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 dar
k 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.
Author: Anne Stuart
He drained the glass of wine and set it down carefully, resisting the impulse to fling it across the room. Much as he wanted to shatter something, break something, it would simply be more proof of how disordered his mind and his desires had become. Marianne would be in attendance this week, and after the last interruption at his château, he realized it had been quite some time since he’d been able to fully enjoy her. Surely she’d manage to distract him for a few good hours. She was an expert, graceful, practiced, intuitive as to what he did and didn’t like.
So why was he suddenly desiring awkwardness? He should be concentrating on other, more important things. Like who had shot him? Was it his so-dear French heir, the disgruntled Etienne? Or someone else he’d managed to offend during his long, wicked life?
As Etienne had said, one had only to meet him in order to want to kill him, though he did think that was a trifle harsh. There were any number of his acquaintances who would gladly sell their souls for him. Unfortunately he had no belief in the existence of any force willing to buy those souls.
At least there had been no more attempts on his life. Perhaps that had simply been a stray bullet, a random event. And perhaps he’d forget all about Elinor Harriman. Whether he believed in any kind of god, there was always the possibility of miracles.
The new Baron Tolliver was a handsome man. Despite the fact that he had the unmistakable Harriman Nose, it fit far better in a masculine face, Elinor decided. He had bright blue eyes, a full-lipped mouth, a strong body just above-average height and a pleasant smile.
“Miss Harriman,” he’d said, coming up to her and taking her hand. “I’m devastated that I was out of town when you sought to meet with me. Mr. Mitchum should have gotten word to me and I would have returned to Paris immediately. ”