“I did. I thought it made the irony particularly appealing. ”
She looked up, and her smile was the one that made him want to smash things. The smile that said “you shan’t touch me, no matter what you do. ”
“Indeed. Well, I shall look forward to tonight’s festivities. It will be most instructive to compare other men to you. Clearly you’re far superior to a poor creature like Christopher St. John, but I do wonder if you’re not oddly made. Surely most men can’t be as large as you are. ”
Author: Anne Stuart
For the first time in what seemed like days he wanted to laugh. At this point his darling fiancée was innocent enough not to realize that was a far cry from an insult.
But that would change. “I’ll be most interested to hear your observations. ”
She came back to the table, poured herself a glass of wine and drained it in one, unappreciative gulp. “When are they expecting us?”
“At any time. ”
“Then perhaps you might summon one of the maids and allow me some privacy in which to prepare myself. ”
He’d rather hoped to sit and watch her strip down and attire herself in her Grecian whore’s outfit. But she was looking just the slightest bit dangerous, and he hadn’t forgotten how she’d managed to dispatch with Christopher St. John. There were no water ewers available, though a wine bottle could make a fairly effective weapon.
He rose, languidly, and he expected that he looked like the very devil in the flickering firelight. “As you wish, my love. Take your time. Perhaps you might like a bath?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I expect I’ll be in need of one even more after the festivities,” she drawled. “But yes, if you could procure me one it might settle my nerves. ”
“Nerves, my love?”
“All brides are nervous, my dearest. ” There was a real edge to the endearment. “And I don’t want to disappoint your friends. ”
He found he was grinding his teeth. He stopped, immediately. “As you wish. ” And he bowed himself out of the room.
Miranda watched him leave, a composed expression on her face. The moment the door clicked behind him she would have been tempted to run and lock it, but there were no keys in the doors at Bromfield Manor. The truth was plain but unpalatable. He really didn’t care for her, not in the tiniest bit.
She glanced toward the windows. She could try to escape, but they were on the second floor, and she’d already checked. There was no balustrade or terrace to afford her an easy exit.
She could pull on the plain black domino, Lucien’s cloak, eschewing the golden monstrosity he’d brought for her, and she could probably manage to sneak out of the house that way. The only problem being that they were on the edge of the moors, and she was far too pragmatic to court death before dishonor.
She’d hidden the ancient dagger beneath the pillow on the bed, and she pulled it out to look at it. How many men had it killed? Could she bring herself to stab him?
Yes. If he handed her over to his friends, and then brought her back to this bed, then yes, she could stab him before she left. And stab him she would.
She sat silently while they brought a bath and filled it. The maid assigned to her was thankfully subdued, presumably having been accustomed to the foul goings-on between Lord Bromley’s friends, and she helped her in silence, washing her back, drying her, helping her dress like a sacrificial vestal virgin in the embarrassing costume. She even plaited and arranged her hair in a pseudoclassical style, bent down and fastened the gold sandals on her feet, and then stood back.
“Will there be anything else, my lady? Some of our ladies prefer to start the evening with a bit of assistance. ”
Miranda managed to emerge from her welter of abstracted misery. “Assistance?”
“We’re told to offer laudanum, if you prefer it, or brandy to settle the nerves, or the evening’s punch, which tends to animate guests most effectively,” the maid said with a blank expression.
Miranda seriously considered, then rejected the idea. She would follow this night through with whatever it held. “No, thank you. I shall be fine. ”
The maid opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, and Miranda suspected why. She probably didn’t look fine. She probably looked as devastated and broken as she felt.
“Would you please inform his lordship that I’m ready?”
She waited until the girl was gone, then went over to look at the pier glass, curious how she looked as a whore.
She gasped. She might as well be standing naked. She could see the thrust of her small breasts, the dark nipples clear through the wispy fabric. The line of her body, the darker triangle of hair, the outline of her legs. All was revealed and yet disguised in a gown made for sexual titillation.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at her face. It was pale and ghostly, and her eyes were nothing but dark holes. They hadn’t offered her makeup, but she bit her lips to bring color back to them, pinched her cheeks. She smiled brightly, and to her discerning eyes the effect was ghastly.