It was only a few moments later that Rohan slammed open the door, looking as if he was ready to battle demons. Only his own needed defeating. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

Elinor’s voice was raw from screaming, and she cleared her throat. “Rats,” she said.

“Rats?”

“I saw a huge rat in the corner. The size of a hedgehog, and he was staring at me out of his evil little eyes, and if I hadn’t started screaming he would have…”

Rohan had closed the door behind him by then, moving slowly toward the bed. “And you’re terrified of rats,” he said in a voice devoid of inflection.

“Absolutely terrified. There’s nothing worse than rats. Nothing. And this room is infested with them. They’re everywhere. I need you to rescue me.”

She saw the smile curve his mouth, slow, reluctant. “Do you know what you’re telling me, poppet?”

“Yes, my love… Come have your wicked way with me.” And she lay back, closing her eyes, bracing herself.

She felt the smoothness of the covers against her body as he slid in next to her. His hand on her face made her jerk, and she opened her eyes, startled. This wasn’t part of it. He was looking at her with such tenderness.

“You really are such a virgin,” he murmured in a soft voice, his long fingers stroking the side of her face.

“No, I’m not,” she protested. “I’ve done this many, many times before.”

“I beg to correct you. You most certainly have never done what we’re about to do. Permit me to demonstrate.” And he leaned down and kissed her, holding her face still for his mouth.

He was so gentle at first. His lips barely brushed against hers, featherlight, soft and sweet, and she moved up into the kiss, wanting more.

He opened his mouth, tugging hers open as well, and she felt the astonishing touch of his tongue in her mouth. His hand still held the side of her face, and she knew nothing of this kind of kiss, but she closed her eyes and sighed in pleasure, liking it. Liking it very much. Loving it.

She lifted her own hands, to reach up and touch his face, and then froze. She’d forgotten that this was coupling, this was when she was supposed to lie still, and she started to put her hands back at her sides, when he caught them, drawing them up, and as her fingers cradled his face he deepened the kiss, and for a moment she couldn’t think, she could only feel, and she slid her fingers into his long, loose hair and pulled him closer, making a soft sound of need.

He pulled his mouth from hers, and she could feel the tension in his body. “Sweet poppet, I can’t do this…. Not the way you need it.” He started to pull away, and she simply put her arms around him, sliding underneath him.

“This is the way I need it,” she said. He’d put her hand on that part of him last night, and it had been hard with wanting. It had to be something he liked, so she did the unthinkable, sliding her hand between them until she touched the hard, hard length of him.

He groaned, pushing into her hand, and she knew she was right. It gave him pleasure. She slid her fingers along the shape of him, stroking, caressing, and when he reached down and freed himself, the warm flesh was even more wonderful. How could something be so soft and so iron hard at the same time? It would hurt her, she knew it would, and accepted it, because this time she would welcome it. Because this was part of him, elemental and powerful, and he would give it to her, and she finally understood why women wanted this.

He moved to his side, just a little bit, and she let him, as he wrapped her fingers around him, encircling him, and he moved his hand over hers, showing her what he liked, the rhythm of his grip, her grip, the way his hips bucked into the feel of her, and this was one more thing she loved.

His eyes were closed, and she could feel the tension running through his body, building, building. She was wet between her legs and she didn’t know why, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the feel of him, his body sliding against hers, his life pulsing in her hand.

And then with sudden startling clarity she realized what he planned to do. He planned to finish in her hand, leaving her body inviolate, and she froze.

“Don’t…stop…” he groaned.

“I want you inside me,” she whispered. “I want you to finish in my body.”

His groan was powerful, and his need was great. Without another word he rolled over on top of her, shoving her shift up to her waist and pulling her legs apart, and she was just about to brace herself for the pain when he pushed inside her, hard, sliding deep into her with a smoothness that left her breathless, hungry.

She put her feet on the mattress, arching her hips into him, wanting more, and he reached his hands under her rump, moving in deeper still, and she cried out, not in pain, but in some confused need that she didn’t understand.

“It’s too late,” he gasped. “I shouldn’t have…You won’t…”

“Finish it,” she whispered in his ear.

Her words released him. He surged into her, his strokes smooth and hard and deep, and she felt something tight in her throat, in her chest, her breasts, her stomach, but most of all between her legs, and she thought back to the feel of him in her hand, and he reached up and put his mouth on hers, his kiss plunging, possessive, and she knew he was ready for his release, and she was going to love it, every sensation, every sound, every—

Her own explosion hit her so hard she cried out, her body suddenly going rigid in his arms, and she knew she was sobbing with some kind of dark need, wanting more and more as everything spun out of control, light and dark, hard and soft. She made a choking sound, and a moment later he was there as well, spilling into her body, flooding her emptiness.

She was holding him so tightly her muscles felt locked, and then she suddenly let go, falling back against the mattress, soft and boneless, and he fell on top of her, his strong body covering hers, and she welcomed it. It was power, it was longing, it was safety, it was unimaginable pleasure. He was still inside her, and she wanted him to stay that way forever. For the first time in her life she felt part of something, of someone else, and she wanted to laugh out loud with the joy of it.

He pulled away from her, and she tried to pull him back, desperate to keep him with her. He wrapped his arms around her and smoothed her wet face with his fingers. “Dearest, you’re crying. I hurt you.”

She shook her head, but for some reason she was totally unable to speak. She managed to smile through her tears, and she pulled his head down to kiss him, and he laughed against her tear-damp mouth. “You’re going to have me crying too,” he said. He rolled over on his back, taking her with him, and his hands were busy, stripping the chemise off her, so she was wearing nothing but her stockings and garters beneath the linen sheet. He was still wearing his clothes—his shirt and his breeches were open, and he divested himself of them quite handily, all without losing hold of her. And then he tucked her under his arm.

“You need to rest, poppet,” he whispered, his mouth against her ear. “I promise to do a much better job of it in a little while.”

Her sleepy eyes flew open, and she found she could finally speak. “We’re going to do it again? Tonight?”

“Trust me, we could do it again immediately, but I think you need to rest. But we’re most certainly going to do it again tonight. And tomorrow morning, and midday, and early afternoon. And teatime, and…”

“I won’t be able to walk,” she said, alarmed and enchanted at the thought.

“Then I’ll carry you. Sleep now.”

And she closed her eyes and slept.

 

She woke in the darkness, hours later, to see him leaning over her, an intent expression on his face. “You sleep too long,” he murmured. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“You could have woken me.”

“Believe me, I tried,” he said ruefully. “We have work to do, my precious. There are all these delicious parts of you that I was in too damn much of a rush to appreciate. So now your turn. Though in fact, I may enjoy this even more than you do.”

“Enjoy what?” she said, curious.

“Lie back, poppet, and I’ll show you.”

She remembered the last time he showed her something, in the carriage so long ago, and she wondered if there could be anything more interesting than that. He kissed her mouth, slow and deep, and she felt tremors vibrate through her, as if he were still inside her. He moved his mouth across her cheek, and when he reached her earlobe he bit, hard, and the tremors grew stronger. He moved his mouth down her neck, biting the base of her throat lightly, and she reached her arms to pull him down on top of her.

“No, my sweet,” he said, placing her hands down on the bed beside her. “This is the one time when you do have to try to lie still. Trust me, you’ll enjoy it more that way.”

Enjoy what more? she thought, confused. The act of sex? How could that possibly be more enjoyable?

And then his hands touched her breasts, and she tried to sit up, but he was very strong. “Lie back, poppet. We hadn’t gotten to your breasts yet, and they are absolutely delicious. Did I tell you I love your nipples? So dark, like black cherries.” His hands cupped them, and one thumb flicked across the center. She jumped, keeping her eyes closed, as the sensation speared down between her legs.

“How do you know what color my nipples are?” she said in a raw voice. “It’s dark in here.”

“You know I’m a very bad man, poppet. I may have peeked when you were asleep. Believe me, I’ve suffered for my sins. I haven’t been able to stop thinking of them in days.” His thumb flicked the other nipple at the same time, and she let out a small squeak of shy pleasure. “Oh, you like that, do you?” he murmured. “I thought you might. This will probably be even better.” He leaned over her, and she felt his long hair on her breasts, and then his mouth went where his thumb had been, latching on to her breast and sucking it deep into his mouth.

She jerked, stunned at the pleasure rippling through her. He had told her to keep her hands at her sides, and all she could do was clutch the sheets to keep from moving as the first swirls of something dark and dreamy began to stir through her body.

The more he sucked at her breast, the more she wanted, and when he moved to the other one she cried out, until he covered the abandoned breast with his hand once more, using his thumb and fingers to make her half-mad, and she could feel the sheet in her hands as she clutched it.

He lifted his head, and then blew softly on her wet nipple. “I want to put my mouth everywhere on your body, poppet. I want to taste you all over. And then I want my cock to follow. I want to do things to you no one has ever dreamed of doing. I want to have you so completely that no one else has ever existed, only you and me.”

She made a soft, whimpering sound. He slid his hand over her stomach, and then down between her legs, in that wet, messy part of her, and she tried to close her legs, to keep him away, but he just laughed. “This is us, precious. Nothing to be shy about.” And he slid his finger inside her.

She arched off the bed with a muffled shriek. His thumb touched her, higher up, and she began to writhe, feeling the darkness pulling closer, dark and sweet and rich, and he pressed harder, so cleverly, and she hid her face against his shoulder and let go, as wave after wave convulsed her body, sharper and harder than last time.

He moved, and he was between her legs, and just as the last tremor died down he slid inside her. She was so slick from their earlier time that nothing stopped him, and he went in deep, so deep, and the tremors started all over again, and she could feel her body squeezing him tightly as he held still inside her.

They slowed, those wicked tremors, and just as they died he began to move, thrusting inside her, taking his time now, moving slowly, deliberately, pacing her, pacing him. He seemed to know just when she was about to explode again, and he would back away, slow the pace, then build it up again, so that she was no longer able to control herself. She let go of the sheets and clawed at him, begging him, and finally he lost his restraint, thrusting into her, over and over, and the final release caught her just as his did, and she opened as he filled her, her hands digging into his hips, trying to take even more of him. Greedy, selfish, wanting more.

This time he was the one who fell asleep, still inside her. She lay still, feeling some of the wetness leak out, and she wanted to reach down, push it all back into her. She didn’t want to lose anything of him. But she stayed still, and while he slept he grew hard inside her again, bigger than he’d been before, and he was already moving when he awoke, stroking into her as he held her, his hands covering her breasts, his thumbs rubbing the tips, and as this final climax swept over her she gave in, to the darkness, to the rich, dark dream, and she was lost.

 

He was lost. He felt it ripping through him, and he pulled out of her arms, shaken. She slept on. He’d worn her out, and they’d had nothing but the most pathetic of traditional sex. Her on her back, him on top. And he felt as drained as if he’d just survived a week-long orgy.

Worse. He’d never felt like this. He was empty, shaken, and he took his clothes and threw them out into the hallway so as not to wake her, closing the door behind him. He didn’t want to, couldn’t look at her anymore. If he looked at her he’d touch her, if he touched her, more of him would disappear, until there was nothing left at all.

He was a bad man. A heartless bastard, a rakehell, a libertine, and he made no apologies. He had never been faithful in his life and he didn’t intend to change. He could feel himself strangling on the sticky-sweet strands of emotion she was awash with. She probably fancied herself in love with him. The sooner he put a stop to that the better.

He yanked on his breeches and shirt. What would she expect of him? Nothing, if she had any sense, and Elinor Harriman had always had more than her share of common sense. He had no reason to feel guilty. He hadn’t taken her maidenhead. That was long gone to the man he’d ruthlessly skewered. If by any chance he felt a twinge he could ignore it. By killing Sir Christopher Spatts he’d more than earned the privilege of sharing her bed for one night. She didn’t happen to know that, and he’d prefer she never find out. She might read too much into a gesture that was merely…

He could come up with no excuse for it. He still had the man’s blood on him. He smelled of sex, of the full erotic flowering of her desire, and he was growing hard again, curse it. He had to get away from her—she’d bewitched him, and he would be dependent on no woman.

He moved down the dark hallways, almost at a run. His servants could come and clean up the mess that he’d left behind. He’d keep her back there, away from everyone, until he figured out what the hell he was going to do with her.

In the meantime, he needed to wash the blood, the sex from his body. Wash away her touch and her scent. Wash away the memory of weakness.

He needed to remind himself who and what he was. Francis Rohan, Comte de Giverney, Viscount Rohan, Baron of Glencoe. The Prince of Darkness, the King of Hell. A thoroughly bad man.

With no room in his life for a good woman.

 

When Elinor awoke she was alone, and the sun was up. It looked to be early morning, and someone had come in and lit a fire. There was even a pitcher of lukewarm water on the dresser. But there was no sign of Rohan.

She sat up, dazed. She was entirely naked save her stockings and garters. She’d forgotten she had them on. One of the garters had come untied, lost somewhere in the tangled bedclothes. She looked down at her body, timidly, and then frowned. She had blood on her. Rohan’s blood. She hadn’t even asked him what had happened.

She sat in the middle of the bed, naked, unmoving, while she considered the strange turn her life had taken. It wasn’t so much that she had fallen in love with a libertine, a rakehell, a Very Bad Man. That had happened weeks ago, and she hadn’t been alert enough to nip it in the bud. Now it was full-blown, and she had no idea what, if anything, could destroy it.

She also discovered exactly why everyone wanted him. The pleasure he had given her last night was astonishing. If he could do that with anyone it was small wonder the world was ready to worship the King of Hell.

He must have had hundreds of women. And now he’d had her, body and soul. The question was, would he want her again? Or had she served her purpose, like so many others before her? The novelty had been experienced, there was no reason why he’d still want her. Not a man who was constantly looking for new and different sensations.

She reached for the cloth, slowly washing him from her skin. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want to wash anything away, she wanted to keep it all. The blood, the seed, the touch and the sweat. She was being ridiculous, she told herself, striving for her usual common sense. Though where her common sense had disappeared to last night she couldn’t begin to guess. She finished washing, pulling on the fresh chemise some thoughtful servant had brought her.

There were clothes as well, though no sign that Rohan had ever been here, except for the various stains on the sheets and her body. Someone, presumably Jeanne-Louise, had chosen a dress that was simple to put on by herself, though she had a bit of a struggle doing it up. Her entire body ached, in places she didn’t know she could hurt, and a brief, worried smile crossed her face.

She’d seen it happen with her mother so many times she knew how these things worked. The blush of attraction, the wild, irresponsible passion. And then parting. And Viscount Rohan was known for his partings.

There was a pair of sturdy shoes, as well. And, she noticed with sudden horror, her cloak. Not the cheap one that she had tried to sneak out with. But the one provided for her. The money had been collected and put back in the small purse as well. She stared at it all for a long moment.

Did he want her to leave? Now that he’d had her, was he done? It certainly looked that way. And did that mean that Lydia was free as well?

If he thought she was now going to slink away like a soiled dove he was mistaken. If he wanted her gone he would have to tell her to her face. She picked up the cloak and purse and opened the door.

A footman was waiting, not her friend Antoine. “Good morning, mademoiselle. Do you need some assistance?”

“I need to find my way back to my rooms.”

“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but those rooms have now been filled by his lordship’s guests.”

She didn’t know if her face whitened. It felt like it. It felt as if all the blood had drained from her body.

“Then I wish to speak to his lordship. Can you take me to him?”

“Of course, mademoiselle. I am not quite sure where he is right now, but I will take you to his library and send word that you wish to speak to him. May I tell him what it is about?”

“You may not,” she said, clutching the purse tightly. And she followed the footman down the long, dark hall.

 

Rohan was sitting at his desk, looking through papers, when Charles Reading stormed in. “What did you do with her?”

Rohan looked up, deceptively calm. “What do you think I did with her, Charles? Exactly what I said I would.” He reached for his glass of burgundy. “Would you care for a glass?”

“No. I need to know what you’re going to do now.”

“My dear Charles, are you enamored? I thought it was the silly chit of a sister you wanted,” Rohan said in his silken voice. His hand didn’t have a tremor, he noticed. He had moved past the debacle of the last twelve hours quite well, he thought.

“Don’t play games with me, Francis,” Charles said bitterly.

“In truth,” Rohan said, “I’m much more interested in what happened after I…decamped last night. Is the late Sir Christopher stinking up one of my rooms?”

Charles shook his head. “Of course not. Your cousin came and took him. He’ll see to it that the man gets a decent burial.”

“Knowing Etienne, he’ll probably cut him apart and observe his organs first,” Rohan said in his light, airy voice. “So no unfortunate aftermath?”

“Only that your guests are at fever pitch. They seem to like the smell of blood.”

“I’m so glad I could be of service,” he said smoothly.

“What are you going to do with her, Francis? She’s a gentlewoman. You can’t treat her like one of your whores.”

“Oh, my dear Charles, that’s exactly what I did, and I assure you she liked it enormously.” He gave Charles his most angelic smile. “There are two choices, I suppose. Send her on her way with enough money to support her for a reasonable amount of time. After all, one night’s tup shouldn’t equal a lifetime of support. But perhaps enough to get her to England.”

“And the other choice?”

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I had considered introducing her to some of the Host’s more moderate behaviors. Veronique was extremely interested in her, and you know how she likes an audience. And I’d be more than happy to see her drifting around here in scanty clothes, enjoying herself with some of our young bucks.”

Charles looked at him, long and hard. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly. “You’re lying to me.”

“My dear Charles, why should I lie? Miss Harriman means absolutely nothing to me. Since I’m a charitable man I have no problem with seeing her safely settled elsewhere if she’s not interested in our revels.”

“Last night she was Elinor.”

“Well, today she is Miss Harriman.”

“And her sister?” Charles demanded, barely containing his temper.

Some good could come of all this, Rohan thought wearily. He smiled at Charles. “I think I might have her after all. Miss Harriman makes the most delicious noises when she comes, and it would be interesting if Miss Lydia did the same.”

He barely got to finish the sentence before Charles flew across the desk, crashing onto the floor with him.

It was what he needed. A violent outlet, to hit and be hit. The battle was short and immediate, punctuated by grunts and curses seldom heard outside a stable. They were too-well matched, and eventually they both lay on their backs, bloody and bruised and struggling to catch their breath.

“Hardly a fair fight,” Rohan wheezed. “I’m still recovering from a duel.”

“You bastard,” Reading said, his chest going up and down. “You touch Miss Lydia and I’ll kill you.”

“Perhaps, dear Charles, I wouldn’t mind,” he said, and then laughed at himself. “My, how maudlin I’m being.” He managed to sit up, groaning. “There’s only one way to keep her safe from me, Charles. Marry the chit. If you’re worried about money I suggest that is a mere trifle in the face of nauseating true love. I expect you will find a way to manage things.”

Charles stared at him. “Never in all my life have I ever heard you advocate marriage.”

“Of course you have! I thought Etienne should marry Miss Harriman. He thought he should marry Miss Lydia. If he does, I get her. And I don’t think you want that, do you?”

Charles sprung to his feet with an agility Rohan could envy. “I won’t let you touch her.”

“So you said. Well, do something about it.”

Charles slammed out of the office. With luck he wouldn’t realize he’d been manipulated until he arrived at the château. Any earlier and he might turn around and come back. He expected one look at Lydia Harriman’s exquisite face and tear-filled blue eyes and the last amount of his reserve would leave.

Love was a tedious thing, he thought wearily, reaching for his ale. He was heartily glad he was above such things. He’d been ridiculously sentimental last night, but then physical pleasure on that level caused its own kind of madness. Amour fou, the French called it. Mad, passionate love, the kind that drove one crazy and made no sense.

He was very lucky he was able to put all that aside. It was going to be difficult, handing Elinor the money to get away. And whether she’d go without her sister was always a question, but he expected, once she was certain Lydia was well taken care of, that she would be more than happy to quit these shores. Secure in the knowledge that she’d be in the one place he couldn’t reach her.

Sanity would hit her as it had hit him, and her disgust would be total. Anything would be better than fancying herself in love with him. Love was the one thing he couldn’t tolerate.

Perhaps he could count on Charles to make the arrangements, once he realized that Rohan had no real interest in his virgin bride. In the meantime he needed to stay away from Elinor. Amour fou was for the young and resilient.

Not for the old and jaded, who knew there were no such things as happy endings, true love, or the dangerous, deceptive peace that had swept over him last night.

Best to dispense with it before it crumbled beneath his touch. She would be far better off without him. His hands and his soul were stained with too much blood, and there was no washing them clean.

He leaned back in his chair. In the distance he could hear the sounds of the Revels, going full tilt. And he closed his eyes and began to curse.

 

Elinor backed away from the door. “You can’t treat her like one of your whores,” Charles had said.

And his devastating reply: “That is exactly what I did, and she liked it enormously…one night’s tup shouldn’t equal a lifetime of support.”

She listened until she could listen no more, each word like a sharp stone thrown at her, until she felt as if she were dying from the constant, cruel blows. She backed away, too numb to cry, until she knocked into someone.

She turned, ready to snarl at the first hapless libertine she saw, but instead found herself looking up into her cousin’s handsome face.

“Cousin Marcus,” she said, astonished. “What are you doing here?”

He was still wearing his cloak, and he gestured for her to move away with him, to a deserted alcove far out of hearing. “Dear Elinor, I’ve come for you. I know that Rohan has some kind of hold over you, and I thought to help you escape. I had servants smuggle in a cloak and shoes for you last night, and my carriage was waiting, but you never arrived.”

“That was you?” she said, disoriented.

“Of course it was me,” he said. “Why else would I be at such a foul place? Do you know your host murdered a man last night?”

The blood on his shirt, on her nightgown. “He did?”

“It was the pretext of a duel, but it was more wholesale slaughter. The poor man was no match for him, he just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Rohan was so angry he wanted to kill someone, and that poor man was the first one he came to.”

And she was the second, she thought miserably. She looked up at her handsome cousin and his Harriman Nose. “I would be most grateful if you would take me out of here,” she said in a low voice.

“I shall indeed, cousin. I have several things I wish to tell you that you might find interesting, plus a proposal you might not find unappealing.”

“I need to see my sister,” she said, trying to control the utter misery in her voice.

“Of course you do, Cousin Elinor. We’ll discuss that. Come with me.”

She had Rohan’s fur-trimmed cloak with the matching muff. She would have preferred the rough one, but that was gone. She pulled the new one around her neck. “Yes,” she said, and put her hand in his. “Yes.”