A Rose at Midnight (8 page)

She didn’t turn her head to look at him, didn’t give him any indication that she’d heard him. She hadn’t many defenses left—she intended to cherish each one.

She kept her gaze concentrated on the shadowed ceiling as he strolled into the room. A moment later Charbon was scooped off her chest, and she braced herself to hear a canine yelp of pain.

She’d underestimated Blackthorne. “Your mistress isn’t in the mood for doggy kisses,” he said to the puppy in a soothing voice. “And we don’t want you licking the brandy off her clothes, now do we? Get along with you.” He set the dog on the floor and gave him a gentle nudge.

Charbon bounced back onto the bed with an indignant yip, and Ghislaine had no choice but to look at the puppy, ignoring the tall, dark figure that loomed above her.

“You’re just as determined as your mistress, aren’t you?” Blackthorne said, and there was a trace of cool amusement in his voice. “Tavvy?” he called over his shoulder. “Dispose of this creature, will you?”

She couldn’t help her instinctive protest as he once more scooped Charbon’s wiggling body off her.

Taverner appeared beside the bed, taking the puppy in patient hands. “What do you want me to do with him?”

Blackthorne was watching her very carefully, gauging her reaction, and she concentrated all her limited energies on keeping her face blank. “You could always drown him,” he said in a dreamy voice. “Or break his neck.”

“No!” The voice was torn out of her. Shame filled her at her weakness, but she couldn’t let him die without a protest.

“No?” Blackthorne echoed, leaning over her. “Are you asking me to save your little dog?”

She wanted to spit in his face. She stared up at him, into his dark, merciless eyes, and wished she could curse him. “Yes,” she said, forcing the words.

He smiled then, a small, cool smile of triumph. “Take the dog to the housekeeper and tell her to watch over him until Ellen returns, Tavvy. I’m sure my cousin will take him to her bosom.”

It was the best she could hope for, and part of her despised accepting even that much mercy from the man. She bit her lips together, determined not to show any gratitude, but he was wise enough to expect none.

“What do you want me to tell the old lady?” Taverner asked, pausing in the doorway.

“What we’d planned on,” Nicholas said, staring down at her, unmoved by the hatred in her eyes. “That Mamzelle has decided a life of drudgery can’t compare with that of an English gentleman’s mistress.”

“No!” she protested, but he simply smiled, his hand reaching out to stroke the side of her face gently. She jerked away furiously, but he caught her, his hand hard.

“I didn’t say I was actually going to bed you, darling,” he murmured. “I merely think it would be politic for the servants of Ainsley Hall to think you prefer my bed to the kitchens. I gather you haven’t told Ellen about your past. Most unwise on your part. If she knew, she’d raise heaven and earth trying to stop me. As it is, she’ll simply have to assume her eccentric chef was vulnerable to the lures of sex and money, like most of her countrywomen.”

“Stop you from doing what?” she asked in a rough voice.

For a moment his eyes lit up with a mocking humor. “Why, I’m not sure yet. I’ll make it up as I go along. Are you going to walk with me out to the carriage in a nice, biddable fashion, or am I going to have to use brute force?”

“I’d prefer you take me to the magistrate.”

“I’m certain you would,
ma petite,
but I consider that option much too boring. I find I really dislike being poisoned, and some small, ignoble part of me is longing for revenge. You should understand that much, shouldn’t you, Ghislaine? For whatever crimes you imagine I committed against you and yours, you decided you’d murder me. Perhaps I’ll return the favor.”

“Do it now,” she said fiercely.

He simply shook his head, the faint, damnable smile on his face. “Anticipation is half the pleasure,” he said.

“I won’t come willingly.”

“Subduing defiance is the other half,” he said, and for the first time she noticed the snowy-white neckcloth in his hands. A moment later the gag was in place, tied behind her head, and she stopped struggling, knowing that the more she struggled, the longer his hands would touch her. And she found the touch of his hands unnerving.

He hauled her into a sitting position, and a sudden wave of dizziness washed over her. She’d hit her head during her struggles, and the pain was just beginning to reassert itself. She refused to let herself sway, sitting very still, waiting.

He was fully dressed—an ominous sign. He was a symphony in chiaroscuro, from his shiny black boots, carelessly tied cravat, silver-trimmed black coat, and dark, black breeches. He looked like the devil himself, and she wondered whether he was planning to go straight to hell. And whether he was planning on taking her too.

He draped the bright green silk cape around her, and she didn’t bother protesting. He knew full well it was Ellen’s, and he’d chosen it anyway. He fastened it beneath her chin, his long fingers cool against her skin, and pulled the hood up over her head.

“Not that the servants will be under any illusions,” he murmured, surveying her with a thoughtful air. “I just don’t happen to want them to realize you’re not quite willing. They’re not overly fond of you; Tavvy discovered that much in the servants’ hall. They think you’re insufferably proud and above yourself. They’ll be absolutely delighted to think you lifted your skirts for the likes of me.”

She lunged at him, forgetting her ankles were bound together, and he caught her as she fell against him. “So eager,
ma petite
?” he murmured. “You’re right—we’ve overstayed our welcome.” And he scooped her up in his arms, the enveloping cape wrapped around her bound arms and legs, the hood hiding her face. “Very romantic,” he said in a dry voice. “I suggest you don’t waste your time trying to struggle. I’ll be able to subdue you quite efficiently, but I’d have to hurt you. I’m not ready to do that. And the servants aren’t likely to come to your rescue, even if they thought you were being taken against your will. Don’t fight it, Ghislaine. You have no escape.”

She’d prided herself on accepting the inevitable, and she recognized the truth in his words. For now, for the next few hours, at least, she was entirely at his mercy. She needed to conserve her strength, her energy. Because sooner or later, her chance would come. And Nicholas Blackthorne would learn firsthand about the fires of hell.

The Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening glanced out the carriage window into the storm-clouded countryside. If he’d had any choice in the matter he would have stayed at Meadowlands until the weather cleared. But Ellen had been determined to leave, and he’d been just as determined, in his own deceptively indolent fashion, to accompany her. Besides, if the weather had been clear he would have had very little excuse to ride in the excellently sprung carriage belonging to his old school chum Carmichael. Ellen knew he had a new gelding, and while he never liked to exert himself unnecessarily, he also detested enclosed spaces like carriages. He would have been hard put convincing her he actually wanted to be immured in a carriage with her for almost ten hours. Not without telling her the truth.

She smiled at him, pushing her golden-blond hair back from her pale face, and he smiled back. She was one of the few women who wouldn’t be intimidated by his oversized frame. Carmichael called him The Mountain, and his most recent mistress, a deftly inventive opera singer whose talented mouth knew no limits, had used other, even franker terms for him.

He would miss Carlotta, he thought with a sigh. Miss her bawdy ripeness, her screaming tantrums, and her enthusiasm in bed. He couldn’t hope to find that same unabashed enthusiasm in a woman of quality. He’d resigned himself to the fact that his marriage bed would be a staid, polite affair, conducted in darkness beneath layers of covers. At least he had every intention of enjoying the time outside the bed with someone compatible.

Ellen Fitzwater was more than compatible. She was charming, innocent, alarmingly clever, and possessed of boundless affection for him, rather like a well-trained spaniel. And like any true Englishman, he loved his dogs. She was also quite lovely, with her soft curves and English-rose complexion. It was some time after the incredibly proper Miss Stanley had broken their engagement that he’d first realized Ellen would suit him admirably. Part of that decision had been helped by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to do anything about it for several years. He was a man of strong opinions, likes and dislikes, but prided himself on being a tolerant man. Things tended to fall into place for him—he’d been blessed with a respectable fortune, a minor title, loving parents, a form that women tended to find pleasing, and an ability in matters of gaming and sport that made him universally appreciated. If occasionally he saw things a little too clearly he usually managed to maintain a polite veneer. He suffered fools, not gladly, but often. He was usually just too even-tempered to do otherwise.

Ellen had almost disrupted his well-laid plans. He’d had enough town bronze to know that she wouldn’t make a splash during her first season. He’d kept an eye on her progress, ready to step in if some enterprising young man came up with an offer, but as he’d expected, the young men of London didn’t have the supreme good taste to appreciate a subtle beauty like Ellen. Tony was a firm believer in monogamy, and he was too fond of Ellen to offer her anything less than a dutiful husband. His close call with Miss Stanley had given him a proper appreciation for the joys of bachelorhood, and he simply hadn’t been in any hurry to dispense with its pleasures in exchange for monogamy and duty.

The Reverend Alvin Purser had crept up behind his back when he wasn’t looking. Just when he’d thought he had plenty of time, with Ellen safely ensconced at Ainsley Hall, Carmichael had announced his sister’s engagement.

Tony had considered declaring himself at that point, then thought better of it. He prided himself on being a decent man, and Carmichael assured him that Ellen was head over heels in love. If he’d had any notion that she wasn’t quite so enamored of her little minister, he might have done something about it. But he took his friend’s word for it and decided to look elsewhere for a bride. Unfortunately no one had even come close to Ellen’s qualifications.

And when the idiotic reverend had jilted her, she’d taken off for the continent before he had a chance to make his move a few dangerous weeks into the already dubious Peace of Amiens. When she returned she had her friend, the mysterious female chef, in tow, and a new, wary air to her.

He’d worked damned hard at getting her to relax once more around him. The reverend had done more damage than Tony would have thought possible, and it would take time getting Ellen to come to heel once more.

He had more than enough time, and so did she. While she was safely on the shelf, she was still only in her mid-twenties, time and enough to provide him with a suitable brood of children, including an heir. If he had any sense at all he’d give it another year or two.

The problem was, he’d lately been growing impatient. Been wondering whether cohabiting with a good woman might not be quite as boring as he anticipated, given that the good woman was Ellen. He’d been very wary at Christmas, afraid the sentiment of the season and his own restlessness might push him into doing something uncharacteristically impulsive. He’d kept away since then, trying to take his time.

But he’d been unable to keep away any longer. Maybe it was past time to become just the slightest bit impulsive.

He shifted in his seat again, and Ellen glanced at him. “You hate this,” she said. “You shouldn’t have insisted on accompanying me, Tony. I’m more than capable of traveling the distance between my brother’s house and mine without you. Binnie keeps me very good company, and Carmichael employs only the most reliable of coachmen.”

Tony glanced over at the admirable Miss Binnerston, now snoring softly as her becapped head drooped over her nonexistent bosom. “I would hope my company would be slightly more enlivening,” he drawled.

A faint, attractive flush darkened her soft cheeks. “Of course you are, Tony. But I didn’t want to drag you all over the countryside in this miserable weather. I just wanted to get home. I know my fears are ridiculous, but I’m not going to rest easy until I know that… that things are all right.”

“That your little chef is all right. Ghislaine—isn’t that her name? Why didn’t she accompany you in the first place? I’m sure Carmichael’s staff would have made her welcome.”

“Actually the servants don’t tend to care much for her. She’s too foreign, too self-contained for them. She’s not a servant, Tony. She’s my friend.”

“I hate to sound repressive, sweetheart, but you can’t make friends of your servants. For one thing, they don’t like it above half. Servants have the strongest class sense of any group I know, and it goes against their dignity to be treated like a friend.”

“I’ve told you, she’s not like other people. I owe her a very great deal, and it’s not something I can easily explain.”

“You don’t have to. I’ll simply take your word for it.”

She looked across at him, quite startled, and he wondered how long it had been since someone simply took what she said without questioning. “Thank you, Tony.”

She’d make an estimable wife and mother, he thought absently, watching her. Sweet, docile, well-bred. But he couldn’t help wondering whether beneath that gentle, faintly worried expression lurked any capability for passion.

“Everything will be fine,” he said, ignoring his own wayward thoughts. “Nicholas will have decamped, the servants will probably have gotten into the port, and your… friend will be wishing she’d had the good sense to accompany you.” A sudden, decidedly unpleasant thought struck him, as he remembered certain proclivities, ones he’d never thought sweet Ellen would share. “She is simply a friend, isn’t she?” he found himself asking.

Clearly Ellen didn’t have the faintest notion what he meant. “What else would she be?” she asked. “We’re not related, if that’s what you’re asking.”