Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to her notorious host. Merrick wore boots, breeches, and a white shirt, open at the neck. Sidonie tore her gaze from the shadowy hint of a muscled chest and made herself look at his face. Perhaps she’d detect a chink in his determination, some trace of pity to deter him from this appalling act.
Closer inspection confirmed that hope was futile. A man ruthless enough to instigate this devil’s bargain wouldn’t relent now that his prize was within his grasp.
Abundant coal black hair, longer than fashion decreed, tumbled across his high forehead. Prominent cheekbones. A square jaw indicating haughty self-confidence. Deep-set eyes focused on her with a bored expression that frightened her more than eagerness would have.
He’d never have been handsome, even before some assailant in his mysterious past had sliced his commanding blade of a nose and his lean cheek. A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.
A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the color of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.
“You’re late.” His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.
Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. “The journey took longer than expected.” She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. “The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr. Merrick.”
As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.
“Just who in hell are you?”
The girl, whoever the devil she was, didn’t flinch at Jonas’s irascible question. Under disheveled coffee-colored hair, her face was pale and beautiful in the heavy-lidded, voluptuous manner.
He had to give her credit. She must be scared out of her wits, not to mention as cold as a cat locked out in a snowstorm, yet she stood calm as a marble monument.
Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.
And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.
At the bella incognita’s side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. “Maister, ’ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Bevan.” Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? “Leave us.”
“But do ’ee expect another lady tonight?”
A wry smile twisted his lips. “I think not.” He cast an assessing glance over the silent girl. “I’ll ring when I require you, Mrs. Bevan.”
Muttering displeasure under her breath, the housekeeper stumped away, leaving him alone with his guest. “I take it the delightful Roberta is otherwise occupied,” he said in a silky tone.
The girl’s full lips flattened. She must be repulsed by his scars—everyone was—but apart from a slight stiffening of her posture when she’d entered, her composure was remarkable. The delightful Roberta had known him for years and still reacted with trembling horror at every encounter.
Thwarted malice darkened his mood. He’d rather looked forward to teaching his cousin’s wife to endure his presence without suffering the megrims. This impetuous beauty’s arrival dashed those hopes. He wondered idly whether she’d offer adequate compensation for his disappointment. Hard to tell. So little of her was visible under the worn cape dripping puddles onto his floor.
“My name is Sidonie Forsythe.” The girl spat out the introduction and her chin tilted insolently. He was too far away to see the color of her eyes but he knew they sparked resentment. Under delicate brows, they were large and slanted, lending her an exotic appearance. “I’m Lady Hillbrook’s younger sister.”
“My condolences,” he said drily. Ah, he knew who she was now. He’d heard an unmarried Forsythe sister lived at Barstowe Hall, his cousin’s family seat, although he’d never encountered her in person.
He sought and failed to find any resemblance to her sister. Roberta, Viscountess Hillbrook, was a celebrated beauty, but in the conventional English style. This girl with her dusky hair and air of untapped sensuality was in a different class altogether. His interest sharpened, although he made sure he sounded as if her arrival were the dullest event imaginable. “Where is Roberta on this fine night? If I haven’t mistaken the date, we’d arranged to enjoy a week of each other’s company.”
A hint of triumph lit the girl’s face, made her dark beauty blaze like a torch. “My sister is beyond your reach, Mr. Merrick.”
“You’re not.” He flavored his smile with menace.
Her brief smugness evaporated. “No.”
“I imagine you offer yourself in her place. Gallant, if a tad presumptuous to assume any random woman meets my requirements.” He sipped his wine with an insouciance designed to irk this chit who’d upset his wicked plans. “I’m afraid the obligation isn’t yours. Your sister incurred the gaming debt, not you. Charming as I’m sure you are.”
Her slender throat moved as she swallowed. Yes, definitely jittery underneath the bravado. He wasn’t a good enough man to pity this valiant girl. But for a discomfiting instant, something within him winced with fellow feeling. He’d been young and afraid in his time. He remembered how it felt to pretend courage while dread crippled the heart.
Relentlessly he mashed the unwelcome empathy down into the dank hollow where he caged all his old, evil memories.
“I’m your payment, Mr. Merrick.” Her voice emerged with impressive coolness. Brava, incognita. “If you don’t collect your winnings from me, the debt becomes moot.”