such as?” Bridget was doing up her corset, pulling the laces tight, and Miranda took a deep breath, holding it in.

“He wanted to make certain you had everything you need,” Bridget mumbled again.

“You already said that. Exactly what did he ask you about, Bridget?” Miranda turned and caught Bridget by the arms, forcing her to meet her gaze even though she was fiery red.

“He wanted to make sure I could find rags for your monthlies. I was that embarrassed, my lady! That a gentleman would be asking about such things! But I couldn’t very well not answer, and I told him that you said you’d just finished and wouldn’t be needing anything for at least three weeks, possibly more because you were never certain and he just nodded and said ‘I thought as much’ and I thought I might have said something wrong but it was the master and …”

“Don’t worry about it, Bridget,” Miranda said calmly. She should have known he’d check. She was simply going to have to come up with some new excuse, like Scheherazade putting off her execution. The chair under the door handle might work, at least for one night. He wouldn’t rouse the household by banging the door down.

She would come up with something. She was blessed with an inventive mind, and if she could avoid doing that with Lucien de Malheur she would. At least for as long as possible. If she had to, she could lie there and take it. Recite poetry or poems in her head. Count to one hundred in Latin. Anything to take her mind off what was happening to her body.

In fact, that would be a most excellent way to avoid the deleterious effect of his kisses. Of the way her skin warmed when he put his hands on her. Latin was the perfect antidote to desire.

She was forced to admit the clothes he’d provided were beautiful, and fit perfectly. How long had he been planning this that he had an entire wardrobe made up by her own modiste? It would have taken a while. When, if, she ever got back to London she was going to have to find a new dressmaker. One who didn’t accept orders from strange gentlemen without the lady’s consent.

She wondered what a proper young lady would do in the circumstances. Not that she’d ever been a proper young lady, but she’d tried. An innocent young miss would refuse to wear clothes a gentleman paid for. She should probably insist that Bridget clean her soiled dress and wear that all the time.

But that could present its own set of problems, particularly if she had to wait around in skimpy night rail. In fact, should she have slept naked rather than worn those clothes?

Behaving in a decorous manner was long gone for her, and it would be foolish to ignore the lovely clothes. As long as she was going to be here she may as well be decently dressed.

He must have enjoyed his evil machinations. All the while he’d been gentle and charming and flirtatious he’d been a lying snake. No, a lying Scorpion. She only wished she could stomp him as effectively as the French landlord had stomped his pet.

And yet … the thought of his pet, no matter how strange a creature it was, being killed by a stranger was somehow heartbreaking. She knew little boys. She had many cousins, and boys had an absurd affection for the least cuddly of creatures. It was always possible that Lucien had kept his scorpion with him as a murder weapon, but she doubted it. He’d even named her.

He was a man who refused to show true emotion, empathy, feeling. And yet she knew he’d mourned that blasted scorpion.

She was quite hungry, and she ate everything on the tray—fruit and toast and lukewarm eggs. Bridget had no knowledge of a lady’s hair, so she made do with hip-length plaits, then tucking them into a bun at the back of her neck. Wisps of curls had an unfortunate tendency to frame her face, ruining the severe look, but she was determined not to let anyone get in her way.

The first to try would be Mrs. Humber. She found that redoubtable lady in the kitchens of the big house, and she paused, momentarily appalled.

The huge room smelled of rotting meat, moldy cabbage and things she didn’t want to identify. Mrs. Humber was sitting at one end of a long, scarred table, a cup of tea in her hand, next to a smaller woman who looked even less welcoming. She wore a white apron stained with all sorts of nasty things, and Miranda guessed she was the cook.

The two of them looked up at her, and Miranda stood her ground, waiting, her foot tapping softly beneath the hem of her skirt, and finally the two of them rose to their feet, their reluctance both arrogant and insulting. Miranda gave them a polite smile.

“Good morning, Mrs. Humber. I’d like a tour of the house, if you please. I’ll be interested in seeing just how bad the condition of the place is.”

“I’m very busy this morning,” Mrs. Humber said.

Miranda gave a speaking glance to the cup of tea. “I’m certain you can find the time,” she said in a civil voice. “Now would be good for me.”

“I can’t right now, I’ve got …”

“Now would be best,” she reiterated gently. Mrs. Humber glared at her, but made no more demurrals, and Miranda turned to her companion. “You must be Cook. When we come back I’ll be interested in looking at menus for the next few days. I may want to make a few changes. For instance, I have a particular dislike of beets, and small birds distress me.”

“The master never questions my menus,” the woman said in a hostile voice.

“No, that’s your mistress’s business, isn’t it? And please change your apron before we return. That one has seen better days. If you need to order more, then see to it.”