A Lady's Guide to Ruin (15 page)

Phoebe, Lord Farleigh, Lord Grey, Martin, and Elinor had formed a knot, and were trading news of names familiar to them and entirely foreign to Joan. Her ears perked up when she heard the words
diamonds
and
Lady Copeland
. She had wondered who her treasures had belonged to. She listened with rapt attention as Phoebe described the gems' transit from India, and frowned when Lord Farleigh cut her off curtly. The silence that followed was awkward, and Joan got the impression that something lay between Lord Farleigh and Lady Copeland that did not bear airing in civilized company.

With that line of conversation closed, Joan withdrew to the window, leaving a sleeping Fox in her place. She found Captain Harken there, a drink in one hand. He looked up as she approached, nodded, and looked back out the window.

“Do you see something interesting?” she asked after a moment.

“There's you,” he said. He did not intend it as flirtation.
Nor as a threat,
she thought. But all the same she drew her shoulders in and away from him.

“I'm not interesting.”

He shrugged. They stared out the window in companionable silence while he finished his drink. A cat scurried across the lawn below the window, followed by a fat, ambling dog. Joan's breath fogged the glass as she leaned in to watch them
vanish around the corner. Captain Harken said something. She turned to beg his pardon, and saw Maddy in the hallway outside. She'd halted, Lord Grey's gaze spearing her through. Then she fled. A slow smile spread over Lord Grey's thin lips. Joan pressed her own together.

“Don't miss a thing, do you?” Captain Harken said, so softly she thought she might be mistaken.

She gave him a sharp look. He knew?

“Lord Grey is excellent at evading notice,” Captain Harken said. “It takes a wary eye to see him properly.”

“And you see him,” Joan said. “You're fond of Lady Grey. Why don't you say something?”

“It isn't my place,” Captain Harken said. “And he wouldn't raise a hand to her. The money's hers, you know. Held in trust. Her father knew he was dying and didn't trust a single man on the earth with his darling daughter. So he bound up her inheritance and Grey only has use of it so long as he keeps her happy. Which means she's safe.”

“She's not the only woman in Lord Grey's household,” Joan said.

“No,” Captain Harken said.

“Why don't you say anything, then?” she hissed. “Why don't you do anything?”

“It's not for a man like me to change him,” Harken said darkly. “It would take one of them, and they don't see it.” He nodded toward Lord Farleigh and Martin, still chatting gaily with their old school friend.

“That's a coward's answer,” Joan said. She'd had enough of feeling powerless in the face of powerful men. Pretending at this civilized dance had worn her thin as a pauper's shirt, and in the end these people were the same as hers. They only kept their evils quieter and spoke of pleasant
things. It was intoxicating, but the blush had faded and left her with a throbbing headache.

Martin and the rest couldn't see Grey's malice, and Maddy couldn't stop it. But Joan, stuck in her fractured position between the madhouse and the manor house, might have a chance.

“If you will excuse me, Captain Harken, I fear I am quite tired,” Joan said in the perfect cadence of a proper girl, and turned away with teeth set and eyes bright.

The room was dark and somehow both drafty and stuffy at once. It felt far more familiar than all the opulence below. After all her sleepless nights, it was Maddy's lumpy mattress that seduced her with promises of sleep.

She pinched her leg to stay awake. She'd been here for what felt like hours already. Maybe she'd been wrong, and Lord Grey had less hideous plans for his first night at Birch Hall.

But there was the ease of a footstep in the corridor outside. She shut her eyes, rolling on her side so that her face was against the wall. In her nightcap, in the dark, she should look enough like Maddy to fool him. For a little while, at least. She suppressed a tremble. This could all go wrong. Very, very wrong. For Maddy and Daphne and Joan.

Beneath the sheet, she set her fingers around the handle of her knife.

The footsteps reached the door. Maybe it was a maid, sneaking back from a breath of fresh air. Or Maddy, thinking better of Joan's scheme. No. The tread was masculine when it reached the door, and it halted there. Eased open.

Joan forced her breathing to be steady and slow, her body to be still and limp. She had a great deal of practice at feigning sleep. It did her credit now. Three steps to cross the room. Then weight settling on the bed. A hand on her shoulder, turning her.

“I remember you,” Lord Grey said as he pushed downward, pinning her against the mattress.

“Don't,” Joan whispered, because everyone deserved a chance. Just one.

“Don't make any noise, and no one has to know,” Lord Grey said. He drew the sheet off of her and pushed up her nightgown. His knee shoved hers aside. He settled between her legs, his weight still on both arms.

She set the blade against the base of his erect member, pressing hard enough for him to feel it through the cloth. “Don't,” she said again. There were no second chances.

“You little bitch,” he said. “I'll kill you.”

“Not faster than I can cut,” she said.

Silence. Recognition dawned in his voice. “You're not her.”

“What will Lord Fenbrook think? Forcing yourself on his cousin in his own home. I doubt Lord Farleigh will much approve, either.” She wriggled the blade. He drew in a breath, but he couldn't shift his weight without chancing a cut. Her heart was loud in her ears. Terror coursed through her, exhilaration at its heels. “And your wife. Quite a large trust she has. I heard all about it. The poor lord without a penny to his name. Only his wife's funds. And only if she's happy. Lord
Farleigh must have excellent lawyers. She doesn't seem very happy to me, Roger. May I call you Roger? We do appear to be on intimate terms, after all. Which I'm sure your wife would be displeased to hear about.”

“Kitty won't do anything to me.”

“Really? Once her brother knows and she has his support? I know so many wives who no longer live with their husbands, Roger. You should do more to keep hold of yours.” Her pulse came quick as the beat of a bat's wings, but her hand stayed steady, and so did her voice. Anger drowned out any fear.

He growled. “What do you want?” he ground out.

“I want you to keep your hands to yourself,” Joan said. “Don't touch Maddy. Don't touch any of the other girls. Don't touch
me
. And if you have any sense in your skull, you'll do the same at home. It would not take much to make Lord Farleigh start to look more closely at his brother-in-law's conduct.”

He spat. The gob landed on her cheek. She bit her lip but didn't flinch, didn't gasp. He bit out a curse. Not the worst word she'd ever been called. “Fine,” he said.

She eased the blade back from his member. It was still hard. Did this
excite
him? He eased off of her, backed away from the bed. She sat up slowly, keeping the blade ready, and rose to her feet. “Go,” she said. “Don't be seen.”

If he was, she and Maddy had already prepared a story of poor overwrought Daphne, unable to sleep, and Maddy tending to her—nowhere near her own room. Unorthodox, but everyone in the house knew that Daphne had formed an attachment to the Irish maid.

“My lady,” he said mockingly, and cut her a bow, outlined in the moonlight from the one, high window.

Thanks to the light, she saw the instant he lunged. He slammed into her, but she twisted, keeping her feet.
No noise
, she thought, and spun away from him. His hand clenched around her arm. Her nightgown tore. Without thinking, she brought the knife down across his forearm.

He stifled a yell and let go. She backed away, knife held up. He clutched at his arm. His fingers shone with blood in the moonlight. “Go,” she said again. “
Now
.” Her voice did not shake.

He went. His steps were nearly silent. When she stuck her head out, no other doors had opened. No one had seen. Maddy was safe, in more ways than one.

She crept out herself, down the back staircase. She kept hold of the knife, just in case. She didn't think Lord Grey was angry or stupid enough to try anything again, but she wasn't going to risk it.

She went around the back way to be doubly sure she did not run into him again, crossing down to the main floor and winding her way back to the main staircase. She was halfway there when she heard footsteps coming her way. Not Lord Grey's. Mrs. Hickory's—the housekeeper. Rot the woman and her midnight rounds.

Joan reached for the nearest door—the study. She whipped open the door, a thought crystalizing in her mind—
a lamp is lit inside—
before she had spun inside and shut it behind her. A lamp inside. Martin. Sitting in a high-backed armchair with three fingers of whiskey in a glass and one leg slung in desultory fashion over one of the chair's arms. He stared at her with an open mouth, as if she were an apparition.

She supposed she looked the part. Bloody knife, torn gown, disheveled hair. She'd lost the cap in the scuffle.

“Bloody hell,” he said, rising. She jammed a finger to her lips, hiding the knife behind her as she did. She sidled away from the door and slid the knife behind an oversized vase on a nearby table, hoping he hadn't spotted it.

Martin froze as Mrs. Hickory's footsteps neared, paused, then moved on. She wouldn't disturb the master in his study. Joan let out a sigh of relief, but then Martin was upon her. She jerked back against the wall before she remembered who he was.
Not
Lord Grey. Most decidedly not Lord Grey.

“My God,” he said. He touched her shoulder. With the sleeve torn, the gown hung low over her shoulder, baring her skin and most of her right breast. Her arm was red with the imprint of Lord Grey's fingers. “Who did this to you?” he demanded. “Who . . . ?”

“I did it to myself,” she improvised. “I had a nightmare.” She let her voice fade into uncertainty at the last words. “I—I struck myself against the bed, I think.”

He frowned. No, it didn't seem likely.

She lifted her arms around his neck and pressed her cheek against his chest. “I came looking for you,” she said. Voice carefully tuned, soft and warm with desire, the slightest tremble of vulnerability. It was automatic, the lie. The act.

She wished it were true. Her exultation, her triumph, had crashed back into a mess of nerves and giddy relief. She felt as if she might shake apart; a laugh rose in her chest but she knew if she began to laugh she couldn't stop.

“You didn't do this to yourself,” he said.

Another lie rose, another set of movements and careful tilts of the head. She let them fall away. “Be quiet,” she told him. If they were silent, she did not have to lie. She
needed him there, his arms around him, her heart beating fast for a reason other than fear. She needed to feel safe, and nowhere felt safer than here.

She tilted back her head and pressed her mouth to his.

*   *   *

It was very difficult to maintain his anger when her tongue slid between his lips. She arched her back, her breasts pressing against his chest. Only a thin gown stood between them. A thin gown and his own clothes, which suddenly seemed excessive. She apparently agreed. While her lips danced down his neck, her fingers slid beneath his jacket, pushing it back and down his arms. He shrugged out of it and found her already at work at his buttons. As her hands bared his chest, her lips followed, and a groan escaped him.

“Daphne,” he said, and then her lips were back at his.

“No,” she said. “No words. No thinking. Not tonight.”

She'd undone the last button while she spoke. He tore off the shirt, let it fall. Her hands grazed his stomach, eager and confident. They ghosted over his flesh, up his chest, over his shoulders, and all the while her mouth met his. She swayed into him, letting her stomach brush against his groin. He grabbed a fistful of her gown, pulled her closer. She did not seem surprised or shocked to find him erect.

She shifted her hips against him and tugged at his lower lip with her teeth, bringing every nerve alive. He supposed he ought to protest, offer up some token resistance to his base urges, but she did not seem similarly concerned for her own. He cast away decency and grabbed her, lifting her against him. She shifted her balance and wrapped her arms around his neck, her body lithe and strong against
his. Damn decency, then; damn propriety and reputation. He wanted her, and the hunger in her kisses left him no doubt she wanted him as well. He ran his teeth over her shoulder, bit gently. She stifled a moan against his neck.
Not a word,
he thought, and bit down again.

He carried her to the chair, set her down with her bottom on the edge. Her nightgown was hiked to her thighs. The ripped shoulder had fallen farther, baring a dark nipple. He stopped. She was beautiful. More than beautiful. He could see her scars, now. Thin and faint, most of them, each one a story she would someday trust him enough to tell him.

She stroked his hair. Waiting. Letting him drink her in. And then, impatient, she tugged. The sting against his scalp made his cock jerk. She bit her lip but a smile escaped just the same. He started to speak. She pressed one finger against his lips, then drew it back, crooked it.
Come here.

He rose, lifting her gown as he went. She lifted her arms. The filmy fabric skimmed her stomach, her breasts. He cast it aside, letting one hand follow its path. When he cupped her breast, she sighed. When he ran a nail along the underside of her nipple, she gasped. When he took it between his lips, flicking his tongue lightly over it, she gave a quiet sound of pleasure he could only describe as a mewl. They didn't need words.

Except one. “Daphne,” he said.

“Don't call me that,” she whispered.

“Then what? What do I call you, love?” He kissed the palm of her hand.

“Not that,” she said. “Please.”

“My Diana, then,” he said. His lips trailed up her arm. She arched to meet him when he found his way to the
crook of her neck. He stayed there a moment, tasting her. His thumb stroked the inside of her hip bone and she gave a delicious squirm. “I will call you Diana.”

“Diana,” she echoed. Then, “No words, remember?”

“One,” he said. “I need one word.” He looked at her. Framed her face between his hands and forced himself to touch no other part of her.

Her lips parted. “Yes,” she whispered.

*   *   *

Yes
. A thousand reasons for
no
but she was past caring. He ran his hands down her body, and she leaned against the back of the tall chair, biting her lip to keep from crying out. It had never been like this. None of the drunken fumblings, not even the smooth assurance of those who fancied themselves rakes.

Every touch seemed to lance down to a point between her legs, already warm and slick. Martin's kisses trailed to the underside of her ribs, then rose again. There was a hitch, a hesitation, when he kissed her lips again. A man like him would be no virgin, but the prostitutes and courtesans who provided lords their educations did not ask for pleasure in return for what they gave. And he was no seducer, skilled in the art of making a woman sigh. She would have to be his tutor, then.

She took his hand where it rested on her thigh and pressed it between her legs, against the most tender spot. His lips stilled against her. She coaxed his fingers into movement, making soft sounds of encouragement as he stroked and pressed.

“Like that,” she whispered into his ear. He nipped at her neck.

“No words,” he growled, and slid a finger inside her. His head dipped again. His tongue made a playful circle around her nipple. The lamplight made his skin glow. She ran her hands over his back as her breath quickened.

His finger moved inside her, in and out. Slowly. She moved her hips to match it. He withdrew it, smiled at her. Then slid two inside.

She could not contain the wave of pleasure that rocked through her. With his mouth and fingers urging her further, higher, she bucked. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. She pressed her face against the fabric of the chair in torturous silence, her whole body shuddering, her sex tightening around his fingers. Then it was easing, and his touch was so intense it was painful. But he seemed to know it, drawing away, letting her breathe while he ran his palms up her hips. She found her breath, found his eyes. He was grinning, self-satisfied.