Breathless (The House of Rohan 3)

Impossible, she told herself. Absolutely impossible. “G’night, yer ladyship,” he said, bobbing his head. And he backed out of the room, disappearing into the night.

Bloody hell, that was a close call, Jacob thought, heading out into the rainy night. When she’d said he sounded different he was certain she’d recognized him, that she was referring to the Carrimores’ ball and the kiss in the dark.

But no, she hadn’t meant that at all; she’d meant when he first took over driving. He’d slipped into a bit of Irish when he was flirting with her. It always happened that way. He’d better watch it—the Irish was just a little too close to his voice when he was rubbing up against her in the midst of a jewel robbery.

He should have left the moment she walked in the room. But she smelled like violets, and he couldn’t let it be.

At least she didn’t suspect him, he thought in relief, ignoring his irritation at her mention of her fiancé. He shouldn’t have said he was stiff. But she, poor wee lamb,

had no idea what he was talking about. What a randy, improper soul he was, particularly when she was around.

And she’d smiled at him. Bloody hell, he wished she wouldn’t smile like that. It had been all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her again, the way he’d been dreaming of for the last week.

He still could see her in his chair, her slippered feet propped up on the brass fender. She had long legs, and he could just imagine them wrapped around him. He could see her ankles, and they were so beautiful he wanted to sink to his knees and start working his way up from them with his mouth.

But instead he’d bowed his way out of the room and into the cold night rain.

And it was a damned good thing. He wouldn’t be surprised if the rain hissed against his skin, he was that heated up.

Not for the likes of him. He needed to get her safely home, get the damned ring off her finger and then forget all about her while she went on with her life and married her worthy fiancé.

He just wasn’t sure he could do it.

It was a bleak, rainy day at Pawlfrey House, and there was still no sign of Lucien. Miranda, after having survived a thoroughly depressing tour of the place, chose the tiny drawing room near the library. It was painted in drab colors that had once been soft pastels of some sort, and the furniture was delicate, indicating that at one point it must have been the ladies’ parlor. She held her fine lawn handkerchief, one of a dozen monogrammed ones that had been provided, up to her face as she took an errant pillow and used it to brush several layers of dust off the desk and chair. She mended the nib of the brittle pen, found a bottle of ink that hadn’t yet dried up and began her inventory.

Some of the rooms needed little more than a robust cleaning. Even some of the curtains could be saved once they’d survived a thorough beating to get the thick, choking dust out of them, and while most of the bedding was sadly moth-eaten and worm-chewed, there was enough in sturdy shape for the time being.

Author: Anne Stuart

A number of the rooms hadn’t fared so well. The mold and damp had spread up the wall in several of the back bedrooms, necessitating a carpenter and the removal of some fine medieval paneling, and paint was peeling in several of the bedrooms, including Lucien’s. There was broken furniture in almost every room that needed to be hauled away and either repaired or discarded, windows to be washed and reglazed, floors to be scrubbed. It would take an army of servants, possibly more than she’d already told Mrs. Humber to hire. Half a dozen men would be useful as well, for the heavier work.

Her captor didn’t return for the midday meal. She told herself that was a relief, had a tray in her withdrawing room and continued with her lists.

She would start with her room. Get rid of those dusty curtains, which were drab and depressing. She would see if the local seamstress could come up with something suitable rather than order window hangings from London, which would take forever. She didn’t like the idea of sleeping with curtainless windows—it would feel like blank eyes staring in at her while she slept.

Her fireplace needed to be cleaned and scrubbed, not to mention all the chimneys of the house, which had to number in the dozens. The rug was beginning to unravel, and sooner or later she’d catch her foot in it and go sprawling. There were any number of rugs throughout the place that were still in one piece that she could have cleaned and moved.

Her villain didn’t return for dinner. Not that she minded, she told herself, stretching to ease the ache in her shoulders. She’d been cooped up too long, both in the carriage and now in the house. Tomorrow she would go for a good long hike, rain or no rain. She was no frail flower likely to melt. Growing up with three brothers tended to make one sturdy.

Bridget had done what she could in the bedroom, beating some of the dust out of the curtains and opening the windows to receive it. She’d scrubbed the fireplace as well, and the room looked almost welcoming when she finally gave up and headed upstairs. It was after ten, the book she’d taken from the library had ceased to interest her and clearly her heartless rat of a seducer wasn’t coming home at all.

Bridget had removed the bed curtains, and a lovely coolness lingered in the air from the open windows. She hummed beneath her breath as Bridget helped her out of her clothes and into her nightdress, to prove to herself and her maid that she wasn’t the slightest bit nervous. He’d chosen to spend the night abroad—he could be blown away in the winds for all she cared.

She waited until Bridget left, then climbed out of bed and took the straight-backed chair, slipping it beneath the door handle. There was absolutely no need, of course. The door itself had a very efficient lock on it, and he’d shown no interest in her after that moment in the wayside inn. If his only desire to have … relations with her was out of revenge, he probably had to work up interest in the entire procedure. Which was a depressing proposition, but better for her in the long run. He might never get in the mood.

The rain stopped sometime after midnight. The sudden silence woke her, accompanied by a pop and hiss from her fire. She glanced out the uncurtained windows. The moon was peeping from behind fast-moving clouds, shining through the rivulets of rainwater on the windows, and she lay in bed, unmoving, watching each little stream slither down the glass.

She wasn’t one easily given to tears, and she wasn’t about to succumb at that particular moment. But she doubted if she’d ever felt so alone in her entire life. Off in the middle of nowhere, and no one, not family nor friends, would know where to find her. Tomorrow she’d face her altered world with energy and determination. Here in the midnight hours things felt relatively hopeless.

“You think a chair would keep me out?”

She shrieked, bolting up in bed, slamming a hand to her racing heart and then turned and cast a bitter expression at Lucien de Malheur. “You almost gave me apoplexy!” she said. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I didn’t sneak up on you. I’ve been standing here watching you for the last five minutes, listening to you snore. ”

“I do not snore!”

He shrugged. “Perhaps it’s more like a purr. I trust it won’t keep me awake at night. ”