Author: Anne Stuart

And the Rohans as well weren’t particularly starchy. Not that anyone would consider hopping into bed with a coachman, no matter how handsome he was. It simply wasn’t done.

Not that a betrothed, virginal young lady should consider hopping into bed with anybody but her husband, and only that well after the marriage ceremony. It was too bad she couldn’t view the inevitable ceremonial deflowering with the excitement that was rising with each of his footsteps on the narrow, twisty stairs.

He reached the top, and she let out a squeak of excitement and dismay, one she quickly smothered as she clapped both hands over her mouth. It took but another step or two to reach her door, and she waited, holding her breath, for the door handle to move.

She heard a soft thump, and she considered calling out. Good sense kept her silent. The door handle remained still. He would knock, so as not to scare her. He wouldn’t want to frighten her, after all. Particularly since, if he didn’t know she was hoping, expecting him to follow her up those stairs, and she’d be likely to scream the house down at the first sign of an intruder.

She wouldn’t scream. She closed her eyes, and she could feel him on the other side of the door, and she waited, breathless.

Until she heard him turn around and start back down the stairs again, leaving her alone in her virginal bed.

Safe and sound. And weeping.

20

The sun came out on the sixth day Miranda was at Pawlfrey House, and for a moment she simply stared at the window in shock. The bright beams turned the lingering raindrops on the windows into diamonds, and it was suddenly warm.

She would have dressed in her old pelisse but Lucien had given word, high-handed creature that he was, that all her clothes were to be burned, as if she were a victim of the plague, so she had no choice but to take the fur-trimmed one and the thoroughly enchanting bonnet that went with it.

She’d been circumspect with her bonnets since the incident, when before she’d indulged in the most outrageous confections. This was much more to her style than the subdued hats she’d grown accustomed to, and she set it atop her head with real pleasure.

Which was nothing compared to what she felt when she stepped out onto the front portico and looked around her.

The air was warm, too warm for the pelisse, and she unfastened it, draping it over her arm. The ground was still wet beneath her feet, but as she walked past the tangled growth that surrounded the old house and got her first glimpse of blue, blue sky she suddenly felt as if she could breathe again.

There was a broad expanse of overgrown lawn in front of the house, with the driveway twining around it and beyond, to her astonishment, was the vast stillness of a lake, quiet and empty, with mountains looming behind it. She shouldn’t be surprised. After all, it was the Lake District, was it not? But Lucien seemed to have his own private body of water. Of course he would—he had more money than God, he’d told her, blasphemous as always. The field leading down to it was a mass of yellow, thousands upon thousands of daffodils, their familiar scent a perfume in the air. Everything sparkled from the brightness of the sun, and when she looked back at Pawlfrey House she realized it was even larger than she’d thought. She was pleased to see the roof looked in decent shape, as did the windows, and as for the wretched condition of the front of the house, it was nothing a small army of gardeners couldn’t whip into shape in no time.

Mrs. Humber would scream, she thought placidly. She’d fought hiring the maids, insisting there was no one available, until she discovered that Miranda planned to make her do the hard work alone. Eleven strong and healthy young women were immediately produced.

She looked at the house. Her house. She could be happy here, which would drive Lucien mad. She would be happy if he were there, to joust with, to sleep with. At the oddest moments she would remember those moments in her bed, and her body would react in the strangest ways, tightening, blossoming.

If he stayed away it would be even better. Sleeping with him upset her. It threw her mind into disarray, it made her want to laugh and cry and dance and scream. It was disturbing, and she preferred calm. She didn’t want to long for his kiss, his touch, his mouth on her body. The very thought made her start to tremble again, and she pushed it out of her mind. There must be a rose garden somewhere. She could put some of her energies into that.

She walked down to the lake, an easy hike with the overhead sun bright above her. The water was clear and cold to the touch, and there was an old dock leading far out into the lake.

She dropped her pelisse onto a large stone and headed for it. She could hear the cry of the birds overhead, wheatear and mountain blackbirds and ravens as they wheeled and darted, and she smiled up at them, before she began to climb up onto the dock.

It was slippery from being in the water so long, and there was no railing, but she couldn’t see the contours of the lake from the shore, and from her vantage point there wasn’t even a farm in sight. She wanted to see how far the lake extended, and whether there were any neighbors. Just in case she had the need for a midnight escape.

She started down the wooden dock, showing a reasonable amount of care, when the voice she dreaded most, longed for most, broke her concentration.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” he shouted, startling her so that she whipped around, and promptly slipped on the slimy wood decking.

She went down on one knee, catching herself before she tumbled into the icy cold waters, and then she brought her other knee down, staying there, motionless, trying to regain her breath.

Her pounding heart was beyond her control. The combination of the fright he’d given her and her inevitable reaction to his return made calm just about impossible.

She looked up at him, and froze.

She’d never seen him in sunlight before. He was dressed in black, as always, his black hair tied back, and she could see the scarring quite clearly. He had his cane with him, but apart from that his body was tall, lean, and yes, she must admit it, beautiful. She found everything about him beautiful, even more so in the bright sunlight, with him glowering at her.

“You nearly scared me to death!” she called back. “Must you sneak up on one?”

“Must you risk your life on a slimy, rotting piece of dock? Come back here at once. No, on second thought, don’t move. I’ll have someone bring a boat out to get you.”

“I fancy the water is only waist deep if I happened to take a tumble, and while I wouldn’t like it I doubt I’d be in much danger.”

“It’s well over your head. Don’t look!” he added impatiently. “You might fall.”

“I’m not that poor a creature,” she replied, leaning over the dock to peer into the clear water. And pulled back, immediately, feeling dizzy. “You’re right, it’s very deep.”

“Of course I’m right!” he said crossly. “Why would I lie about it?”

“You have a habit of lying to me, and you’re very good at it. I have every reason to doubt your veracity.” Bloody hell, she suddenly thought. She wasn’t going to show her annoyance. She let out a trill of laughter. “Ah, but listen to me! How silly I’m being. Welcome home, my most adored … what shall I call you? My lover? Future husband? If I’m a kept woman does that make you my keeper? Like something in a zoo?”

His expression was sardonic. “That sounds accurate.”

“You’re very droll.” She rose to her feet and started toward him.

“Stay right there!” he said again.

“I know it would devastate you if I happened to fall and drown myself, but I’m hardly going to wait here until you fetch someone with a boat. I dispensed with my pelisse and the wind is cool off the water. I’m ready to come in and welcome my darling … keeper properly.”

“I’m coming out to get you.”

She arched her brow. “Why? Won’t two be more dangerous than one on this wretched thing?”

“I’m more afraid of you slipping on the rotten decking.” He mounted the steps, his cane clicking on the wood.

“But if you tried to catch me we’d both fall in,” she pointed out.

“Do you swim?”

“No.”

“I do. If we both fall in I should probably manage to save us both. While the water is very deep you’re not far from shore, and even when it’s this cold I should still manage to suffice.”

“And if I’m too much for you?”

“Then I’ll save myself and let you drown,” he said with callous good humor. He was moving down the walkway with slow, measured steps, barely limping.

“You’re already dressed in mourning. That should make things easier. Though perhaps I’ll push you aside and watch you drown.”

“Not if you can’t swim.”

“Something that needs to be remedied this summer when the water gets warmer,” she said firmly, moving toward him.

She must have hit a plank that she’d missed before. The ominous crack was the first warning, and then it splintered beneath her foot, and this time she was falling, falling toward the icy depths, when he was there, catching her, yanking her across the space and pulling her against him. His other arm came round her and his cane clattered to the dock and over into the water as he held her.

She looked up at him, breathless again. “Thank you,” she said, unable to find her saucy voice. “I don’t think I would have liked a ducking.”

He didn’t move; he just held her, his pale eyes watching her, an odd expression in them. And then he released her, looking around him. “Damn, I’ve lost my best cane.”

It was floating out of reach, an ebony stick with polished gold top. “We could get one of the servants to go after it.”

He grimaced. “They can try. In the meantime that presents us with another problem. I came down on my bad leg when I was trying to rescue you from the results of your folly. I doubt I can make it back to the house on my own.” He looked at her. “I’m afraid I’ll have need of your assistance.”