Breathless (3 page)

Miranda was trying to tuck her wet hair back inside her bonnet when she paused. She imagined she looked like a rain-swept slattern, but perhaps her odd rescuer could no more see her than she could see him.

“You have?” she said, curious, her own misery banished.

“I beg pardon—I've been most remiss. Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Lucien de Malheur.” He paused for a moment. “You may have heard of me.”

Miranda didn't blink. So this was the notorious Scorpion, the fifth earl of Rochdale. She peered through the darkness with renewed fascination. “You're right,” she said with her usual frankness. “Even in
my
cloistered existence I've heard the stories. Compared to you, I'm St. Joan.”

His soft laugh was oddly beguiling. “But we both know that gossip is seldom true.”

“Seldom?”

“Occasionally an element of truth colors a story. Doubtless you've heard that I consort with criminals, that I'm debauched and evil and lead young men to their financial ruin and consort with the notorious Heavenly Host. Don't look so shocked—I realize people seldom admit the organization even exists anymore, but it's a very badly kept secret. And you would have heard of my deformities, doubtless exaggerated to the point where I'm better suited to Astley's Circus and its objects of Wonder and Horror.”

He'd been described in exactly that way, but she
wasn't about to admit it. “And what is the truth?” She didn't have to look out the window. She recognized the sound of the pavement beneath the carriage, the pattern of cobblestones on the narrow street. They were already on Half Moon Street. Too soon, she thought, frustrated. This was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in weeks, perhaps months.

For a moment he said nothing, and she had the odd sense that he was weighing something, considering something new and unlikely.

“The truth is, Lady Miranda, that I am an ugly brute with a lame leg and I prefer not to impose my ugliness on unsuspecting strangers.”

She wanted to see him. For some reason she was quite desperate to set eyes on the notorious, reputedly villainous earl, and she suspected his words had been formed with just that intent.

They had pulled up outside her small, immaculate house. “I've been warned,” she said with humor in her voice. “You can show me and I promise not to scream or faint.”

His soft laugh was her answer. “I'm afraid I don't know you well enough yet, Lady Miranda. I would never trespass on so short an acquaintance.”

She picked up the important word. “Yet?” she echoed warily.

“Please,” he protested, once again reading her doubts. “I do only wish to be your friend.”

“A friend I can't see?”

“I'll make a bargain with you, Lady Miranda. You're fond of music, are you not? If you agree to attend a musical evening at my house in Cadogan Place you'll have no choice but to look at my unfortunate face. And no,
don't go jumping to conclusions again. The twenty-four people who've been invited have all accepted with flattering alacrity. I would be honored if you joined us.”

She probably shouldn't, she thought. She knew she shouldn't, but the risk sounded so tempting, and in faith, what did she have to lose?

“I was planning to go out of town, my lord….”

“But surely you can put your departure off for a few days? London has been so devoid of company you must be bored to tears. Indulge yourself, and me.”

“I shall have to see.” It was tempting. It had been so long since she'd held a conversation with anyone outside her small circle, and she was strangely drawn to him, another outsider. She'd be a fool to walk into trouble again. Still, there was always the chance that common sense would reappear as needed.

He seemed to take her pause for acquiescence. “I'll send my carriage round for you, since I expect it will be a while before your curricle is repaired. Wednesday next, at nine.”

“I shall see,” she said again, being careful. The servants had opened the door to the carriage but the gray, dismal light penetrated no deeper than his shiny black boots.

He took her lack of agreement in stride. “You can come or not as you please. In either case, my men will have your horses back in no time, and I'll see to the return of your carriage, as well. In the meantime I'm most delighted to have met you, and honored to have been of some minor assistance.”

To her surprise he took her hand, bringing it to his lips in the dark of the carriage. The touch of his mouth was
light, but against her bare skin it was oddly…disturbing. What in the world had she done with her gloves?

She practically scrambled away, almost falling down the lowered carriage steps. She might have heard a soft laugh from the shadows, but realized that was absurd.

“À bientôt,”
her mysterious rescuer murmured.

And a moment later he was gone.

 

Lucien de Malheur, the Earl of Rochdale, sank back against the well-cushioned squabs, tapping his long pale fingers against his bad leg. He was feeling meditative—he always prided himself on his ability to shift with the changing winds, and having spent a mere ten minutes in Miranda Rohan's company had changed those winds quite significantly.

She was lovely. He didn't know why he should be surprised—no one had ever referred to her as anything less than presentable. To be sure, she had brown hair when the current fashion was for blondes, but her eyes were extraordinary. She had a low, melodious voice and her soft mouth, when it wasn't set in a tight line, was full of good humor.

Which frankly surprised him, given that she'd spent the last two years in isolation, without much hope of having anything change in the near future. He would have thought she'd be a bit more subdued, even crushed.

Lady Miranda Rohan struck him as someone extremely difficult to crush. Thus, the challenge was immediately appealing. The Rohan family had a debt to pay, and so far they'd gotten off too easily. Even their only daughter's fall from grace had failed to disturb their equanimity.

That would soon change.

All her watchdogs had finally left town. Every single one of the notorious Rohans were in Yorkshire, days away, leaving her behind. Alone. Unguarded. Vulnerable.

It had been simple enough to have one of Jacob Donnelly's men sabotage the young woman's curricle. He'd run the risk of a dangerous accident, but it was a chance worth taking, and he'd come to her rescue like the proper gentleman he was. She hadn't suspected a thing.

And now he was very glad he'd decided to do something about the soiled dove. So far the Rohans had faced disgrace with total hauteur and defiance. As he would have, had he ever been fool enough to get caught in his various illegal and immoral activities.

Lady Miranda's brother Benedick had no idea his former fiancée had a half brother living in the tropical islands of Jamaica. A half brother determined to gain revenge no matter the price. Taking Benedick's sister had perfect symmetry, and Lucien liked symmetry.

Besides, Lady Miranda had quite caught his fancy. His original plan had been simply to meet her, so he could better decide the best way to continue his vendetta.
Vendetta
—he rather fancied the word. The raging fury of old Italian families wiping each other out over an imagined slight—
that
was a similar, albeit more well-bred, version of what drove him.

One look at her windblown countenance and he knew he'd be a fool to leave it to anyone else to ruin her.

He should have known better than to delegate the task the first time. But then, he'd never realized that there
could be all sorts of added delight in drawing Miranda Rohan into his web.

He was halfway to his home on Cadogan Place when the idea came to him, and he laughed out loud.

He knew exactly how to crush the Rohans, to leave them unable to rescue their sweet, ruined little girl this time, unable to do anything at all about it.

He would marry her.

The thought of Lady Miranda in the Scorpion's hands would drive them mad once they knew who and what he was. They'd protected her from everything, even her foolish disgrace. But they wouldn't be able to protect her from her lawful husband.

The more he thought about it the more delightful it seemed. He had no intention of hurting the chit. If he was desirous of inflicting pain there were always the infrequent meetings of the Heavenly Host where like-minded people could happily while away an hour or so.

No, Miranda would survive the marriage bed with no more than her spirit beaten down. He would drive the laughter from her eyes and from those of all the Rohans.

It was a very practical solution to a number of issues. He'd been meaning to find a bride these last few years. He was halfway between thirty and forty—more than time to find a wife. Miranda Rohan would do admirably.

He'd get a couple of children on her, quickly, and if she survived childbirth he'd keep her at his estates in the Lake District, as far away from her family as he could manage. Pawlfrey House was a cold, grim place deep in one of those shadowed valleys that abounded
in the Lake District, and he doubted even a woman's touch could make it more appealing. It would be a difficult life for any brats she might happen to bear him; he'd most likely bring them to a warmer climate to be raised.

Miranda, however, would remain at the house. She would never see her family again, and his familial debt would be repaid. Genevieve would at last rest in peace, knowing he'd avenged her, and he might very well return to his travels. Even the sunnier areas of this blighted island were a little too raw and cold for his liking.

He remembered the taste of Lady Miranda's skin when he'd kissed her hand. Oh, this was going to be quite delightful. He could indulge his taste for villainy and no one would know what he planned until it was too late.

No shoddy abductions or protestations of love. He would propose their union as a business venture, though he certainly didn't plan to start out that way. He suspected she wouldn't be wooed, which was just as well. It would take time to fix his interest with her, and time was his enemy. As soon as the Rohans learned who he was they'd be on their guard, and he hated the thought of being forced to do anything clumsily.

No, the advantage was definitely on his side, and when had he ever failed to take full use of such a boon? He would have her eating out of his hand well before her family even caught wind of it.

She would probably view the thought of him as a lover with extreme distaste.
Tant pis
. She would learn to like, if not him, at least the things he could do to her. He was a most accomplished lover when he cared to be. And she just might be worth the effort.

The rain was pounding down by the time he reached his house, but rushing made him clumsy, and he mounted his front steps leisurely, ignoring the drenching. Indeed, he was a man who relished storms over insipid blue skies. And they were in for tumultuous weather.

O
f course she wouldn't think of accepting his invitation, Miranda told herself regretfully. Once she'd made certain her horses were returned and none the worse for her near disaster, she retired to her rooms and a hot bath to take the chill from her bones, during which she had ample time to review her strange encounter. An encounter that left her feeling oddly breathless.

In truth most of what she knew about Lucien de Malheur was rumor, innuendo and conjecture. For one thing, despite the French name, his family was as Norman English as they came. The de Malheurs could trace their lineage back to the Domesday Book, and no one dared sneer at them, no matter how low the last few generations of that name had fallen. Fortunately the one thing that could exert Cousin Louisa was gossip and scandal, and Miranda had little doubt her companion could be counted on to provide every salacious on-dit imaginable.

“Ah, the de Malheurs!” the lady said with a gusty sigh. “Did I ever tell you I was quite enamored of the current earl's uncle? It would never serve, of course,
even with such an illustrious title. At that point they were desperately poor, most of their holdings were sold off to pay their gaming debts, and I was without a sufficient dowry. It was just as well. They were quite mad—the stories I heard were so disturbing I shan't even share them with you, for I do not scruple to inform you, dear Miranda, that you really are appallingly innocent despite your own less than spotless past. Of course, I paid those stories about the de Malheurs no heed—after all, I was merely a girl and aux anges by the sight of a handsome face and a dark and dramatic history. And Lord, that family was a handsome one.” She said this last part with a sound that was disturbingly akin to smacking her lips. “Not the current bearer of the title, of course, though I doubt he's quite the monster he's painted to be.”

“Haven't you ever seen him?” Miranda asked.

“Lord, no, child! He never came to London. When the de Malheurs lost all their money they retreated to one of those islands in the new world, full of slaves and such like, and the current earl was raised there after his father died. He hasn't been back in this country for long, and alas, my poor health has kept me a prisoner…. He rarely goes out, even now. It's the most strange luck, that you should have happened to meet up with him today.”

Miranda felt a faint trickling of uneasiness, but she shoved it away. “Wouldn't you like to see him yourself? We needn't stay very long if you mislike it.”

“Alas, my poor health!” Cousin Louisa wheezed. “But I see no reason why
you
shouldn't go.”

Miranda looked at her doubtfully. While neither of them were privy to the latest gossip, the Scorpion had a reputation that reached even to their isolated
circumstances, one that hinted of darkness. But then, as he'd pointed out, society was full of lies and innuendo, of harsh judgments and rigid strictures.

Besides, she received most of her information from members of her family and no one had ever said a word about the man. He could scarcely be that bad if her family hadn't passed along any entertaining on-dits or warnings.

She would go. How long had it been since she'd enjoyed a musical evening in someone's home? It could scarcely damage her reputation any more than it already was.

She would stay where she was. A friendship with Lucien de Malheur was probably not a good idea. She had no idea why he was known as the Scorpion, but clearly that was a warning sign. It wasn't as if he was known as Lucien de Malheur, the Wooly Lamb.

But at half past nine on Wednesday evening when the front knocker was heard, Miranda was dressed and ready. Her very proper sister-in-law Annis had once helpfully suggested that she go into demimourning after the debacle. Pale mauves and lavenders, dove-grays and taupes would be more fitting to her changed circumstances than the innocent pastels she'd been forced to wear, Annis had said.

“She's not in mourning for anything,” her strong-minded mother had snapped, and from then onward Miranda had indulged her taste in rich, deep colors. She was wearing a forest-green accompanied by emeralds that evening when Lord and Lady Calvert were announced.

“My dear Lady Miranda, what a pleasure it is to meet you!” Lady Calvert, adrift on a cloud of the finest
French perfume, greeted her. “Dear Lucien thought you might be more comfortable attending his little soiree if we fetched you. Of course he couldn't come himself—his duties as host preclude that. And I'm sorry we were late. I absolutely couldn't find a thing to wear! But truly, we shall have a lovely time. He has Signor Tebaldi from the opera house, quite the best tenor London has known in an age, and Mr. Kean will be on hand to regale us with some readings from Shakespeare. Indeed, you cannot miss it!” Her breathy voice was wildly aflutter. “But I see you have no intention of reneging. You look lovely, my dear. You quite cast my aging charms in the shade.”

Since Lady Calvert was breathtakingly beautiful Miranda took leave to doubt it, and she made the proper demurral. It had taken her but a moment to recognize Eugenia Calvert, a woman who'd done the unthinkable and left her first husband to run away with Sir Anthony Calvert. They were on the outskirts of society just as she was, and yet apart from that blot on Lady Calvert's reputation she was as well-born and gracious as any member of the ton.

She was also commanding. In no time at all Miranda found herself ensconced in a comfortable carriage, warm bricks at her feet, a fur throw across her lap, being regaled by Lady Calvert's clever on-dits, mostly at the expense of the people who'd shunned her. Sir Anthony said very little, content to gaze adoringly at his wife and murmur any required pleasantries, not a bad sort of husband, Miranda thought mischievously, also remembering that Sir Anthony was quite plump in the pocket.

Rochdale House was on the very edge of the fashionable district, on a street she failed to recognize. While
it wasn't quite the blaze of light Miranda remembered from soirees of old, it was well-enough lit that she could see the dark, prepossessing outlines of the large house, and her initial misgivings returned. Had she been foolish once more?

She was still trying to come up with a graceful excuse when she was swept up the broad front steps into a blaze of light, and she readied herself for her first view of the so-called monster who'd unaccountably befriended her.

He wasn't there. As she handed her cloak to one of the waiting servants she looked about her in surprise. In a gathering this small the host usually greeted his guests, but the foyer was empty, and the music drifted down the broad marble stairs from the first floor.

“We're a bit late,” Lady Calvert said apologetically. “He probably thought we weren't coming.”

An unaccustomed nervousness swept over her. Miranda was someone who took jumps headlong, who, to her detriment, never showed fear or even reasoned hesitation. And yet something swept over her, a sense that there would be no coming back from this step across his threshold.

“I wouldn't want to disturb them,” she said, looking behind her for her relinquished cloak. But the maid had already disappeared. Lady Calvert threaded her arm through Miranda's and began herding her up the staircase, chattering gaily so that Miranda couldn't manage another faint protest, so she instead straightened her shoulders in preparation. She'd never shied away from a challenge in all her life. She could hardly run away at this point.

Signor Tebaldi was singing quite loudly, and no one
heard them arrive at the entrance of the large salon. It was redolent of candle wax and perfume and hothouse flowers, and the heat was stifling. There were about two dozen guests, as he'd promised, all watching the tenor with rapt attention, except for one man.

One man, sitting in the shadows at the back of the room, and she felt his eyes on her. Lucien de Malheur.

Lady Calvert had melted away, her duty done, and Signor Tebaldi launched into another lengthy aria with scarcely a pause for breath or applause. And Miranda's choices were clear.

Her host, and she knew it was he, hadn't moved. He watched her from the shadows, and she wondered for a moment if he was unable to walk. She could move ahead, slip into one of the empty seats, as far away from him as possible. She could turn and leave. She would scarcely be blamed—his failure to rise and greet her was a social solecism of the first order.

Instead she started toward him, unable to see him clearly in the shadows. He was sitting alone, which struck her as odd, but she kept moving, when suddenly her view was blocked by a broad male chest, and it took her good balance to keep from barreling into him.

She looked up into a handsome face, dark eyes and a winning smile. He looked vaguely familiar, and for a moment she wondered if she'd been mistaken, if Lucien de Malheur, the Earl of Rochdale, was this magnificent male specimen.

“Lady Miranda!” he breathed, and she knew immediately that this wasn't her host. The Scorpion's voice had been soft, sinuous, unforgettable, a far cry from this man's hearty tones. “It's been an age since we've met, but I'd been told you might be joining us tonight
and I must confess I've been watching the door. I flatter myself to think you haven't forgotten me.”

“Of course I haven't,” she lied promptly.

He laughed heartily. “Not that I should ever dare to question a young lady's veracity, but I suspect you can't possibly remember who I am. I'm Gregory Panelle, a friend of your brother Benedick's. You and I met several years ago, even stood up together.”

She could feel her smile warm slightly. “Of course I remember you, Mr. Panelle,” she said, still not placing him. However, her brother would never have introduced her to any kind of loose fish, so she could assume there was nothing untoward if she was in his company.

He was very large, blocking her vision, and she leaned past him to glance at the now-deserted seat in the shadows. Her intended target had vanished. “I don't suppose you could tell me where I might find my host? I'm afraid we were delayed, and I haven't had a chance to greet him.”

“We? Have I trespassed on some gentleman's previous claim? I saw no one with you when you floated through the door like a radiant angel.”

She didn't like him, she decided abruptly. In the past she usually made an effort, but she was no longer willing to spend her time with flirtatious buffoons. “No one has any claim on me,” she said with a soft edge.

He leaned forward, too close, and murmured in a heated voice, “Then may I stake mine?” There was no missing the double entendre, but Miranda simply blinked up at him innocently.

“I'm afraid I do need to see Lord Rochdale. Perhaps we might talk later.”

He took her hand in his thick one and brought it to
his mouth, pressing his lips against the soft kidskin, dampening the leather before pulling it into the crook of his arm. “It would be my honor to take you to him. I don't know why you would want to, but one must do the pretty, eh? Come with me.”

He started toward the far side of the room, the row of French doors that presumably led to some sort of balcony, and short of getting into a public brawl there was nothing she could do but go along with him. “Did he ask you to bring me to him?”

“Certainly,” Mr. Panelle said immediately. “It's devilish hot in here, isn't it? He'll be waiting outside on the terrace.”

Bloody hell, Miranda thought, not believing him for one moment. He was a big man, but she was more than capable of getting away from him if it came to that. And perhaps she was wrong and he
was
acting on his host's behalf.

The night was blissfully cool after the overheated room, and the moon was bright overhead, almost full. And there was no one out on the terrace at all.

“Lord Rochdale must have changed his mind,” she said, glancing about her. “We should go back…”

Gregory Panelle swooped her into his arms, clasping her to his manly bosom with surprising clumsiness as he leaned down to kiss her. “You know as well as I do that Lucien's not out here. Damn, but you're a sweet little piece of crumpet. I never realized it before.” He aimed for her mouth, but she jerked her head to one side and his wet, blubbery lips landed on her chin. His grip was quite strong, and she stood still, frozen in his arms, awaiting her chance.

“Come on now, don't be missish,” he complained.
He moved one hand and clamped it over her breast, squeezing tightly, still imprisoning her with his strong arm. “You and I both know you're not too good for this. Treat me nicely and I may see about setting you up somewhere with a place of your own.”

“I have a place of my own,” she said icily. “And if you don't take your bloody hands off me you'll regret it.”

He made the mistake of laughing. “I like a girl with spirit. Trust me, you don't want anything to do with the likes of the Scorpion. He's a Very Bad Man.”

“And you're a good one?” she said derisively, biding her time, carefully choosing her target.

“Well, not nearly so bad as Lucien, if truth be told, and a hell of a lot handsomer. He's as ugly as sin and twice as mean when he gets riled. The man's ruthless.” he said, pinching her breast so hard it was all she could do not to squeak with pain.

“Then do you think you ought to manhandle his guests and risk his wrath?” a silken voice came out of the darkness.

Miranda made her move. It was far from ladylike, but so very effective. She brought her knee up, very hard, between his legs, slamming into that male part of him she had particular cause to dislike, and his high-pitched scream was much prettier than Signor Tebaldi's most measured cadences. He fell away from her, collapsing on the stone terrace as he made agonized, whistling noises, curling in on himself like a baby.

If she'd been alone she would have kicked him for good measure. Instead, she looked up at the man who'd appeared from the shadows, and by the light of the clear March moon had her first good look at the Scorpion.