Reckless_Mills & Boon Historical

by Anne Stuart

  Lina looked out the window of Hensley Court, toward the just-visible spires of the ruined abbey, where the Revels went on without her. No orgy for her this time. No chance to once more show herself that men were crude and worthless. No chance to laugh and lie and play the part.

  She didn't know what drove her, and she didn't care to find out. The adoration of men distracted her, and if their intense pleasure never migrated to her, she was too good an actress to let on.

  Occasionally she would feel a twinge of desire, and she would hope that she would finally feel the pleasure so many talked of.

  It never happened.

  The green dress was just right for someone who most definitely wasn't attending an orgy. And ii would amuse Monty, who knew her better than anyone, even Charlotte.

  At the last minute she took an outrageous beauty patch and placed it near the corners of her lush mouth. It would draw the good vicar's attention to her lips, and most probably fill him with outraged disapproval and contempt He thought she was a whore, knew she was a whore. Even in demure clothes she needed to remind him that his belief was correct.

  It was just past dawn when she moved down the deserted hallway of Hensley Court. No one was in sight but an early-morning housemaid, lugging a bucket of coal. She turned in to the center wing of the large, Elizabethan house, built in the shape of the letter E to honor the reigning sovereign. It hadn't done much good, Monty had told her, since said ancestor had been deprived of his head anyway, but the house had remained in the family. At least as long as Montague lived. Since he had no issue, God only knew what would happen to the place and the title.

  He must have an heir somewhere, a distant cousin or the like.

  Someone was standing outside Montague's door, and in the unlit, shadowy hallway she thought it was Dodson, her friend and coconspirator. But Dodson was a skinny man, with slightly bowed shoulders. A footman, perhaps, she hoped with a dismal faith that she was right. The shape of the man showed him to be tall, well built, and Monty liked his footmen pretty. But it wasn't a servant.

  The man moved away from the door out of the shadows, and she readied herself for battle.

  "He needs sleep," Simon Pagett said.

  "I have no intention of keeping him awake. I want to bear him company while he sleeps." She kept her voice calm and reasonable. If it came to a battle of wills she had no idea who Dodson and the servants would choose. On the one hand, they liked and trusted her. On the other, Pagett was a male, and a vicar, to boot, and none of them would fancy the idea of hell.

  Someone had heard the sound of voices, and before Pagett could reply, a footman appeared, bearing a candelabrum. She reached out for it, but Pagett had longer arms, and he overreached her, taking it in one capable hand. "We shouldn't argue outside his door. Lady Whitmore," he said, his eyes taking in her somber garb, then rising to see the provocative beauty mark on her cheek. There was an arrested expression in his eyes, most likely disgust, though she couldn't be quite certain.

  "I have no intention of arguing with you," she began, only to find her arm taken in his firm grasp as he propelled her away from the door, down the hall. She didn't struggle—it was too undignified. Besides, this proper vicar wasn't going to hurt her.

  He took her all the way to the end of the wing, where a small salon waited. There were tall doors onto the terrace that ran the width of the house, and without asking her to leave, he pushed one open, ushering her out into the cool morning air and closing the door behind them. "I don't think we need anyone eavesdropping on our conversation, do you?" he said

  "I wasn't aware that we had anything to discuss that the servants would find all that fascinating," she replied.

  "We have..." He paused, staring at her mouth. Which was exactly what she'd wanted him to do. "Why do you muck up your face with all that paint?" he said.

  She laughed, the sound brittle. "Next you're going to tell me I'm too pretty a girl to have to resort to artifice."

  "No," he said, his voice measured. "I'm not about to tell you how pretty you are at all. You don't need my empty compliments."

  "Empty?" she echoed, mocking.

  "And you're hardly a girl." It only silenced her a moment. "Oh, touche," she said with a laugh. "But hardly Christian of you,

  "Why is it unchristian to speak the truth? You must be nearing thirty—"

  "I'm twenty-eight," she snapped, unable to help herself.

  She didn't like the faint glint in his eyes. He-d managed to pique her vanity after all.

  "I beg pardon," he murmured. "Still, twenty-eight is hardly a girl..."

  "Point taken," she said irritably. "I'm not a girl. What are we going to argue about?"

  "Apart from your age? Most likely everything under the sun," he said, his voice calm. "But I think we're agreed on at least one thing, and that is our concern for Montague."

  "Agreed," she said after a moment, controlling her

  "I want the best for him."

  "As one of his closest friends I want the same. Why do ministers take so blasted long to get to the point? Say what you want to say so I can go sit with him.”

  "That's the point. I don't think you should sit with him, or be anywhere near him. I believe the best thing you could do for Thomas is to go out to that wretched playground he built, get your fellow debauchees together and leave this place. Leave him to die in peace."

  She laughed without humor. "You think that's what he wants? It was his idea to hold the Revels here. Monty takes joy and pride in his spectacular abilities as a host, even in absentia. He's hired extra chefs, extra servants to handle the party, and it's taking place well out of sight. If the festivities were to be cut short then the guests would descend on Hensley Court to change clothes, retrieve their carriages, all with a great deal of grumbling, which would distress Monty no end. I’ve more days and their departure will be normal. Everyone will leave, sated and cheerful, and Monty's final social occasion will be deemed a triumph.”

  “Three days of whoring and degeneracy is a social triumph?"

  “It's too late to change him, Mr. Pagett. You aren't going to save his soul, induce him to renounce his... his preferences at this late date. And why bother— he's so ill he has no choice but to be celibate."

  "You underestimate Montague's stamina," he said dryly. "I've known him all my life—even on his deathbed he'll be pinching the footmen. As for changing him—I don't really care who he wants to fornicate with. It's his soul that concerns me. And it's never too late for that."

  Lina eyed him curiously. "Wouldn't you say his desire for other men makes him irredeemable?"

  "That's between Thomas and his lord."

  "Isn't his soul between Monty and his God as well?"

  He stared down at her for a long moment. A breeze had come up, and one by one the candles went out, leaving them in the pinky-blue light of early dawn as the sun rose over the spires of the ruined abbey. "Talking with you is like arguing with the devil."

  She found she could laugh. "Oh, I don't think so. Doesn't conversation with Satan involve temptation?" She moved closer, looking up at him. She'd discovered that men liked it when she moved close and looked up from beneath her long lashes. It made them feel powerful, protective, and because she was manipulating the situation it made her feel even stronger. At least, most of the time.

  It wasn't that she was feeling weak now, she told herself, uneasy. She just hadn't taken into account how very solid he would feel, standing over her. How he'd feel oddly protective. The soft spring breeze caught her skirts, brushing them against his legs, and she took a quick step back.

  "You think you don't tempt me. Lady Whitmore?" he said, his voice dry. "How little you know of ministers. We are men, after all."

  She said nothing. There were a number of provocative replies that came to mind, but that odd, breezy touch of her skirts against his legs had unsettled her. It felt far more intimate to her than lying beneath a naked, grunting man ever had. Strange, she thought. "Exactly what is it you
want me to do, Mr. Pagett?" Her voice was deceptively calm. "Apart from making the Heavenly Host decamp early. Do you want me to rejoin the Revels? Stay out of your way..."

  "No!" The word was practically an explosion of sound. 'The best thing for you would be to go back to London if you won't cancel this ridiculous obscenity of a party. The rest of your friends can follow when they're done."

  "Even if I wanted to oblige you, I can't. My cousin is at the abbey. She's an innocent, come simply to observe—"

  "An innocent?” he interrupted her again, and there was no mistaking the cold anger in his gaze. "You brought an innocent to that kind of debauchery? What sort of monster are you?"

  "She's fine," Lina said stiffly. "No one will lay a hand on her No one would dare."

  "And you're so sure of that? Knowing the kind of men who call themselves the Mad Monks?"

  For the first time that niggling uneasiness that had festered in the back of her mind broke loose, and she could have cursed the man. Rohan was over there as well. And between Rohan and Charlotte lay quiet danger.

  Indeed, one of her reasons for choosing Rohan as her nest lover had been to help sever the connection between her innocent cousin and one of society’s worst rakes. She knew Charlotte far too well not to have guessed her secret fantasy, and the easiest way to crush it would be to take the man herself.

  Because it needed to be crushed. Falling in love with a rake only led to heartbreak. Falling in love with anyone only led to despair.

  But they were both out there, and she hadn't been around to watch over them. "She's fine," Lina said again, ignoring her fears. "Perfectly safe."

  And she wondered if she lied.

  "There's nothing I can do about the door," Rohan said in a lazy voice. "It locks automatically. A servant comes every morning and evening with food, and at that point one can always exchange partners, or request others to join in. But until tomorrow I'm afraid you're quite trapped."

  She scowled at him, which pleased him. He'd been afraid he'd have to deal with tears, which always bored him, or worse, too-enthusiastic agreement. He liked to work a bit for his pleasures.

  No chance of enthusiastic agreement from her. She was looking deliciously angry.

  "Did you take my glasses?" she demanded. "I can't see clearly."

  "Glasses? Of course not," he said, all innocence as he remembered deliberately crushing them beneath his boot. If she really needed them then he would be astonished. She used them as a weapon, and he needed her defenseless. "There's not much here you need to see. Except me."

  She wasn't charmed. "You can't keep me here," she said in the pinched, disapproving tone she seemed to reserve only for him.

  "Don't be tiresome. Of course I can. I just explained. The door won't be opened until tomorrow morning.”

  "And you think I'll believe you don't have a spare key hidden about the place? I don't believe that the great Viscount Rohan would ever put himself at the mercy of...of restraints that he couldn't control."

  He smiled at that, letting his eyelids droop lazily. "Ah, child, you have no idea the delight certain forms of restraint can provide. I'll be more than happy to demonstrate—this room comes equipped with all sorts of toys. However, I think you're a little too new at this game to enjoy it, and if I gave you the option of tying me up I tremble to think what sort of revenge you might be tempted to enact."

  She just stared at him, momentarily speechless. And then she tried to regroup.

  She straightened her shoulders and crossed the room, away from the locked door. She had her choice of one cushionless chair and the bed—of course, she took the chair. She was thinking hard—he should have known she wouldn't be defeated that easily.

  "Let's discuss this like civilized adults," she said in her prim voice, reminding him of an old governess he'd once had. That is, if Miss Trilby had ever had a bewitching mouth, gold-flecked skin, an exceptional body and enjoyed dressing in monk's robes. "First, it's absurd to call me child when I'm two years older than you are.”

  He sauntered over to the bed, stretching out on it and tucking his arms behind his head, prepared to enjoy this. There was no hurry to get her on her back. He could get what she had between her legs from anyone—it was her character that made her different. Interesting. Delightful. "How did you happen to discover how old I am?" he asked mildly enough. "What made you inquire?"

  He knew the answer to that, of course. She'd been silly enough to have a crush on him. He could have told her he wasn't worth the bother, but she'd kept herself at a distance, only her eyes touching him. He could tell her now, but he expected she'd already come to that conclusion by herself. He was a useless, vain, ornamental sybarite with nothing to offer the world.

  She started to blush, then controlled it. He watched with fascination. He would have thought a woman incapable of controlling her physical responses like that. It made him more curious than ever to see what other kinds of involuntary responses he could bring from her and how she would struggle to contain them.

  "Someone must have mentioned it in passing," she said, lying admirably.

  "And you happened to remember?"

  "I was shocked that someone as old as twenty-eight would still be lost to propriety, a slave to decadence and lascivious riot."

  Lascivious riot? He liked the sound of that. "My cousin Etienne is thirty years older than I am and just as debauched. Possibly more so, though I do hope to attain his level someday."

  She refused to be baited. "Nevertheless, I'm two years older than you are, and to call me child is patently absurd."

  "Sweet Charlotte," he said softly, watching her flinch as he used her name, "you are a mere infant when it comes to the darker side of the world."

  "I prefer it that way."

  He shrugged. "Tant pis. You're here now, by your own volition, stepping into the darkness. No one forced you to come to the Revels, to dress in a monk's robe. You toot the chance, and now you're going to have to pay the price. But there's no need to look so distraught. I have no doubt you'll emerge from this place a sadder but wiser woman, with no troubling illusions left."

  "I had no illusions about you, sir," she said fiercely.

  "Didn't you?" He was wearing soft boots, easily removed, and he kicked them off. "I rejoice to hear it. Was there anything else you wished to address like a civilized adult before you come to bed?"

  She looked more annoyed than frightened. Good for her. "Be reasonable. I have no idea why you've suddenly decided I'm fair game, but we both know I'm not the kind of woman you bother with. I'm too tall, my hair is too red, I have freckles and... and..."

  “Yes?" he said encouragingly.

  She took a deep breath, diving in. "And I'm not... pretty. Some of the most beautiful women in the world are here and available tonight, and I'm quite... ordinary. You don't want to waste your time with a plain, elderly spinster."

  It cost her to say that. He wanted to get up, cross the room and pull her into his arms. To touch that gold-flecked skin, that beautiful mouth, and tell her how pretty she was.

  But she wouldn't believe it, not from anyone, but least of all from him. So he stayed where he was, and shrugged. "Perhaps I was looking for something a little different."

  And she would be a great deal of trouble, he had absolutely no doubt of it. Making the reward all the sweeter. One thing particularly fascinated him. She was more interested in convincing him that he didn’t want her, not that she wasn't drawn to him. He wasn't particularly vain, but he knew women. He knew her. "I'm afraid I like a challenge," he said.

  She bit her lip, frustrated. "What can I do to convince you to let me go?"

  He looked at her as all sorts of erotic thoughts danced in his head. "Why, I'll let you go, my pet. Once I've had you."

  How many women had he brought to this place? Charlotte wondered. There was no doubt they'd all been willing—she couldn't imagine a woman resisting that long, elegant body, those beautiful hands, (he hypnotic gaze and rich mouth. They would have to
be mad to say no.

  What would happen if she said yes? He would strip the clothes off her and she'd lie naked with him, skin to skin. He'd climb on top of her and put his penis inside her, and it would hurt, according to her parents' old cook, the only one who'd bothered to explain the facts of men and women to her. Would he kiss her again? Her mouth still felt tender from his first kiss, when he'd tricked her into coming into this...this prison. If she lay naked in the bed with him would he kiss her again? Stroke her? Hold her? Would it be worth it?

  But she wasn't going to find out, she reminded herself stoutly. Because afterward he would let her go, and that would be the most painful of all.

  She didn't believe him about the lock. If she had enough time she could figure out a way to make it open—her mother had had a habit of locking her chronically misbehaving daughter into her room, and Charlotte had never accepted imprisonment. A hairpin, judiciously applied, could spring most locks. She doubted this was any different.

  First, however, she'd have to render the viscount unconscious. Maybe he'd simply fall asleep—she suspected he'd had quite a bit to drink, though of course he didn't show it. If she stayed quiet he might even forget she was there.

  She looked around her for a weapon, just in case. There was the unopened bottle of wine—that could produce a respectable lump on his lordship's fine head. In fact, it might crush his skull and kill him, despite that thick, lovely hair.

  While the idea of murder was a fond one as payback for this mess, in truth she was far too squeamish. And as angry as she was, she didn't want Adrian Rohan dead. Just living on a separate continent so she could get over him.

  Which was ridiculous—she was over him. How could she not be, when he'd practically abducted her, all for wicked purposes?

  It didn't matter that it smacked of some of the gothic novels Lina had lent her. Or that being abducted by the most beautiful man in England, simply because he wanted her, was desperately romantic. They both knew all he had to do was snap his fingers and he could have someone else. Anyone else. If she were an idiot she'd be flattered.