Author: Anne Stuart

“Indeed,” Rohan murmured. “You don’t intend to procreate?”

“Those books aren’t about procreation, they’re about…” Words failed her.

Rohan was ever helpful. “Lechery? Degeneracy? Ruination?”

“Pleasure,” she said.

She’d managed to startle him, which was almost worth bringing up such a dangerous word. “I beg your pardon, my dear Elinor. Did you just equate pleasure with coupling?”

“It must provide pleasure,” she said frankly. “Otherwise why would they continue to do it? Why would you hold these ridiculous parties where people can fornicate in public, if they don’t find pleasure in it?”

He smiled at her, an enchanting smile that must have seduced a hundred women. Or more. “There is great pleasure in it, child. I’ve offered to show you more than once.”

“It’s a pleasure I can do without, my lord,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” he said softly. There was a gleam in his hard blue eyes, at odds with his faint, charming smile, and she was held captive by that look for a long, breathless moment. And then it was past. “So why don’t you tell me the truth about your lurid past, my dear? You know I don’t believe your tales of music teachers and actors. You would be far more receptive to my delicate overtures if you’d ever consorted with…how did you put it…pleasure?”

She was going to escape, she reminded herself. She would have enough money to get away from him, enough to book passage back to England if that’s what she wanted. He could never return to those shores—she would be well and truly safe.

If telling him the truth, which she’d never told another living soul, would keep him occupied for the evening, then so be it. She took a deep breath, determined to be calm and unemotional.

“My mother sold me as a bed partner to a friend of hers, a gentleman who was so terrified of the clap that he only bedded virgins. I remained in his service for three months before he found a replacement.”

“Indeed,” he said, not sounding particularly shocked. “Was he kind to you?”

“No. He didn’t speak to me. He rutted.”

“And how old were you, my pet?” His voice was silky soft.

“Just turned seventeen. There’s no need to feel sorry for me. I agreed to it. Agreed to become a whore.”

“And why was that?”

“My mother said he preferred Lydia.”

“Ah. And what was this gentleman’s name?”

If he’d shown pity it would have been unbearable. His calm curiosity had the desired effect—it kept her recital calm and matter-of-fact. “Why would you want to know that?”

“Simple curiosity, my pet. His name?”

“Sir Christopher Spatts. He went back to England, I believe, and married.”

“Did he indeed?” Rohan was very still and calm, almost unnaturally so. “And did your mother continue to barter you to her acquaintances?”

“Hardly. I’ve lived a life of blissful celibacy ever since. I’m not made to be a courtesan. My only value to Sir Christopher was my virginity. Without that and lacking a pretty face I had no value to anyone.”

For some reason she wanted him to say something. To tell her she had value to him. God, she wanted him to tell her she was pretty! How pathetic!

He rose, graceful in his cloth-of-gold coat. “I was going to continue your education, my dear Elinor, but I find I have something more important that has arisen. I know it will desolate you to know I’m not going to teach you about your breasts tonight, but there will be other times.”

Odd, but his words set a sudden, ridiculous tingling in her breasts, almost as if he’d touched them. In the pictures, grown men had suckled on the breasts of women, something that surprised her. Now, with the sudden tight sensation his words had inexplicably caused, she could begin to understand.

He crossed the room to her, graceful as ever, and she didn’t move from her chair, managed not to jerk away when one slim, elegant hand reached out to touch her face. “Poor poppet,” he said softly. “With no one to avenge her.”

She wanted to turn her face into his hand, to press her lips against his palm. She was mad. “My mother is dead, sir. I believe she was the one who sold me.”

“Indeed,” he murmured noncommittally. “I’ll let you rest tonight. Tomorrow is time enough to continue your education.”

“What if I don’t want to learn?” she said, trying not to tremble at the gentle touch.

His smile was genuine. “You will, my child. I assure you, you will.”

21

Francis Rohan moved through the vast hallways of Maison de Giverney, his jeweled heels clicking on the parquet flooring. He no longer bothered to pace himself, to achieve the perfect mincing walk. Most of his guests had retired to places of privacy, and those who were still cavorting in public would be far too interested in their partners to notice the King of Hell striding through their midst.

He found Charles at one of the gaming tables, staring at his hand with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He turned inquiringly when Rohan came to stand over him, and with one look at his face he immediately turned his cards over and rose, following his friend to the empty hallway.

“You look like death,” Charles said. “Was your ‘poppet’ that bad in bed?”

Rohan gave him a measured look. “Do you really want to be discussing the sister of your true love in such a crude manner?”

“She’s not my true love,” Charles said. “And considering all the blasted effort you’re putting into having Elinor Harriman, I would assume a question would not be out of line.”

“Phrase it better.” There was a note of steel in his voice.

Charles looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You, too,” he said ruefully. Before Rohan could respond he went on, “Was your time with Miss Harriman less than you hoped?”

“We held a short conversation. I have something I must do, and I need your help for it.”

“And what is that?”

“I need to kill a man.”

Charles’s sleepy eyes opened more widely. “Anyone in particular?”

“The fat man who joined us tonight. Sir Christopher Spatts.”

“I’m not objecting, mind you,” Charles said. “He’s a slovenly creature, and there are rumors about some of his less savory activities.”

“Such as what?”

“Such as his preference for children, the younger the better. He was quite disappointed when he heard you don’t allow children to be part of the Revels, but decided there were other ways to find pleasure. Why?”

Rohan didn’t answer. “Do you have any notion where he is at the moment?”

“I believe he went off with young Wrotham.”

“Where?”

“Dear me,” Charles murmured. “What did he do?” His eyes narrowed. “Good God, man, are you wearing your sword? You can’t fight him. He couldn’t possibly be any kind of match for you. It would be murder.”

“Good,” said Rohan. “Where is he?”

For a moment Charles didn’t move. And then he nodded. “Come with me.”

Now was as good a time as any to leave, Eleanor thought. He’d already made his nightly visit, though departing without touching her, even attempting to, was different. She understood completely. She’d told him the truth of what had happened six years ago and he’d been disgusted. Whatever kind of exotic allure she’d held for him, and while she hadn’t understood it she’d come to accept that it existed, had vanished.

She moved to the window, looking out into the street. She was probably being foolish, escaping when there was no earthly need. It was more than likely she’d be taken to a coach tomorrow morning with no explanation, just sent on her way.

As it had happened so many years ago when she’d been trapped by that horrible man.

This had been a different kind of imprisonment, and she told herself she was delighted that Rohan had finally seen the error of his ways. She just didn’t want to face him when he set her free.

No, she would leave now, when the house was relatively quiet. She could hear the sounds of gaiety and something else drifting from a distance, and she remembered the frenetic energy as Rohan had led her, blindfolded, through the rooms in the château.

Rohan would clearly be partaking of that gaiety, and for the time, perhaps forever, she was forgotten. Once she was out she had more than enough money to hire a coach to take her out to his château. There, she would collect Lydia and they would run, back to England where no one—at least, one particular person—could follow.

She pulled the cloak around her shoulders. She’d managed to braid her thick hair and tie it with a strip of ribbon. For some reason hairpins and the like had remained absent from the many elegancies provided. She took the plainest dress, since she could scarce leave in her ripped and shredded night rail, and the sturdy boots provided. Tucking the purseful of coins in her pocket, she started for the door, then stopped. The contract lay out on the table, the quill and ink still beside it. She reached for it, planning to tear it into pieces, but something stayed her hand. For some crazed, silly reason she took the pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote “I’m sorry” at the bottom of the page. And then she slipped out into the deserted hallway, heading for the servants’ stairway.

It was quick. How could it be anything but, Rohan thought dazedly. He was a gifted fencer, light on his feet, entirely ruthless. Sir Christopher Spatts was slow and fat and stupid, unable to comprehend that he was staring death in the face. He thought it was one more game played by the Heavenly Host, mocking the rules of life and death. It wasn’t until he began to realize that he was going to die that he started to fight in earnest, slashing with the sword that had been provided him.

Murder. Plain and simple. They were no match, and when Rohan drove the blade into his heart the man squealed like a pig, and Rohan wanted to shout in triumph.