“I don’t think he’s planning on filling the place with anyone but you, my lady. ”
“And are you privy to Lord Rochdale’s plans, Mrs. Humber?”
The woman subsided. She knew too much—she probably listened at keyholes. “What’s Cook’s name?” Miranda started back toward the kitchens, and the old woman had no choice but to follow her.
“Mrs. Carver. ”
Miranda chortled. “A perfect name. ”
“Why?”
Clearly Mrs. Humber was totally devoid a sense of humor, and Miranda knew better than to try to explain it to her. By the time they reached the kitchen the place was marginally cleaner. Someone had managed to wash the dishes, she suspected it was Bridget, and Mrs. Carver had indeed donned a fresh apron and even a tasteful cap for her flyaway gray hair.
“You’ll be getting two new helpers, Mrs. Carver, at the very least,” Miranda announced. “Plus two for the laundry as well, who can help out when needed. And that will be apart from the maids who actually serve the meals and tend to the needs of the owner. In the meantime, what were your plans for dinner tonight?”
Mrs. Carver had more malice but less courage than Mrs. Humber. “A consommé of veal and potato, followed by roasted pheasant stuffed with mushrooms. The fish course would be trout from his lordship’s own waters, a brisket of beef with a remove of winter squash and asparagus, with lemon pie for dessert. ”
“It sounds heavenly. I hope you can manage all that without Bridget’s help. She’ll be busy with me. If you’re forced to pull back on the magnificence I’m sure we’ll survive with fewer courses. ”
Mrs. Carver gave her a look of intense dislike. “I take my orders from the earl. ”
“Of course. ” Miranda was all affability. “Be certain to let me know his response. ”
What a treacherous little darling she was, Lucien thought coolly. Prattling on about such wholly feminine matters as if she were discussing gardening, all without a blush, over the subject matter or the lie.
He was becoming quite in awe of her. When he’d first begun to lure her into his net he’d found he had a reluctant admiration for her, for her ability to turn her back on the ton as effectively as they turned their back on her. He’d enjoyed conversing with her, flirting with her so discreetly that she hadn’t even realized that was what he was doing, she’d simply responded in kind.
And there was something about her smooth, pale skin, her rich brown hair, her warm brown eyes that unexpectedly aroused him.
In fact, despite St. John’s clumsiness, he found he didn’t regret her initial ruination one bit. Granted, he’d hoped to accomplish his revenge and still keep a distance, but that was before he’d seen her.
He was quite grateful for the fact that she wasn’t a virgin, no matter how badly St. John had botched it. Deflowering was a tedious business, never worth the trouble. He liked the fact that she found sexual congress tedious, and the thought of any kind of variation quite unsupportable. He could just imagine her reaction when he used his mouth on her, which, of course, he intended to do.
And she would do the same to him. Of her own accord, eventually. He had little doubt he could arouse her to such a fever pitch that she’d do absolutely anything if he gave her a slight nudge in that direction. He was going to enjoy this immensely.
He was, admittedly, concerned about Jacob Donnelly, Jane Pagett and the Carrimore diamonds. It would be a wise idea to get that solitaire off the girl’s hand, and soon, before anyone else saw it and recognized it. Once it was removed from its setting and recut no one would ever know w
here it came from, but in the meantime she was wearing the equivalent of gunpowder on her hand. Jacob might find it amusing to play with fire. He himself was less entranced.
And who the hell did the man think he was, some damned romantic hero? It wasn’t like Jacob to have slipped the bloody thing on her finger. He’d always been extremely hardheaded when it came to business.
He needed to make certain that Miss Pagett had been returned to the bosom of her family. Then and only then could Jacob arrange for one of his minions to steal it. He needed to make certain the Rohans hadn’t begun a call to arms. He needed to take his time with Lady Miranda—the slower, more measured her downfall the greater pleasure it would accord him.
He would begin tonight, but by tomorrow he’d be gone, leaving her to rattle around this old place with Mrs. Humber. He had no doubt that by the time he returned she’d be at least a bit more cowed. Pawlfrey House was enough to pull the joy out of anyone.
He had his horse saddled, heading out into the misty afternoon, pleased that Miranda would once more be denied sunshine. She would learn to live like a mole. Her eyes would narrow as she peered through the gloom. Though that would be a shame, with such deliberately enchanting brown eyes.
He would come up with the coup de grace. He always did, when life was looking woefully tedious.
In the meantime, things were simple. Tonight he would begin the total ruination and subjugation of Lady Miranda Rohan. Tomorrow he would be gone.
16
Jane wasn’t quite sure why she’d ventured downstairs in the middle of the night in this deserted inn. To be sure, she’d been sleeping so much in the carriage that she was having trouble closing her eyes. But it was something more, some mystery that she wasn’t sure she wanted to consider, and it had to do with their driver, the tall groom that dear Mrs. Grudge had warned her against.
She pulled a loose dress over her nightgown and crept down the staircase, loath to wake anyone, including her temporary companion. Her room at the inn was small, the bed was lumpy and if she couldn’t sleep she’d rather be sitting in a chair. Anything to ease the ache at the small of her back.
Author: Anne Stuart