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“I doubt it, and I doubt you care. It does seem like we don’t have a large pool of prospective friends to pick from. Tolerant people are fairly thin on the ground around here. I don’t think one should dismiss possibilities too swiftly without due consideration. ”
She looked at him for a long, meditative moment. In some ways he seemed like a little boy, cherishing his differences even as he hated them. And yet it wouldn’t do to underestimate him. Despite his scarred face and wounded body he seemed oddly … potent. Masculine. And after her wretched mistake, she’d learned to beware of that trait.
But still, his offer of friendship felt genuine. As if he actually cared about her empty life. And he was right—there hadn’t been many other options.
“I would be honored to count you my friend,” she said abruptly, surprising even herself.
His answering smile was a revelation. Lucien de Malheur would have been an Adonis if it weren’t for the scarring. When he smiled everything else disappeared.
She smiled back.
To her astonishment the hours slipped by as they talked, and she realized he was someone she had dreamed about. A friend, rather than a lover. Someo
ne who saw things the way she did, slightly askew. He made her laugh, particularly when he was doing his best to sound tortured and villainous, and she loved puncturing his perverted vanity.
“I can see you as some plucky Shakespearian heroine,” he said at one point. “Not quite a Miranda—you’re no wizard’s daughter. More likely someone who dresses in boy’s clothes and runs into the forest, like Rosalind or Viola, and tricks the poor young hero into being fool enough to think he’s fallen in love with another man. ”
“Perhaps. I’m sure you’d like to think of yourself as Othello, all broody and tortured, but I see you as more of a Caliban, not nearly so monstrous as you’d like to believe. ”
He looked at her for a long moment, and she met his gaze fearlessly. “No, my lady,” He said gently. “Wrong play. I’m Richard the Third, determined to prove a villain. ”
She laughed, because there was no other response, and his answering smile was faint enough that she felt some lingering unease surface again. He was joking, of course. But looking into his pale eyes she wasn’t quite certain.
She was still thinking about that moment as she rode home, comfortably ensconced in his elegant carriage, the same one that had carried her in the rain. It had been brought to a side door, and he’d accompanied her out there, away from the guests, tucking her in, catching her hand in his and holding it for a breathless moment while he looked up at her in the darkness, and she’d waited for his mouth to touch her skin.
But instead, he released it, and she immediately pulled her gloves on, knowing to her shame that she’d paused there because she’d wanted to feel his mouth against her hand. A moment later he’d closed the carriage door and she was bowling down the narrow alley away from his huge, dark house, and she sank back against the tufted cushions and closed her eyes.
Good God. What was wrong with her? Was it simply because she’d been so isolated for so long, that even a reputed monster would arouse her banked interest? Not that he was a monster at all. Within moments she’d looked past the scars and only seen his face, the beautiful bones, the pale, watchful eyes, the mouth that kept drawing her gaze. He had beautiful hands, as well—long fingers, hands that looked capable of great strength and elegant tenderness.
Author: Anne Stuart
Indeed, he was neither Richard the Third nor Caliban. He was a dark prince under an enchantment, and she was …
Out of her bloody mind. She laughed out loud. She’d had too much of his wonderful wine, even though her family had taught her how to hold her liquor. She’d had too much of his wonderful voice, his attention, his intelligence and sly humor, the faint, bewitching malice that was irresistible. She was drunk on Lucien de Malheur.
Indeed, it was a safe enough attraction. No one would ever guess she’d become enamored of the Scorpion, certainly not the man himself. It seemed as if it had been forever since she’d indulged in daydreams and fantasies, and now she had a perfectly safe subject for them. She could dream of rescuing him from his darkness, taking away his bitterness. She could dream of happy endings. For him, if not for her.
* * *
Lucien de Malheur moved through the halls of his townhouse, well-pleased with his night’s work. He had her. She’d been ridiculously easy, falling into his hands with only the most delicate of lures. She’d been so isolated she had become enamored of the first man who knew how to play her, even a damaged creature such as himself.
Caliban. He laughed beneath his breath. She certainly was fearless, mocking his melodramatic airs. He’d thought playing the wounded spirit would draw her sympathy. Instead she’d laughed at him, seeing right through him, and he found himself unwittingly caught by her, as well.
It was going to make the whole endeavor so much more interesting. Miranda Rohan looked at him directly and felt no pity or fear. By midnight he’d felt her first stirrings of attraction. By the time he saw her to his carriage it was after three, and she was already trapped in his web, caught in his snare.
It should have bored him. He thought she’d be silly and emotional and missish and he’d have to patiently work through her childish fussing. Instead she’d been direct and challenging.
She would make an excellent wife for the short period he planned.
The house wasn’t yet devoid of guests. He was known for his openness to misbehavior, and couples had found hidden places to indulge in more than flirtation. He could hear the occasional sounds of passion filter through as he moved down the corridor, and he felt a faint stirring in his own body. Miranda Rohan had skin like cream touched with honey. He was going to enjoy discovering all of it.
He went straight to his study, his real study, the one he used for business and nothing else. As he expected, his guest was waiting, sitting by the fire, his booted feet propped on the brass fender, a glass of French brandy in his hand.
Lucien could hardly begrudge him the brandy—Jacob Donnelly was in full control of the trade that brought smuggled brandy into London, and he kept the house well-supplied.
“To what do I owe this honor?” Lucien drawled, pouring himself a glass. His servants knew better than to come anywhere near this room, and he was used to waiting on himself.
Jacob glanced up at him from beneath his shaggy hair. He was an extraordinarily handsome man. He was tall and long-limbed, with the kind of face that won scullery maids and whores and countesses. The two of them couldn’t have been more different—the maimed aristocrat and the handsome king of London thieves. It was little wonder they worked so well together.
