A moment later the door closed, and he was alone with his awkward poppet.
She looked like hell. It was interesting washing the soot off her face, discovering the creaminess of her skin, admiring once again the faint tracing of freckles across the Harriman Nose. It really was a lovely nose. Narrow and elegant, it made her much more striking than her pretty little sister. By the time she was forty she’d be magnificent, and he couldn’t wait…
He pulled back. He might not even be alive when she was forty. He’d be fifty-six, an old man, and even if he were still alive he was unlikely to be anywhere near her. He wouldn’t even remember her existence.
He rinsed out the cloth and drew it down the side of her neck. She was in a deep, untouchable sleep, shock and exhaustion and grief having overwhelmed her. He hated seeing her defeated, but he had no doubt whatsoever that she’d be ready to fight back tomorrow. To fight him. She was like an angry Roman goddess—nothing could defeat her for long.
He set the cloth down and put his hands on either side of her thin nightgown, pulling it apart to look at her. He was a degenerate bastard to do so, but he had no illusions as to who and what he was. He was surprised Madame Bonnard still did.
Her breasts were quite lovely. Small and perfect, and the nipples were pleasingly dark, not insipid pink. He’d always had a weakness for dark nipples. He should have known she’d be hiding such a treasure.
He stared at them, and he could feel the beginnings of arousal stir in his cynical body. What other treasures might her flesh provide? He reached out to tear the gown down to its hem, and something stopped him.
It was hardly decency, he told himself, pulling the gown back together, covering her breasts reluctantly. He was finding himself quite stimulated at the sight of her, and at the moment there was no one he was interested in…er…spending that stimulation on. He’d have to do something about that.
And he was hardly likely to make love to her while she was unconscious. It would be like making love to a corpse, something that had never appealed to him.
He rang the bell. Bonnard appeared immediately, which annoyed him. “You didn’t think I meant what I said?” he said in a silken voice.
“Of course you did, monseigneur. I was merely counting on the fact that you’re easily bored. ”
He found he could laugh. “You know me rather better than I thought,” he said. “I’m not sure how comfortable that makes me. ”
“Monsieur?”
“Bonnard, you know as well as I do that it wouldn’t be boredom that stopped me, and that I’d need some shallow excuse to salve my wounded amour propre. Which you have done admirably. Send chambermaids to finish taking care of Mademoiselle Harriman while I go get drunk. ”
Bonnard didn’t argue. “Oui, Monsieur le Comte,” she said, dipping into a curtsy.
Rohan took one last look at Elinor, lying still and silent on the bed. Not for him, he thought. And taking his glass of brandy, he left the room, closing the door behind him.
16
If it hadn’t been for her sister, Elinor would have refused to wake up. She heard the noises from a distance. It seemed the great house was in a state of complete chaos. Furniture was being moved, servants were chattering in lowered voices. Those things she could have ignored. If she opened her eyes she’d have to face reality. That her mother was gone, burned in the flames of her own making. And far worse, Nanny Maude was dead, the last person she could even think of turning to. All their possessions had gone up in smoke, and they had nothing, only each other, for comfort.
Lydia would need her. She couldn’t stay in bed, the covers pulled over her head, and pretend none of it had happened. She would need to make plans. Accepting charity from the notorious Viscount Rohan was bad enough; actually living underneath his roof would destroy any chances of Lydia making a decent marriage.
Unless Etienne came through, and there was no guarantee of that. He’d given every indication of being smitten. Unfortunately she’d seen Lydia in Charles Reading’s arms, heard her piteous cry for him. She might be too blinded by infatuation to see Etienne’s worth.
Except that Lydia had never been easily swayed. Despite all the men, young and old, who’d been naturally smitten by her charm and beauty, she’d viewed them all with impartial affection.
That was not how she viewed Reading.
Elinor opened her eyes to the gray-green light that filled the room. She closed them again for a moment, her nerve failing her, and then opened them once more, resolutely, and made herself sit up in bed.
And what a bed it was. The sheets felt like silk. She looked around her slowly. She had no idea how she’d gotten there—her memory of the night before was hazy and jumbled. She remembered that Nanny had died, slipping away peacefully. And she’d gone in search of Lydia, in this vast, dark house. And then nothing.
She was no longer wearing her shabby nightdress. Someone had stripped it off her, replacing it with something made of the finest cambric. She no longer stank of soot and smoke—she’d been bathed as well, and when she swung her legs out of bed she saw that her feet had been bandaged.
For a moment the notion startled her. The thought of being stripped and bathed when she had no knowledge of it was unsettling in the extreme, but then she reminded herself that her unwilling host would have had no part in it. He’d have waved a pale, careless hand to have his servants take care of her and forgotten her existence.
She climbed down from the high, impossibly comfortable bed and limped toward the window. The room was huge, a fact which startled her. Such elegancies made her uncomfortable. She pushed open the curtain, letting in the murky light. She had no idea what time it was, and the light outside was no help. They were in the midst of a blizzard. The snow had piled up everywhere, and it was coming down at a fierce rate, blasting against the windows. She could feel the cold radiating from outside, and she pulled the curtains shut again, shivering.
The fire was glowing brightly, sending forth waves of heat, and she turned and moved toward it. There was a robe laid across the foot of her bed, and she pulled it around her.
She felt as if the blizzard had entered her brain as well—she wasn’t thinking clearly. She’d slept too long, or not long enough, but she could no longer afford such weakness.
She pushed open the door to a corridor filled with servants. One of the maids immediately ceased what she was doing and came to the door. “You’re awake, mademoiselle,” she said, stating the obvious. “Last time I checked on you, you were still sound asleep. If you go back to your room I’ll bring you some dinner…”