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Because compromising her was not enough. St. John was a man who cared about the details, and the second night he took her virginity, to ensure his financial future.
It hadn’t been rape. Miranda had curled up, holding her stomach afterward. She’d neither screamed nor fought, and when it became clear that it was going to happen she did her best to get into the spirit of the thing.
Vastly overrated. He kissed and slobbered over her breasts, actions that left her entirely unmoved. She’d never seen a penis that hadn’t belonged to a baby, but she found the adult version fairly unprepossessing. It was short and squat in a nest of hair and really quite unattractive. It was just as well she didn’t intend to seek out any future acquaintance with one.
It hurt, of course. She’d been warned that it would the first time, but St. John apparently considered her listless response to be arousing, for he repeated the process two more nights, and each night she hurt, each night she bled, and when he told her to prepare for him on
the fourth night she’d slammed a water ewer down over his head, watching him slump unconscious at her feet.
It had been an oversight that she hadn’t tried that before. If she’d just had the brains to consider brute force the first night she might still have retained at least her physical innocence, if nothing else.
She’d stepped over St. John’s body, only slightly concerned that she might have killed him, went downstairs and headed for the stables. The hired carriage had been returned, but Christopher’s showy chestnut was there, and it had taken her only a few minutes to saddle and bridle him, thanking God her father had always insisted his children know about horseflesh. Riding astride was its own misery, particularly considering St. John’s attentions, but by the time she was an hour away from the cottage she ran into a small army come to rescue her, including her three brothers and her formerly annoying sister-in-law Annis.
“Don’t kill him,” she’d said calmly as she was bustled into the carriage they’d brought with them.
“Why not?” her brother Benedick grumbled. “Father would tell me to. Don’t tell me you’re in love with the creature?”
Her expression had answered that ridiculous question. “I just want to forget about it. ”
“Miranda is right,” Annis had said, earning her eternal gratitude. “The more fuss we make, the bigger the scandal, and we’d like this to blow over quickly, would we not? I suggest you horsewhip him and leave him at that. ”
“He didn’t touch you, did he? Didn’t force himself on you?” Benedick had demanded.
It wasn’t that she wanted to lie. But her fiery-tempered older brother would have gutted St. John if he’d known the truth, and even peers couldn’t get away with murder.
“Of course not. He wants to marry me, not make me hate him. ”
Benedick had believed her calm assertion, and she and Annis had started back for London, while her brothers moved on for revenge. “I don’t know if we’re going to be able to keep this quiet, Miranda,” Annis said in a practical voice. “You know how the gossips are, and I think Mr. St. John might have deliberately dropped a few hints before he absconded with you. ” Her dark blue eyes swept over Miranda, warm with sympathy. “I’m afraid you might be ruined. ”
Author: Anne Stuart
Miranda ignored the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. It was becoming second nature to her. “There are worse things in this life,” she had said.
But in truth, it didn’t appear that there were. Her parents had rushed back to England, her mother full of hugs and comfort and not a word of reproach, her father coming up with outrageously intricate plans to remove parts of St. John’s anatomy and feed it to the fishes. When her monthly courses had arrived, on time, she had breathed a sigh of relief, and the rest of the family remained safely ignorant of her loss of innocence.
But in the end it hadn’t mattered. Miranda was no longer welcome among the ton. Her invitation to Almack’s had been politely withdrawn. Mothers and daughters had crossed the street rather than be obliged to speak to her, and when forced, gave her the cut direct. She was a pariah, an outcast, just as Christopher St. John had sworn she’d be.
He’d had the consummate gall to show up at her house and offer to do the honorable thing. He’d sworn that it was his passion for her that had overcome his scruples, that he would marry her and the scandal would soon die down. They loved each other, and his darling Miranda would soon get over her case of the sulks.
Marriage to him was still her only route. If she wished, they could even live in separate establishments, and he’d be certain to see that she received a generous allowance from the money that would now be in his control.
And it had been her father, Adrian Rohan, the Marquess of Haverstoke himself who’d thrown him down the stairs of their vast house on Clarges Street.
Miranda had retired to the country for a few months, until a new scandal occupied the ton’s attention. Not for one moment did she believe her sins would be forgiven—she was ruined, now and forever, and nothing would change it. But by the time she returned life had moved on, and so had Miranda.
And she had discovered, to her immense joy, that being ruined was much more fun than being on the marriage mart. She didn’t have to simper and flirt with shallow young men, she didn’t have to make certain her every move was accompanied by a footman and an abigail. She bought a house of her own, just a pied-a-terre that was nevertheless all hers, and she rode in the parks, ignoring both the cuts and the importunate young men. She went to the theater and the library and Gunters, and while she enjoyed the companionship of her cousin Louisa, the older lady was mostly deaf, sadly stout and the most indolent creature on the face of the earth.
For the first time in her life Miranda was free, and she reveled in that freedom. She had her staunchly loyal family and she had her dearest friend Jane and the rest of the Pagetts. In truth, she’d lost little and gained everything. Apart from the trouble the whole contretemps had brought upon her family, she didn’t regret it. By the following spring she’d happily settled into her new life, and she wouldn’t have changed it for the world.
Christopher St. John didn’t fare nearly as well.
The house on Cadogan Place had always given him an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn’t that the place was huge and dark and gloomy, sitting on the edge of the better areas of town, a bit too near the purview of the criminal class that haunted the darkened alleys and side streets. It was the man who owned that house, the man awaiting him and his excuses for failing to do what he’d been paid to do. It was The Scorpion, known more formally as Lucien de Malheur, Earl of Rochdale, who would sit there and look at him with those colorless eyes, his thin lips curling in disdain, one elegant hand gripping the top of his cane as if he’d like to beat a man to death with it.
Christopher St. John shuddered, then shook off his nervousness. A light, icy rain had begun to fall. February in the city was always dismal. Had it been up to him he would have stayed out in the countryside with Lady Miranda Rohan warming his bed. If the bitch hadn’t clocked him one and taken off.
And she and her family were proving most unreasonable, he thought, absently rubbing his bruised shoulder. He had a cracked rib, a broken wrist, several torn muscles and scrapes and bruises over most of his body. No, the Rohans didn’t seem likely to become sensible any time soon.
He raised his hand to knock on the massive black door, but it swung open before he reached the knocker, and Leopold, Rochdale’s sepulchral majordomo, stood there, staring down at him with strong disapproval.
