“He’s interested in my sister, is he not? Isn’t she a pretty virgin?” If he disparaged Elinor she would happily hit him with her empty basket.

“You know as well as I do that your sister is far more than pretty.”

“Indeed she is,” she said, pleased with him after all. “And I do assure you, I’m not as shallow and vain as you appear to think me.”

“I do not think you shallow or vain,” he said in a low voice. “I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous…”

“Oh, be quiet,” she said crossly. “You think I’m—”

He stopped, and one gloved finger haltered her in midsentence. They were on the edge of the market now, beneath the shadows of an overhanging building, and she could see his face now, see his eyes, no longer covered by drooping lids.

“I find you exquisite, delightful, a wondrous temptation and most definitely not for me,” he said in a slow, deliberate voice. “You have everyone else at your feet, Miss Lydia. Why should you need me as well?”

For a moment she couldn’t speak, mesmerized by the torment she saw in the dark depths of his eyes. “Because you’re the one I want,” she said in a hushed voice, shocked at herself. Shocked at the simple truth of it.

He stared down at her for a long moment. And then his head moved, and she knew he was going to kiss her, here in this marketplace full of people, he was going to put his scarred mouth on hers, and she was going to throw her arms around him and kiss him back.

“There you are, Miss Lydia!” Jacobs’s voice broke the moment, and Reading released her arm. She turned, feeling the heat flood her cheeks.

“I thought I’d lost you, Jacobs,” she said in a determinedly cheerful voice, as if she hadn’t just lost her only chance for the best kiss of her life. “Mr. Reading was kind enough to escort me in your place.” She turned back to him, ready to say all the polite things. And then the words, the breath left her, as she finally looked into his eyes and saw the truth.

A moment later it was gone, and he bowed over her hand. “Your servant, Miss Lydia,” he murmured, and a moment later he was gone, swallowed up by the crowds.

She stood motionless, watching him until he disappeared, her heart hammering. It was no wonder she hadn’t been able to read his thoughts, his feelings in his dark, shaded eyes. They were deeper, more powerful than she’d ever imagined. Too powerful to put into words. All she knew was she wanted to run after him, throwing caution, throwing everything to the winds. He’d said she wasn’t for the likes of him. She didn’t care. She’d follow him anywhere, she’d…

“Miss Lydia?” Jacobs broke through her momentary dream, bringing her back to reality with a thud. “We need to finish the marketing and get back home. The doctor is due this afternoon, and he was going to take you to the park for a picnic.” He made it sound like an operation.

Etienne, she thought miserably. The man she was going to marry. The right man for her. If she learned to stop dreaming. “I think we need tripe,” she said. “Come along, Jacobs. You’re right, we’d best hurry.”

She told herself to stop thinking about Mr. Reading’s eyes, immediately. And she almost succeeded.

13

Elinor was sitting alone in the refurbished parlor, rereading a book of philosophy. There was a thick Persian carpet on the floor, heavy damask drapes covering the dreary windows, and the chair beneath her was sinfully comfortable. There was a good fire in the grate, the new table had fresh spring flowers, and the place no longer stank of poverty and death. It was pleasant, comfortable, even if she had to thank Rohan for it all.

She’d allowed Lydia to accompany Etienne on his rounds that afternoon, after her morning visit to the market. Lydia had returned, flushed and abstracted, retiring to the bedroom until the doctor arrived. By then she was her usual sweet, smiling self, the shadow gone from her eyes. Almost. What could have happened at the market, with Jacobs close by, that could have overset her?

It was probably her active imagination. She was so used to disaster that it was hard to believe that disaster had been averted. If things continued as they were, Lydia would marry the doctor and bring Nanny Maude and Jacobs into their household. Elinor would even be willing to face the King of Hell in his den in order to make that possible.

And then she’d be blissfully, deliriously free. The thought was terrifying, intoxicating. One thing was certain—she wouldn’t move in with her sister. She could already see the way Etienne’s mind worked, and he would doubtless welcome another conscripted pair of hands, someone to work for the dubious charity of a bed and food.

She would find something, anything. She might travel back to England—surely there was something she could do. Her education had been sadly neglected—she was dismal at watercolors, her attempts on the pianoforte were painful for all and her knitting was disastrous. She could, however, translate Latin with dizzying speed, and presumably still ride a horse, if rumors were true and you never lost that particular skill.

At least her plain looks would be to her advantage if she were to apply for work as a governess. No woman wanted a pretty creature who might lure either the young gentlemen of the household or, even worse, the patriarch. Surely she could—

The knock on the door broke through these ruminations, and for a moment her stomach knotted in crazed hope, and she half rose from her chair, wanting to race to the door.

She sat back down, taking a deep, calming breath as Jacobs went to answer the summons, but she knew immediately that the caller was a stranger. As expected, Viscount Rohan had forgotten her existence.

“Baron Tolliver to see you, Miss Elinor,” Jacobs announced in his most proper voice.

And Elinor rose, prepared to meet her long-lost cousin, and her last best hope for the future.

It was absolutely ridiculous that he was having such a damnably hard time putting Miss Elinor Harriman out of his mind, Rohan thought as he surveyed the decorations. The two-week celebration was usually the high point of the year, and his servants had been preparing for months. The curtains in the ballroom were hung with black, every bedroom and in fact, every flat surface, had been gone over, prepared for unparalleled lechery. Food was spilling from the kitchens, excitement was building, and a ceremony of induction had been meticulously planned. The members of the Heavenly Host were, in a fact, a relatively small, select number, but there had been a spate of recent requests to join them, and Rohan had been considering them. In particular, one name stood out, and he was more than mildly interested in how the gentleman in question would comport himself.

The newcomers were usually a greedy lot, unable to comprehend that everything was available for their pleasure. Do what thou wilt. Eat and drink and gamble with no limit. Partake of the pleasures of the flesh with any and all who were willing, and no variation was forbidden. He had one room devoted to the giving and receiving of pain, others for dedicated play. One of the most popular was the chapel, where the members could mock the notion of the devil and the strictures of the church. He’d outgrown the silliness of spitting in the eye of God, but other, more devout souls found it the epitome of titillation.

In fact, he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking forward to this time around. Pain had lost its appeal, costumes felt forced, and in truth, he could think of no one he wanted, no female who stirred his blood. He leaned back, lazily considering whether he had reached a point where those of his own sex held any allure, but after a moment he dismissed the notion reluctantly. He had no rules, and he could care less where his sexual drives took him. He only regretted that right now they were taking him nowhere but to a tumbledown house in Rue du Pélican.

Reading would tell him his mind was disordered. And in fact, he did so, almost nightly, when he accompanied Rohan home from a rout or a card party or some less savory entertainment.

Because, for some quixotic reason, his coach ride home invariably included a trip past the dark streets that housed the Harriman family.

Reading had the good sense not to ask him why he ordered his coachman to take that particular route, and Rohan didn’t volunteer any reason. He knew full well that Reading was pining for the sister, poor fool, and refusing to admit it, and Rohan was perfectly happy to be assured that the wretched little household was safe for the night.

Every night Rohan told himself that this would be the last time. If he was concerned, which he would deny to his last breath, he could always send a servant to check on her. She’d already made two champions—Willis had reported that there was an underfootman who was now devoted to her, and Willis was probably smitten as well. God knows Mrs. Clarke was going to have his ears if he hurt her. Strange how everyone was drawn to such a plain, difficult woman, but maybe that would make things easier for him. He could simply charge them all with the task of making certain she and her family were well and forget about her himself.

Indeed, that was exactly what he would do. No more trips out of his way. He would head directly home from wherever he chose to spend his evenings, and rely on a servant to keep him informed. Perhaps then he could stop thinking about her and concentrate on the Revels.

There would be new guests, freshly arrived from England and the rest of the continent. There would be proper aristocratic wives who finally discovered their husbands weren’t meeting their needs, lower-class women of limited experience looking for a protector and the more comfortable way of life an alliance with the Host could bring. Fresh blood was always invigorating, and while he was looking forward to the approaching festivities with mild irritation and a great deal of boredom, who knows who might appear to distract him? Someone else equally…inspiring…would most likely appear.

This plain woman had done nothing but distract him, irritate him, unwillingly enchant him since she’d appeared in the anteroom at the château, and if he had to choose between his unwanted obsession with her and boredom, he’d gladly choose ennui. After all, he was used to it.

He leaned forward in his chair, reaching for a glass of claret, and paused for a moment to admire the Mechlin lace that graced his strong wrist. He had a ridiculous fondness for his wardrobe, and the new cuffs had been particularly fine. At least she hadn’t been around to destroy his clothes recently. And he wondered what Elinor Harriman would look like, stretched naked on his bed, wrapped in nothing but delicate white lace.