She was lovely. He didn’t know why he should be surprised—no one had ever referred to her as anything less than presentable. To be sure, she had brown hair when the current fashion was for blondes, but her eyes were extraordinary. She had a low, melodious voice and her soft mouth, when it wasn’t set in a tight line, was full of good humor.

Which frankly surprised him, given that she’d spent the last two years in isolation, without much hope of having anything change in the near future. He would have thought she’d be a bit more subdued, even crushed.

Lady Miranda Rohan struck him as someone extremely difficult to crush. Thus, the challenge was immediately appealing. The Rohan family had a debt to pay, and so far they’d gotten off too easily. Even their only daughter’s fall from grace had failed to disturb their equanimity.

That would soon change.

All her watchdogs had finally left town. Every single one of the notorious Rohans were in Yorkshire, days away, leaving her behind. Alone. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

It had been simple enough to have one of Jacob Donnelly’s men sabotage the young woman’s curricle. He’d run the risk of a dangerous accident, but it was a chance worth taking, and he’d come to her rescue like the proper gentleman he was. She hadn’t suspected a thing.

And now he was very glad he’d decided to do something about the soiled dove. So far the Rohans had faced disgrace with total hauteur and defiance. As he would have, had he ever been fool enough to get caught in his various illegal and immoral activities.

Lady Miranda’s brother Benedick had no idea his former fiancée had a half brother living in the tropical islands of Jamaica. A half brother determined to gain revenge no matter the price. Taking Benedick’s sister had perfect symmetry, and Lucien liked symmetry.

Besides, Lady Miranda had quite caught his fancy. His original plan had been simply to meet her, so he could better decide the best way to continue his vendetta. Vendetta—he rather fancied the word. The raging fury of old Italian families wiping each other out over an imagined slight—that was a similar, albeit more well-bred, version of what drove him.

One look at her windblown countenance and he knew he’d be a fool to leave it to anyone else to ruin her.

He should have known better than to delegate the task the first time. But then, he’d never realized that there could be all sorts of added delight in drawing Miranda Rohan into his web.

He was halfway to his home on Cadogan Place when the idea came to him, and he laughed out loud.

He knew exactly how to crush the Rohans, to leave them unable to rescue their sweet, ruined little girl this time, unable to do anything at all about it.

He would marry her.

The thought of Lady Miranda in the Scorpion’s hands would drive them mad once they knew who and what he was. They’d protected her from everything, even her foolish disgrace. But they wouldn’t be able to protect her from her lawful husband.

The more he thought about it the more delightful it seemed. He had no intention of hurting the chit. If he was desirous of inflicting pain there were always the infrequent meetings of the Heavenly Host where like-minded people could happily while away an hour or so.

No, Miranda would survive the marriage bed with no more than her spirit beaten down. He would drive the laughter from her eyes and from those of all the Rohans.

It was a very practical solution to a number of issues. He’d been meaning to find a bride these last few years. He was halfway between thirty and forty—more than time to find a wife. Miranda Rohan would do admirably.

He’d get a couple of children on her, quickly, and if she survived childbirth he’d keep her at his estates in the Lake District, as far away from her family as he could manage. Pawlfrey House was a cold, grim place deep in one of those shadowed valleys that abounded in the Lake District, and he doubted even a woman’s touch could make it more appealing. It would be a difficult life for any brats she might happen to bear him; he’d most likely bring them to a warmer climate to be raised.

Miranda, however, would remain at the house. She would never see her family again, and his familial debt would be repaid. Genevieve would at last rest in peace, knowing he’d avenged her, and he might very well return to his travels. Even the sunnier areas of this blighted island were a little too raw and cold for his liking.

He remembered the taste of Lady Miranda’s skin when he’d kissed her hand. Oh, this was going to be quite delightful. He could indulge his taste for villainy and no one would know what he planned until it was too late.

No shoddy abductions or protestations of love. He would propose their union as a business venture, though he certainly didn’t plan to start out that way. He suspected she wouldn’t be wooed, which was just as well. It would take time to fix his interest with her, and time was his enemy. As soon as the Rohans learned who he was they’d be on their guard, and he hated the thought of being forced to do anything clumsily.

No, the advantage was definitely on his side, and when had he ever failed to take full use of such a boon? He would have her eating out of his hand well before her family even caught wind of it.

She would probably view the thought of him as a lover with extreme distaste. Tant pis. She would learn to like, if not him, at least the things he could do to her. He was a most accomplished lover when he cared to be. And she just might be worth the effort.

The rain was pounding down by the time he reached his house, but rushing made him clumsy, and he mounted his front steps leisurely, ignoring the drenching. Indeed, he was a man who relished storms over insipid blue skies. And they were in for tumultuous weather.

3

Of course she wouldn’t think of accepting his invitation, Miranda told herself regretfully. Once she’d made certain her horses were returned and none the worse for her near disaster, she retired to her rooms and a hot bath to take the chill from her bones, during which she had ample time to review her strange encounter. An encounter that left her feeling oddly breathless.

In truth most of what she knew about Lucien de Malheur was rumor, innuendo and conjecture. For one thing, despite the French name, his family was as Norman English as they came. The de Malheurs could trace their lineage back to the Domesday Book, and no one dared sneer at them, no matter how low the last few generations of that name had fallen. Fortunately the one thing that could exert Cousin Louisa was gossip and scandal, and Miranda had little doubt her companion could be counted on to provide every salacious on-dit imaginable.

“Ah, the de Malheurs!” the lady said with a gusty sigh. “Did I ever tell you I was quite enamored of the current earl’s uncle? It would never serve, of course, even with such an illustrious title. At that point they were desperately poor, most of their holdings were sold off to pay their gaming debts, and I was without a sufficient dowry. It was just as well. They were quite mad—the stories I heard were so disturbing I shan’t even share them with you, for I do not scruple to inform you, dear Miranda, that you really are appallingly innocent despite your own less than spotless past. Of course, I paid those stories about the de Malheurs no heed—after all, I was merely a girl and aux anges by the sight of a handsome face and a dark and dramatic history. And Lord, that family was a handsome one.” She said this last part with a sound that was disturbingly akin to smacking her lips. “Not the current bearer of the title, of course, though I doubt he’s quite the monster he’s painted to be.”

“Haven’t you ever seen him?” Miranda asked.

“Lord, no, child! He never came to London. When the de Malheurs lost all their money they retreated to one of those islands in the new world, full of slaves and such like, and the current earl was raised there after his father died. He hasn’t been back in this country for long, and alas, my poor health has kept me a prisoner…. He rarely goes out, even now. It’s the most strange luck, that you should have happened to meet up with him today.”

Miranda felt a faint trickling of uneasiness, but she shoved it away. “Wouldn’t you like to see him yourself? We needn’t stay very long if you mislike it.”

“Alas, my poor health!” Cousin Louisa wheezed. “But I see no reason why you shouldn’t go.”

Miranda looked at her doubtfully. While neither of them were privy to the latest gossip, the Scorpion had a reputation that reached even to their isolated circumstances, one that hinted of darkness. But then, as he’d pointed out, society was full of lies and innuendo, of harsh judgments and rigid strictures.

Besides, she received most of her information from members of her family and no one had ever said a word about the man. He could scarcely be that bad if her family hadn’t passed along any entertaining on-dits or warnings.

She would go. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed a musical evening in someone’s home? It could scarcely damage her reputation any more than it already was.

She would stay where she was. A friendship with Lucien de Malheur was probably not a good idea. She had no idea why he was known as the Scorpion, but clearly that was a warning sign. It wasn’t as if he was known as Lucien de Malheur, the Wooly Lamb.

But at half past nine on Wednesday evening when the front knocker was heard, Miranda was dressed and ready. Her very proper sister-in-law Annis had once helpfully suggested that she go into demimourning after the debacle. Pale mauves and lavenders, dove-grays and taupes would be more fitting to her changed circumstances than the innocent pastels she’d been forced to wear, Annis had said.

“She’s not in mourning for anything,” her strong-minded mother had snapped, and from then onward Miranda had indulged her taste in rich, deep colors. She was wearing a forest-green accompanied by emeralds that evening when Lord and Lady Calvert were announced.

“My dear Lady Miranda, what a pleasure it is to meet you!” Lady Calvert, adrift on a cloud of the finest French perfume, greeted her. “Dear Lucien thought you might be more comfortable attending his little soiree if we fetched you. Of course he couldn’t come himself—his duties as host preclude that. And I’m sorry we were late. I absolutely couldn’t find a thing to wear! But truly, we shall have a lovely time. He has Signor Tebaldi from the opera house, quite the best tenor London has known in an age, and Mr. Kean will be on hand to regale us with some readings from Shakespeare. Indeed, you cannot miss it!” Her breathy voice was wildly aflutter. “But I see you have no intention of reneging. You look lovely, my dear. You quite cast my aging charms in the shade.”