Rohan moved through the candlelit hallways, threading his way around entwined couples. He knew he looked exquisite—he’d spent many hours on his toilette, and everything was as it should be. From the top of his perfectly curled and powdered wig, down the front of his gray satin coat encrusted in black pearls. His clocked stockings were made from the finest silk, and his evening shoes had diamonds on the high heels to match those on his fingers and in his ear.

He was of mixed feeling about those shoes. They were quite magnificent, and had cost a small fortune. One of many he could afford to waste. They matched his evening dress perfectly. And the heels added to his already considerable height, making him taller than any member or guest of the Heavenly Host. The problem was, he’d never managed to master the perfect, mincing walk. He had too much a tendency to stride, and half a lifetime living in the scented drawing rooms and bedrooms of France hadn’t been able to change that.

Early influences were often the strongest, he knew. And the first decade and a half of his life had been spent alternating between his father’s vast estates in Cornwall and his grandfather’s lands in Scotland. Cities were virtually unknown to a young boy with far too much energy, and he’d roamed the countryside, coming in each day covered with mud, an equally filthy spaniel or two by his side, sometimes with a brace of pheasant, sometimes with a string of trout from the nearby stream. He would dream, at times, of stretching out by that stream, his line in the water, a spaniel snuffling in the grass nearby, and he would think he was back in that well-nigh-perfect time in his life. And then the water would turn red with blood, and men were dead and dying all around, and he’d be holding his brother in his arms, trying to staunch the flow of life’s blood as Simon’s eyes slowly glazed, when he saw the pike just as it was thrown, and there was no way he could duck.

He’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. It had been a great many years since he’d had that reaction, and the blessing was he’d never been sharing his bed with anyone who might ask questions. He’d come to the reasonable conclusion that if he was able to exhaust himself with the soft form of a woman the nightmares would keep their distance, and he’d acted accordingly.

It was a good thing he hadn’t gone the way of Elinor’s mother. Though in fact the English disease, as well as other, lesser misfortunes, were easy enough to avoid if one was careful in one’s choices. When in doubt he simply walked away—he’d never wanted someone enough to put himself in danger. There was always someone just as charming with a more trustworthy history.

He was willing to change that careful plan, however. He had no idea exactly who and what had occasioned Miss Harriman’s deflowering, but in truth it didn’t matter if she’d been raped by a boatload of infected sailors. He wanted her. It was that simple. And there were contraptions to avoid illness, envelopes made of sheep guts or linen soaked in chemicals. He’d never used one, but for the sake of partaking of Miss Elinor Harriman he’d be willing, and he’d sent his valet to procure a goodly number. He had the strong suspicion that once was not going to be enough with his charming, so-unwilling houseguest.

In truth they ought to be available to the Revels of the Heavenly Host, but proper caution was such the antithesis of “Do what thou wilt” that he imagined his fellow members would ban them. There were times when their games seemed remarkably foolish.

The formal start of the Revels was not till tomorrow night, but members had already begun to arrive. Including the new applicants. There was one of them who interested him mightily, though he pretended to have no knowledge of him. Marcus Harriman, Lord Tolliver, had been brought to their gatherings by Sir Henry Pennington, which was far from a recommendation. Sir Henry was an annoying little toad with a particular affection for the giving of pain, but he had enough friends in their close circle that Francis simply chose to ignore him. But the Harriman name had caught his eye, and he was most curious to meet the heir whose inheritance had forced Elinor into his wicked toils. Not that he would see her. He had every intention of keeping Elinor well out of sight of the Heavenly Host. Still, he would have to find some way to express his gratitude.

He’d had word from Mrs. Clarke. Lydia had settled in well enough, as he’d no doubt she would. If Elinor stopped to think about it she’d know that giving Lydia over into Mrs. Clarke’s tender care was a boon worth any sacrifice. Her warm, practical affection could heal any sort of wound.

He’d been three years into his exile in Paris when she’d simply shown up, husband and infant daughter in hand, and proceeded to dig him out of the dark, wretched place he’d retreated to. She hadn’t been able to bring him all the way back. No one could, not after the things he’d seen. It was of no consequence. She helped him keep his life neatly partitioned, and when the dubious pleasures of the Heavenly Host grew too wearisome he could always escape into the world Mrs. Clarke had created for him.

That was what Miss Lydia needed right now. Fate had not been kind to her, but then, fate was a fickle jade. If her sister was determined to provide her with some kind of happy ending the cards were stacked against her.

Interesting, that his poppet might even consider that a happy life was possible. She certainly didn’t think one would be available for her, and he once more considered Etienne. He was a humorless bore, but Elinor had the ability to charm even one as world-weary as he. After a few years perhaps she could get Etienne to laugh.

One thing was certain: Etienne was not going to get his wish. He was not going to have Miss Lydia Harriman, no matter how sweet she was to him. He expected Charles Reading would be seeing to that.

And Etienne was not going be inheriting the title of Comte de Giverney, along with the considerable estates, until Rohan chose to die, and he had no intention of doing so for quite a long time. No intention of reproducing, so Etienne would most definitely end up as a wealthy count. And Elinor a comtesse. Would she like it? He’d have to be dead for that to happen. Would she think of him, and what he’d given her?

It was a great deal too bad that Mrs. Clarke’s civilizing influence hadn’t extended very far. Etienne had presented his lawyers with a simple way to turn over the estate and the title. He’d inherited it on a fluke, and if Etienne had had the money he could have contested it, and chances were the French king would have favored his own countryman over the exile. After all, they’d driven the Young Pretender from their shores in record time, once he became a liability.

Which was just as well with Rohan. He’d only seen Bonnie Prince Charlie from a distance, that red-gold hair shining in the cold sun, not near enough to see the famous blue eyes. He’d lost everything for the man whose arrogance had led to disaster at Culloden, putting them at the mercy of Butcher Cumberland, and he was perfectly happy never to see him again. Rome was too close.

“Care to join us, Francis?” a woman’s voice lured him. Juliette was lounging on a sofa, a man kneeling beneath her voluminous skirts, and her eyes glittered in the candle light.

He shook his head, so as not to disturb the young man servicing her. He was guessing by the sight of his rump that it was milord Valancey, who was a good fifteen years younger than her most recent bed partner, and he allowed himself a small smile. She was indefatigable. It was good that she was choosing a young man bursting with energy. She would be less likely to come looking for him.

He heard the shrieks of laughter coming from the smaller ballroom. At least, he assumed those whooping noises were amusement. Whatever they were, they were not his concern. Right now he was going to visit his captive princess, to see if he could convince her to let down her hair.

There was music playing, a recent conceit of his. He’d discovered the surprising pleasure of coupling whilst listening to music, and the habit had spread among the members of the Host. A small quartet played in what he preferred to call the evening room. Long ago it had been a morning room, complete with a chaise for a young lady to recline on, a desk at which to write her letters. There were no young ladies in his household. The chaise was still there, and had seen much vigorous usage, but the desk was gone, and the east-facing windows were covered with black cloth, to keep the curious from peeping inside.

He moved past the gaming room, resisting the urge to play a few hands of piquet. The focus was not on the game, and he was ever a man who preferred to do one thing at a time and do it extremely well. Besides, it was far too easy to win when people had other things on their minds, and he found winning under those circumstances to be an utter bore.

He climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. The numbers of guests would reach above this one, filling most rooms on this floor and the next, with even some in the east wing that had previously held Miss Lydia Harriman. Of course, he’d lied about their previous occupancy—he’d had no interest in letting Elinor spend too much time with her sister.

The luncheon they’d shared had been…interesting. She’d watched him like a wary fox, certain he was about to attack. And he’d been his most amiable self. Any other woman, and she would have been put entirely at ease. Which was why he didn’t want any other woman. Elinor simply watched him out of her warm, brown, skeptical eyes, waiting for him to cross the line.

He didn’t, of course. The sturdy Antoine carried her back to her bedroom, where, in her absence he’d had books and sweetmeats delivered, and since then he’d heard nothing. Reports came that she had asked for a light supper, but apart from that she was entirely self-sufficient in her apartment.

He was about to change all that.

Paris was a noisy city at the change of the hour—bells from every part rang in the cold night air, and as he approached her door the hour of eleven o’clock announced itself. To his astonishment he could feel his arousal stirring. While his body parts worked perfectly and reliably, no matter what he demanded of them, it had been many years when anticipation had caused a reaction. An anticipation that might not be met.

Eleven o’clock. A lovely hour. The girl he’d assigned to be her maid was sitting in a chair outside her room, wise enough to be awake at his approach. “You may go,” he said softly.

“Where, milord?” she asked, startled.

“Do I look as if I care?” he said, caustic. “Far enough away that you won’t be listening to every bit of our conversation, close enough that you will arrive if she calls for you.”

“Yes, milord,” she said, ducking her head quickly. She scurried off, and he watched her go, impatient.

The door was locked from the inside. The key was still in the lock, keeping him out, and he suspected there might be a chair in front of it as well. He laughed to himself, and the pleasant tension in his body grew. He liked to play games.

There were two doors to the suite where he’d had Elinor placed, as well as two covert entrances. The rooms had once belonged to his great-aunt, whose appetite for lovers had astounded even the jaded French. There was always a way for an enterprising man to make his way inside the fortress.

She’d found the first one and blocked it, and his interest grew by measurable accounts. It was a panel in the hallway that would slide open if one touched the right part of the cherub that perched on the molding. Tant pis, he thought, moving on. There was one more entrance, this one through a cupboard in the adjoining room, opening up beside the massive, curtained bed. If she’d found that one he’d simply call for Antoine to beat down her door.

The adjoining room was still and quiet. In the daytime the damask covers on the wall were a peaceful gray-blue, while the faint light from his candle rendered everything into shades of black and gray. It was a large apartment, almost as large as his own, and he made the sudden decision to have some of his clothes moved in here.

The moon was almost bright, filling the darkened room with enough light to see his way. He blew out his candle, opened the cupboard door and reached for the latch.

There was a satisfying click. He pushed open the door and moved into her bedroom, as silent as a ghost.

She was sitting on the chaise, a candle by her side, a book in her lap. And the same, lovely little pistol pointed directly at his black, black heart.

“How in heaven’s name did you manage to regain that nasty little weapon?” he murmured, moving into the room.

“Charles Reading returned it to Jacobs. He thought we needed protection, living where we lived. And where is Jacobs?”

“Who, may I ask, is Jacobs?” He strolled across the room. The pistol didn’t waver.

“Our coachman.”

“You had no coach.”

“Don’t be pedantic,” she said briskly. “At one point we had any number of coaches. He came with us to France and stayed with us over the years, looking out for us.”

“Ah, the larcenous coachman. May I point out that his caretaking abilities fell short?”

“He did the best he could. Where is he?”

“I rather believe he’s accompanying your mother and your nursemaid’s bodies back to England for burial.”

She almost dropped the gun, which might have been unfortunate if it had gone off. “What?”

“I assumed both of them would rather be buried on English soil. I made arrangements for them to be brought back to your father’s estates and buried there.”

“And you didn’t think to ask me?”

“Obviously we had to move with a fair amount of speed, although winter made such a gesture more reasonable. You don’t think that’s what they would have wanted?”

“Nanny Maude, of a certainty. She always missed England. My mother would be rolling over in her grave to be buried with my father.”

“There was always that advantage as well,” he said solemnly. “You think your mother deserved eternal peace?”

“I think my mother had her own hell in this lifetime,” she said.

“True. However, she was more than generous enough to share it with her daughters, her older one in particular. I don’t happen to believe in heaven or hell, so I can’t imagine it will make any difference where she’s buried, but you’ll have to allow me my quixotic gesture.”

“I don’t really have a choice in the matter,” she said tartly.

“True enough. May I sit?”

“No.”

“Which leaves me with a quandary. If I sit anyway, will I simply be rude, or will you shoot me? You’ve been quite hard on my clothing so far, and I’m particularly fond of this toilette. I would hate to have it marred with bullet holes.”

“Why don’t you try it and see what happens.” She had the most delicious amount of menace in her voice. It would almost be worth it, just to see how far he could push her.

“Thank you, I will,” he said, spreading the voluminous skirts of his coat out and sitting on the end of her chaise.

She quickly pulled her legs up, away from him, and her grip tightened on the gun. “You certainly do like tempting the fates, do you not?”

“Are you my fate, poppet? I’ve had that uneasy feeling ever since I saw you, huddling beneath your rags out at my château. Most men would run in the opposite direction, but I must admit I’m inordinately fond of risk. Are you really going to shoot me?”

“It’s quite possible.”

He smiled at her. “Why? Simply because I annoy you? That’s a bit extreme. Do you think I’m going to rape you?”

He felt the sudden jerk of her body, so near to his, and he allowed himself to be grateful that her finger hadn’t jerked on the trigger of the pistol that was still pointed in the general direction of his belly. And he could feel the effort she made to calm herself.

“No,” she said.

“Why not? I’ve made it very clear that I intend to have you, even though you’ve chosen not to believe me.”

“You said you wanted me to stay for conversation. To entertain you,” she said.

“And you believed me? Silly child. You’re talking to a libertine, a member of the Heavenly Host. I don’t believe we’re known for our love of good conversation.”

She grew very still. “So you are going to rape me?”

“Good heavens, no,” he said with a soft laugh, and some of the tension left her body. “I never take by force what I can have by charm.”

Her astonished laughter was genuine, and it might have wounded a more sensitive soul. It just made him want her more. “If you’re relying on your charm you’ll have a long wait, my lord,” she said tartly.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Why don’t you put that pistol away. I’d take it from you, and you’d let me, but then we’d simply have to go through the rigmarole of getting it back to you. Set it down, poppet. You know you don’t want to shoot me.”

“You’re wrong. There’s nothing I’d like more than to pull this trigger,” she said, her voice uncompromising.

He laughed. “I do concede that part of you would like nothing better than to put a very large hole in me. But I hold that the rest of you would much rather have me in one piece.”

“I don’t want you at all.”

“Now, that, my precious, is a lie.” He took the pistol from her hand, uncocked it and set it down on the parquet floor very carefully. He hadn’t thought she’d had it properly primed. He really shouldn’t underestimate her.

She said nothing.

Now that she was no longer clutching a gun, her hands lay in her lap, and he picked one up, letting his thumb rub against the inside of her wrist, letting his long fingers slide around hers. She tried to curl it into a fist but he stopped her, and she didn’t fight him.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax, and he could have told her that was a mistake. One needed to be wary around a member of the Heavenly Host when he wanted something. She pulled her hand free, and he let her, and she leaned back against the chaise, surveying him out of those deliciously practical eyes.

“I think, my lord, that you haven’t thought this through. For some bizarre reason you decided you wanted someone innocent and untried in your bed. Perhaps you have the French disease and think a virgin would cure it. Perhaps the novelty of it, after so many whores, was irresistible. But I’m not the woman you want. I’m not innocent, I’m not inexperienced, I’m not a virgin.”

Poor darling. Virginity be damned, he didn’t know when he’d met a more innocent female. It almost, almost made him feel guilty.

“You’ll give me leave to doubt you,” he said, not doubting her for a moment. “The fact that you’ve freely said this twice now makes me think you’re lying to distract me.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Prove it,” he said. “You’ve made a devil’s bargain, Scheherazade. Tell me the story of your love affairs, and perhaps I might let you go.”

He could practically see her mind working as she balanced her options. The truth, or an elaborate fantasy? He waited patiently, entirely at ease.

“My first lover was my sister’s music teacher,” she said after a moment. “We were still living in Faubourg Saint-Martin—my mother had several generous friends and we were…happy. He was my age, seventeen, and quite beautiful, with long blond hair and blue eyes and the most gentle touch. He loved me,” she said simply.

“And what was this paragon’s name?”

“Pascal de Florent,” she said without hesitation, and for a moment he almost believed her.

“Move over.”

She glared at him. “Why?”

“Because you’re going to tell me all about this and I want to be comfortable. This chaise is big enough for the two of us, unless you’d rather we retire to the bed. No? Then move over.”

She hesitated, but clearly he’d managed to still her fears. She moved over, and he slid up beside her.

“Ouch!” she said. “Do you have to wear so many blasted jewels?”

“Of course not, my dove.” He unfastened the diamond-studded buttons of his coat and pulled it off. He’d chosen one of his less severely tailored coats for the evening, wanting to be certain he could divest himself of it without help. He dumped it on the floor, smiling faintly as he thought of what his valet might say.

He leaned back again, very close to her. “Shall we continue?” he said.

She turned to look at him. Even in the candlelight he could see her quite clearly, the gold flecks in her rebellious brown eyes. He wondered if they ever softened.

She leaned back beside him, their shoulders touching. She tried to move away, but there was no place for her to go. “Well, then there was one of my mother’s young admirers…”

“Not so fast, my precious. You’re telling me a story. The adventures of an impure maid. I want to hear about it. Did you fall in love with the music teacher?”

“Of…of course.” She paused. “He was beautiful and he was very kind.”

Not the words to describe a lover, he thought. “So. Tell me about it. Where did you manage your assignations?”

This should be fairly easy for her. He had no doubt the music teacher had existed, that he was beautiful and very kind. No doubt that she’d spent hours fantasizing about him. No doubt that he’d never touched her.

“My bedroom at first. He would sneak in there after he finished with his lessons.”

“How did it feel, precious? Did it hurt?”

She turned and gave him a look of real dislike. “Of course it did. But that doesn’t matter when true love exists.”

“Of course not,” he said soothingly. “So he deflowered you on your bed, and it was tender and beautiful. And painful. How many times did you do it?”

Her brow was wrinkled. “Once.”

“Once the first time, or only once with the music teacher?”

He could practically feel her annoyance. Unfortunately her body was pressed up against his, and no matter how she tried to keep her distance the warmth of his leg against hers, the feel of his body next to hers, even through the many layers of petticoats and cloth, was loosening some of her tension.

“Many, many times,” she said between gritted teeth. “We did it in my bedroom, in the music room, in…”

“Where in the music room?”

She looked at him with real dislike. “Underneath the pianoforte. On top of the pianoforte. Unfortunately Nanny Maude caught us, and my mother dismissed the piano teacher, and I never saw him again.”

“Very tragic,” he murmured. “But I’m encouraged by your inventiveness. Who came next?”

“There was an actor at the Comédie-Française. His name was Pierre duClos and he was quite beautiful—with dark hair and an angelic smile.”

He was enjoying himself immensely. Scheherazade was doing an excellent job with her stories. Which were just that—stories. “Apparently you favor beautiful men. How fortunate for me.”

She looked at him. “You don’t suffer from an excess of self-doubt, do you?”

“Why should I? It’s a waste of time. You and I both know I’m exquisite.” He flicked his flowing lace cuff. “My valet puts a great deal of effort into making me look glorious—it would distress him greatly if he somehow had failed. Perhaps I should get rid of him.”

“He hasn’t failed,” Elinor said in a disgruntled voice. “You’re very beautiful. So much so that you put everyone around you to shame, like a strutting peacock surrounded by little brown hens.”

“Do you see yourself as a little brown hen, my sweet?”

“Thinking of me that way might be a very grave mistake,” she said, appearing unmoved.

He leaned back against the side of the chaise and smiled at her. “I seldom make mistakes, precious. And I haven’t underestimated you since the moment I first saw you. I know just how dangerous you are.”

“Then why don’t you let me go?”

“Let you go? I wasn’t aware that I was imprisoning you. Exactly where was it that you wanted to go?”

She bit her lip, which annoyed him. He wanted to be the one biting her lip. “Perhaps you could be kind enough to offer me shelter at the château?”

“I could most certainly do that,” he said gravely. “I can have Charles drive you out there first thing in the morning.”

“You can?” She actually looked hopeful. He almost hated to dash that hope.

“It doesn’t do to underestimate me either. You may go, and Charles will bring your sister back in your place.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re a bastard, you know. A heartless, manipulative monster.”

“Oh, surely that’s too harsh. I’m not a monster. I wouldn’t even say I’m a bad man. I’m just not a very good one.” He picked up one of her cool, limp hands and brought it to his lips before she jerked it away. He kept his grip on it, letting her drop it into the covers, but his fingers were like steel, unbreakable.

She took a deep breath, clearly trying to calm herself, and he could almost imagine her counting to ten to try to settle her temper. It was simply too bad for her that he liked arousing her ire. He liked the thought of arousing everything about her, and intended to do just that. Slowly but surely.

“So tell me about this handsome actor of yours. I have seen him onstage. He is indeed very pretty, though his performance was at best mediocre. How did you happen to form a liaison with him?”

“Easily. I sent him a note praising his acting ability and suggested we meet. And we did.”

“And what did you do?”

She looked at him calmly. “Fuck,” she said.

He laughed softly. “I wasn’t aware that you even knew that word, my darling.”

“I spent time in the stables.”

“And exactly which positions did you prefer?”

He could see the momentary blankness in her eyes, and he hid his smile. “Er…anything he fancied. I was very amenable.”

“I’m most certain you were,” he said in a soothing voice. “And who after him? The assembled court of King Louis?”

Her warm brown eyes could glare at him, but they could never grow as cold as he knew his could. “You don’t believe me?” she demanded, clearly affronted.

“Oh, I imagine there’s a grain of truth in your intricate tales. You most likely had a crush on your sister’s music tutor, perhaps shared a kiss or two. As for duClos, he quite adamantly prefers the company of men.”

“So you persist in thinking I’m a virgin?”

“Oh, I know you are not, my sweet. You simply are lying to me about how you lost that particularly useless bit of your anatomy.”

“What exactly is it you want, my lord? Why don’t we simply stop this charade, you tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”

“But where’s the fun in that, poppet?”

She bit her lip again, and he couldn’t stand it anymore. “Don’t do that,” he said sharply, putting his fingertips on her lower lip to stop her.

She bit him. On purpose. He should have pulled his hand away, but he didn’t.

She had very strong white teeth and she bit down hard. He didn’t move.

“Child,” he said in a deceptively weary voice, “if I didn’t still retain a tiny, unwanted shred of decency I would shove you back on this chaise, push your skirts above your head and take you here, immediately, ignoring your struggles. Didn’t your oh-so-many lovers teach you that biting is highly erotic?”

She immediately released him. He smiled at her quite pleasantly. “Please go away, Monsieur le Comte,” she said in a polite voice. “You must have tired of your absurd, inconsequential games by now.”

“My games are never inconsequential, as long as they entertain me.”

She closed her eyes in frustration for a brief moment. “This house is filled with beautiful women…” she began.

“Oh, not quite filled,” he said frankly, leaning back. “The Revels won’t start for another day. At this point there are no more than half a dozen beauties in residence.”

“Then why don’t you go bother one of them?” she said in a tart voice.

“Because I don’t want one of them, my sweet. I want you.”

She made a low noise that was deliciously close to a snarl. “No, you do not.”

He still had possession of her hand. Before she had any idea what he planned he picked it up and placed it on his lamentably hard cock. She tried to yank it away, but he bore her hand down, giving her no choice.

“That’s not the member of a man who doesn’t want you, pet.”

For a moment she ceased her struggles, and her eyes met his. It was a moment of rare intimacy, something he usually avoided. It was part of the piquant danger of her, and she froze, staring at him, her breath coming in short, rapid pants.

“Hold very still,” he said in a soft voice.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because I am going to kiss you, just once, and then I’ll leave you be for…oh, perhaps a few hours. If you move around too much I might be inspired to move beyond a simple kiss, and that—”

His drawling words were silenced by her mouth against his. It was the first kiss she’d initiated, and it was clumsy, endearingly so, her soft lips against his, not quite on the mark. His cock jerked in her hand and she jumped away from him, startled. “Now go away,” she said. “You promised.”

He smiled thinly. “I wasn’t aware that it was exactly a promise, but that’s enough for now. Perhaps next time you’ll tell me the truth about your deflowering.”

She met his limpid gaze defiantly. “And why should I?”

“Because I want to know. And I always get what I want, my sweet.” He leaned over and brushed a gentle kiss against her mouth, clinging for a moment, then removed her hand from between his legs and rose. “À bientôt. We’ll continue this on the morrow.”

She stared up at him, and her lowered eyelids hid her expression. “Perhaps tomorrow your conscience or your sanity will have returned and you will arrange for me to join my sister.”

“My conscience has been lost to the fires of hell for lo these many years.”

“And your sanity?”

“I am,” he said, “quite mad about you, poppet. And I doubt anything will change that until I finally have you. But you needn’t worry I’ll force anything. The chase is as delicious as the capture.”

He set her hand down, oh so gently, and strolled to the door, unlocking it and pocketing the key. “Good night, my dear.”

She had been reading when he first disturbed her. She threw her book at him, a charming display of temper. He blew her a kiss, and disappeared into the hallway, a smile still lingering on his usually cool face.