Breathless (The House of Rohan 3)

By that time the servants had seen them coming, and they were surrounded, with Bridget clucking over the stains on her dress where she’d fallen and Lucien borne off in another direction. She continued on into the house with Bridget, trying to shake off the uncomfortable sense of foreboding.

Mrs. Humber met her in the hall. “He’s back, you know. ”

“Yes, I noticed,” Miranda said briefly “He joined me down at the lake. ” If it wasn’t quite the joyous reunion she wasn’t about to clarify it. “Do you think he’d be happy with your manner of addressing me?”

Bridget made a muffled choking sound, but fortunately for her Mrs. Humber was too infuriated to notice. Miranda watched as a panoply of emotions swept over her, but the woman managed to get herself under control. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my lady,” she said in a tight voice.

“Better,” Miranda murmured. “Come along, Bridget. ”

Lucien went directly to his study, using the walking stick his valet had quickly provided. He walked into the room, closing the door behind him, shutting everyone out, and then took the stick and smashed the Chinese porcelain vase on the mantelpiece, the delicate silver candelabrum, the crystal clock on the desk. And then he threw himself into a chair, cursing.

His room felt stuffy, dank. He’d told them to let no one, including his curious fiancée, into his study, though he’d left the library unlocked. He wasn’t ready for her to go mad from boredom, not yet. He had another act for this drama yet to be played.

If he’d been close enough he would have smashed a window with his cane in order to let in some fresh air. He hated his leg, hated the weakness. The scars he bore with a perverse pride, but when his leg, his body betrayed him he became infuriated. Miranda was lucky he hadn’t drowned her simply out of bad temper.

And then he laughed at his own absurdity. He was like a little boy having a tantrum, and he’d best get over it, quickly. He hated showing weakness, particularly in front of her, and anger was weakness.

Damned foolish woman! What the hell did she mean by wandering out on that slippery, rotting dock all by herself? She could have gone in, been rapidly taken by the freezing water and no one would have ever known what had happened to her.

The very idea made his temper rise again, and he made an effort to control it. It wasn’t as if he actually cared about her, he told himself. But if she died in an accidental drowning it would blunt the pain of her family’s suffering. They would mourn her and move on with their lives, knowing she was at peace.

He had gone to a great deal of trouble for just the right revenge—he didn’t want to have it foreshortened. He wanted them to suffer, knowing she was trapped up here, subject to his every whim, and he wanted them knowing just how twisted his whims could be. He wanted them to spend years worrying about her, wondering about her, and have no recourse.

That, and only that, would equal the pain of Genevieve’s death, the death that Rohan’s carelessness had caused. It mattered not that a grievous instability had run through Genevieve and her mother. She had been all that he had, and she had died because of Benedick Rohan.

No revenge was too cruel for that family, even if his young wife had to be the instrument of it. Once he was satisfied he would leave Miranda in peace, to live out her days in this gloomy old place.

Except that it didn’t feel as gloomy. He hadn’t paid much attention as he limped into the great hall, but there was a sense of … lightness, that hadn’t been there before. Damn her, what had she done? Next thing he knew he’d find flowers all over the place. He shuddered at the thought.

He stayed in his study all afternoon, barking at anyone who knocked at his door or tried to speak with him, including his valet. While Pawlfrey House had little business to cover, having no tenant farmers or discernible income, there were still servants to be paid, and that number seemed to have suddenly swollen in size, as well as the concomitant costs of food, housing, uniforms and cleaning supplies, and his factor brought everything before him, which was tedious in the extreme. It wasn’t that the money was a problem—he’d told Miranda the truth. He had more money than God, and not enough things to spend it on. He just begrudged spending it on something he didn’t particularly want, and the dark, gloomy confines of Pawlfrey House suited his dark, gloomy soul. It had been less than a week—she could hardly have made much of an inroad against years of neglect.

He looked around him suspiciously. He did typically allow Essie Humber in to dust and clean, but the room looked brighter, as well. It could be simply because the sun was shining, but as he glanced past the heavy curtains to the small amount of glass showing he realized that the window was now very clean.

He’d told Miranda she could do anything she wanted on the house except touch his study, but he’d assumed she’d be too traumatized to do more than lie in bed and weep. Clearly he’d underestimated her. It was a good thing he hadn’t left her alone much longer. She’d probably attack the overgrown gardens next, and the tangled jungle suited him.

He worked steadily, refusing to think about the ceremony set two days from now at midnight. He’d allowed others to plan it, saying he had no particular interest in what form his bride’s humiliation would take, just that it would torment the Rohans once they heard of it. By the time he rose to dress for dinner his knee was better. He could manage to move around the place with the help of his cane, and his insipid f

iancée need never realize what kind of pain he’d been in.

Well, not insipid, no matter how hard she was trying to convince him otherwise. His life would be a great deal simpler if she were.

His leg wasn’t paining him too badly by the time he reached the first floor and the wing that held his rooms, at a goodly distance from his future wife’s. He wasn’t sure in retrospect how wise an idea that was, but he could always move her closer if he felt like enjoying her on a more consistent basis for a while. He could also have her moved to an attic if she annoyed him.

His valet was coming down the hall when he approached the door to his rooms, and he looked up, his face pale. “Your lordship,” he said in his habitually nervous tone of voice. “I wanted to inform you—”

“It can wait,” he said brusquely, pushing past him. “I trust you’ve got a bath awaiting me?”

“I … I wasn’t certain …”

“Wasn’t certain I would want a bath? How long have you served me? I always want a bath after a day of traveling. See to it immediately. ”

“Indeed, sir. There will be but the slightest delay, my lord, and …”

Lucien stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “And why should there be a delay at all?” he asked in the voice meant to strike terror into whoever heard it. “I’m unused to my orders being ignored, as I’m certain you recall. ”

If his valet was pale before, now he looked positively deathly. “Her ladyship has ordered a bath, and the servants are bringing her water. ”

“Indeed?” He could afford to be generous, he thought. Knowing he was waiting, the servants would make all haste to finish filling Miranda’s bath, and the delay would be minimal. “Tell them to hurry. ”