A number of the rooms hadn’t fared so well. The mold and damp had spread up the wall in several of the back bedrooms, necessitating a carpenter and the removal of some fine medieval paneling, and paint was peeling in several of the bedrooms, including Lucien’s. There was broken furniture in almost every room that needed to be hauled away and either repaired or discarded, windows to be washed and reglazed, floors to be scrubbed. It would take an army of servants, possibly more than she’d already told Mrs. Humber to hire. Half a dozen men would be useful as well, for the heavier work.

Her captor didn’t return for the midday meal. She told herself that was a relief, had a tray in her withdrawing room and continued with her lists.

She would start with her room. Get rid of those dusty curtains, which were drab and depressing. She would see if the local seamstress could come up with something suitable rather than order window hangings from London, which would take forever. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping with curtainless windows—it would feel like blank eyes staring in at her while she slept.

Her fireplace needed to be cleaned and scrubbed, not to mention all the chimneys of the house, which had to number in the dozens. The rug was beginning to unravel, and sooner or later she’d catch her foot in it and go sprawling. There were any number of rugs throughout the place that were still in one piece that she could have cleaned and moved.

Her villain didn’t return for dinner. Not that she minded, she told herself, stretching to ease the ache in her shoulders. She’d been cooped up too long, both in the carriage and now in the house. Tomorrow she would go for a good long hike, rain or no rain. She was no frail flower likely to melt. Growing up with three brothers tended to make one sturdy.

Bridget had done what she could in the bedroom, beating some of the dust out of the curtains and opening the windows to receive it. She’d scrubbed the fireplace as well, and the room looked almost welcoming when she finally gave up and headed upstairs. It was after ten, the book she’d taken from the library had ceased to interest her and clearly her heartless rat of a seducer wasn’t coming home at all.

Bridget had removed the bed curtains, and a lovely coolness lingered in the air from the open windows. She hummed beneath her breath as Bridget helped her out of her clothes and into her nightdress, to prove to herself and her maid that she wasn’t the slightest bit nervous. He’d chosen to spend the night abroad—he could be blown away in the winds for all she cared.

She waited until Bridget left, then climbed out of bed and took the straight-backed chair, slipping it beneath the door handle. There was absolutely no need, of course. The door itself had a very efficient lock on it, and he’d shown no interest in her after that moment in the wayside inn. If his only desire to have … relations with her was out of revenge, he probably had to work up interest in the entire procedure. Which was a depressing proposition, but better for her in the long run. He might never get in the mood.

The rain stopped sometime after midnight. The sudden silence woke her, accompanied by a pop and hiss from her fire. She glanced out the uncurtained windows. The moon was peeping from behind fast-moving clouds, shining through the rivulets of rainwater on the windows, and she lay in bed, unmoving, watching each little stream slither down the glass.

She wasn’t one easily given to tears, and she wasn’t about to succumb at that particular moment. But she doubted if she’d ever felt so alone in her entire life. Off in the middle of nowhere, and no one, not family nor friends, would know where to find her. Tomorrow she’d face her altered world with energy and determination. Here in the midnight hours things felt relatively hopeless.

“You think a chair would keep me out?”

She shrieked, bolting up in bed, slamming a hand to her racing heart and then turned and cast a bitter expression at Lucien de Malheur. “You almost gave me apoplexy!” she said. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I’ve been standing here watching you for the last five minutes, listening to you snore.”

“I do not snore!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s more like a purr. I trust it won’t keep me awake at night.”

“I doubt it will, since we’re not likely to be anywhere near each other when we sleep,” she snapped. And then belatedly remembered her strategy. It was with huge reluctance that she plastered a smile on her face. “Unless you’ve changed your mind about marrying me.”

She had the unpleasant suspicion that he could see right through her, but he replied in a civil enough manner. “Which would you prefer, my precious? Living in sin or holy matrimony?”

She knew perfectly well he’d go with the opposite of whatever she picked. She’d already survived one clandestine elopement against her will. A second one could hardly make things worse.

“I think above all things I should love to be married,” she said in a nauseatingly breathless voice. “I do realize we can’t have a large wedding—most likely only the two of us at the local church—but every girl dreams about being married. Besides, that would make me a countess, and think how lovely that would be!” She smiled brightly.

He looked at her for a long moment. “Marriage it is,” he said, and then he laughed. “Don’t look so crestfallen, dear Miranda. We’ll have our small private marriage ceremony, but then I promise you a full-blown wedding with lots of guests.”

“Really?” she said doubtfully.

“Trust me,” he said in a charming voice.

“Now move over. And don’t annoy me with any more lies about your menses. Yes, I’m in awe of the lengths you’re willing to go to manipulate me.”

Miranda stayed exactly where she was. “Why? Don’t you want to wait for our wedding night?”

“Perhaps. At this point I don’t know if I want more than a taste. Just to make certain I’m still interested.”

“And how will you discover that?”

“It will depend on how much I want to continue what I’m doing. Whether your responses bore or inspire me. Mind you, I’m perfectly capable of handling the business whether I find you attractive or not, and I will do so. I’m just curious to see whether you’re still as attracted to me as you were initially.”

She couldn’t help her derisive snort of laughter. “La, sir, you do think highly of yourself. Why would you presume I’d be attracted to you?”

“You mean because I’m scarred and lame?” he asked mildly, entirely at ease.

Color flooded her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think of that. I don’t really notice it.”

His face was unreadable. “That’s quite touching, my angel. If I were a foolish man I’d believe you.”

She managed to regain her composure. “And you are certainly not a foolish man,” she said, hoping the color would fade from her cheeks. “What exactly did you want? Another kiss?”

“No, my love,” he said easily. “I want to get between your legs.” And he reached out and began to pull the covers down.

17

Lucien de Malheur was amused. Lady Miranda Rohan was looking at him as if he had suggested he was going to sprout wings and fly. Did she seriously think he was going to leave her alone in her chaste, albeit not virginal bed? He wondered if she’d grow angry or burst into tears.

Instead, to his momentary discomfort, she let out a trill of laughter. “Oh, heavens, my lord, you had me worried for a moment. Of course you aren’t serious.” She’d grabbed for the covers and was trying to yank them back up over her, but he was a great deal stronger and had no intention of letting her pull them up.

“Of course I am, dear lady. Are you cold? Perhaps I should build up the fire?”

“W-w-why?” she said, stammering only slightly.

“Because you aren’t going to have anything covering you. Except me.”

She gulped. And somehow managed to reach inside herself and pull out that flashing smile of hers. “You’re extremely saucy, my lord. I don’t think so.”

He’d moved away from her. His leg was giving him trouble, but he didn’t bother to disguise it. He was still bothered by her artless statement. She’d meant it. She didn’t see his scars or lameness. In fact, she was embarrassed that she hadn’t been more aware. When she looked at him she saw him, not his scars, and that was rare and oddly disturbing. He felt as if he’d been thrown off balance.

It was a shock, when he was so used to keeping to the shadows. He was acutely aware of his own dragging walk whenever his leg pained him too much. And he’d never been fond of mirrors. He didn’t like to be reminded of the claw marks on his skin, those permanent memories of a barbed whip brandished by a madwoman. His back was worse, a horror. Even Jacob Donnelly had been shocked the first time he’d seen it, and Jacob knew nightmares beyond measure.

Lucien rose from the bed to put wood on the fire, watching her out of the corner of one eye to make certain she didn’t try to run. There were hardly enough servants to keep this place going, and he was more than capable of loading a fire himself. Mrs. Humber had already complained that his future bride was insisting she hire more servants, and she maintained there weren’t any available, but he knew she lied. Most women lied, including the one in bed watching him with warm brown eyes.

“Why don’t you start by taking off that oh so fetching nightgown, my pet?” he murmured, moving back toward her. “After all, why should there be any secrets between us? We’re to be man and wife, after all. You’re getting a title and a considerably advantageous marriage, given that you managed to ruin yourself. I may as well see what I’m getting out of the bargain.”

“Alas, nothing very exciting, my lord, I assure you,” Miranda said in her mock cheerful voice. “I’m nothing above ordinary. Some might even consider me a little plump, but they’d be rude.”

“And I would never be rude,” he murmured, watching her. She was making no move to unfasten her clothing. “Tell me more.”