The Wicked House of Rohan (2 page)

“Hush, Maxwell,” Marblethorpe said. “Give the upright and pure Miss Strong a chance to defend herself. Were you, in fact, guilty of these immoral transgressions?”

“No, sir.” Her voice wasn't much more than a whisper. She'd drained his glass of wine, Alistair noticed, and she was clinging to the empty glass so tightly he thought it might snap. It would cut her hand if it did, but he decided he'd used up his full allotment of Christian mercy for the next decade, so he waited.

“So you are, in fact, a virgin?” Maxwell continued.

She looked at Marblethorpe then, and he'd never seen anyone look more defeated in his life. “I was inquiring about a job as a governess to your little sister, Sir Wesley. I assure you that despite Mrs. Brandon's unfortunate misapprehensions I am more than capable of providing a moral and challenging education for your sister.”

“A bit late for that,” Wesley said cheerfully. “Elspeth's married with two brats, and she's been having affairs since she got back from her honeymoon. I expect every man in this room has had her at one time or another.”

There was a chorus of drunken assents. Alistair said nothing. He'd been the first, seducing her away from her older husband out of boredom. If he hadn't, the next man would have, he thought, still watching the drowned kitten before him.

No, that wasn't quite it. A drowned cat. There was a flash of real fire in her eyes. “Then if you aren't in need of a governess, why, pray, am I here?”

“In fact, we are in need of a virtuous woman,” Wesley announced. “A virgin, in fact. And it sounds as if, rumors to the contrary, you qualify?”

She said nothing, waiting.

“Well, then,” Wesley continued, only slightly ruffled by her lack of response. “We both appear to have problems that are easily solved. You're in need of money to discharge your debts and pay passage home to London, am I right?” He didn't wait for an answer. “And you have a commodity that interests us, one we're willing to pay highly for. Your virginity.”

She tried to rise, but Marblethorpe dropped his hand on her shoulder, pushing her back down.

Alistair rose then, ambling across the room, and removed Wesley's thick hand. “If we're doing this, and apparently we are, she needs to agree to it without any coercion from you. Look at me, Miss Strong.”

She didn't move, her head and shoulders bowed.

“
Look at me!
” he snapped, and she jerked her head up. Her eyes were no longer a dull brown, they were blazing with rage. “That's better,” he said in his coolest voice, the one his mistress once complained could freeze hell. “Do you understand what Sir Wesley is asking of you? What we're asking of you?”

“A-all of you?” she stammered.

He glanced back at Wesley. “No, not all. One of us. We're asking you to offer up your virginity in return for financial security and a swift trip home.”

“A few short hours,” Wesley broke in eagerly. “No restraints, no whips. Just coitus.”

“Penetration and the breaking of your maidenhead,” Alistair continued. “With an audience.”

He wouldn't have thought she could turn any paler. She looked up at him with such hatred in her eyes that he was taken aback. What had he ever done to hurt her that she would despise him so? It was Marblethorpe who had lured her here under false pretenses.

And then the animation left her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a voice so low he couldn't believe he'd heard it.

“Louder, Miss Strong. We need everyone to hear your assent.” His voice was like a lash, trying to sting her. He was furious, and he couldn't imagine why. Despoiling a willing virgin as part of their silly gathering was harmless. He was a firm believer that any excess was permissible so long as those involved were in agreement, and when Marblethorpe had proposed the notion of the ritual breaking of a hymen, he'd found the idea vaguely erotic. Still did, if he looked at Miss Kathleen Strong, though he wasn't sure he'd like an audience for it.

“I said I agree,” she said in a stronger voice. “On one condition.”

“Name it,” Marblethorpe said eagerly, but she didn't look away from Alistair.

“That the man chosen isn't you.”

It shocked Alistair, when he thought he was past being surprised by anything. And then he laughed. “It shall be as you wish, though I do need to tell you that you're rejecting a true master of the erotic arts. Be that as it may, how shall we decide who gets this particular treasure?” His voice was sarcastic, almost cruel, surprising himself. Had the wretched creature actually offended him? Apparently she had.

“I found her, I should get her,” Marblethorpe said eagerly.

“Not fair!” Jasper protested. “I say we wager for it.”

“Then do so,” Alistair said in a bored voice. “Take your prize and go away. I'm in need of a nap if I'm going to be up for a certifiable orgy tonight.”

“Tonight?” the woman whispered.

He glanced down at her. “Tonight. Don't worry, Miss Strong. The sooner it's done the sooner it's over, and you can be on your way back to England and forget this ever happened.”

She said nothing, and he turned his back on her, washing his hands of the whole tedious situation. He'd done his best for the wretched creature, God knew why, when he himself had the irrational urge to bed her. An hour ago, after a vigorous night, he thought he'd never want sex again.

But he did. With her. And he didn't want anyone else to have her, which was ridiculous. He'd always shared his lovers. The whole situation made no sense.

“You can see yourselves out,” he said. And he walked away from them, closing the door behind him.

 

Kathleen heard them talking. He was gone, and her last bit of strength left her.

“What's wrong with Rohan?” one man said. “He hasn't changed his mind about all this, has he? It isn't like him.”

“Of course not,” another man said. “He's been setting a prodigious example for all of us in his drinking and wenching. I imagine he's worn out. I'm just demmed sorry he's not going to have the virgin—I would have liked to observe his technique. I'm betting he could have made her climax.”

“I'm certain any of us are capable of doing the deed,” Marblethorpe said. “Come, let's go to my place and play cards for her. Or shall we use the dice?”

“What will we do about her in the meantime?”

Oh, please God, feed me
, she thought wearily.

“Leave her here. We'll be gathering here tonight anyway and if we take her with us we might misplace her. Alistair won't touch her, rules and all that.”

“An excellent idea. I'll have Marcello keep an eye on her, make sure she doesn't bolt.”

Their voices were fading away, but she was scarcely aware of them. The eventual silence was so blessed she almost wept.

Alistair Rohan. Why hadn't she known him immediately? She'd never seen eyes that captivating color on anyone but her brother's friend.

She'd been fifteen, he'd been twenty, sent down from Oxford with her brother Jack for some prank involving chickens and the dean's office, much to her father's annoyance.

She'd taken one look at him and fallen madly, desperately in love, as only a fifteen-year-old can love. Of course Rohan had barely noticed Jack's gawky little sister, though he lightly flirted with her when they'd been thrown together.

He left, and she'd never seen him again. Jack had served in India and, like so many before him, died there. Mary had died in childbirth, and their parents were already gone. She was alone, and she'd had no qualms about becoming a governess, and proved to be an extremely good one. She'd leapt at the chance to travel to Venice with the Brandon family, and then disaster fell.

Leaving her destitute, and now a whore, facing her childhood crush. She pushed herself out of the chair and went to survey the littered table, hoping there might be a scrap of food left behind. Apparently the members of the Saving Grace or the Heaven Host or whatever they were calling themselves were only interested in drink, and that one glass of wine had been a very bad idea.

Death before dishonor.
It was a lovely sentiment, but she didn't want to die. If she had the chance to go back to England then she didn't fancy a grave as an alternative. They buried the dead on a separate island here—she didn't want her body dumped on a barge and carried over there with the other paupers.

An hour or two in exchange for getting out of this country. She had no sure idea what would await her in England, whether Mrs. Brandon's slander would follow her there, but she had good enough references from other families. And no one would ever need know of this.

She would think of it as a medical procedure, close her eyes and endure. At least no one would cut her open, and the pain would be marginal and quick, or so her sister had told her.

She moved over to the window seat, curling up against the bolted shutters. If Marcello showed up she'd ask him for food, which he'd probably refuse, but starvation had its own compensations. She was already so muzzy-headed she'd probably barely notice what they did to her.

She had drifted off to sleep when the door opened and Alistair Rohan came in, heading purposefully toward the table. His head was wet, and clearly he'd just bathed. She would have killed for a bath.

She sank back into the alcove. A mistake, because her movement caught his attention and he turned to stare at her for a long moment, clearly surprised.

“What are you still doing here?” he asked in that lazy voice she remembered so well.

Somehow she found she was able to answer. “They were afraid they might misplace me.”

He gave a short, sharp laugh. “You look like you're starving,” he said abruptly. “Can I offer you some food, or will you throw that back in my face?”

“Food…would be very nice,” she said in a faint voice.

He nodded, more to himself than to her. “Come with me.”

She followed, determined not to fall over, trailing behind the straight, tall back that she'd once sighed over. The room he brought her to was small and cozy, with a blazing fire to fight off the damp Venetian chill. She stood there, uncertain what to do.

“Go. Sit by the fire,” he said irritably, and disappeared.

She did as she was bid. The chair was cushioned, the fire so hot that her hands and feet finally began to warm, and she could see steam rising from her sodden garments. She ought to be embarrassed, but it was nothing compared to what was coming later that night.

She didn't know how long he was gone. She had probably drifted off to sleep again, because when he appeared, the supercilious Marcello was with him, carrying a heavy tray.

She almost cried then. But she swallowed back the tears as Marcello set the tray down on the table beside her, then moved it in front of her. Soup, baked eels, cold chicken, hard cheese, bread, sweet confections. She couldn't believe the food there, and she didn't know where to start.

“If you think I'm going to hand-feed you you're wrong,” Alistair said, throwing himself down in the chair opposite her.

“Don't…don't you want any?” She'd stab him if he did.

He shook his head. “I've been eating regular meals. Clearly you haven't.”

It was all she could do not to fall on the food like a ravenous savage. She forced herself to eat slowly, knowing she'd make herself sick if she shoved it all in her mouth, knowing he was watching her out of those heavy-lidded honey-gold eyes. She was past feeling self-conscious. When she finally finished she sat back, her stomach pleasantly full for the first time in weeks.

She had no choice—she'd been brought up with manners. “Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow. “No longer wanting me dead? Though I can't imagine what I've done to earn your enmity. I was trying to save you from the worst folly imaginable.”

“Why? Oh, I remember. I'm just so damned pathetic,” she said.

He grinned at that. “I can tell you're feeling better already. I've had Marcello prepare a room for you and a bath. You look as if you haven't had a good night's sleep in weeks, and you're going to need your strength if you expect to get through tonight's festivities.”

“A bath?” she echoed. “I've changed my mind—you can have me after all.” It was meant to be a joke, but it was a poor choice of words.

His eyebrow lifted again. “Kind of you,” he murmured, “but I think I'll decline the sacrifice.”

She could feel her face redden. “I was being facetious,” she said stiffly. “But the thought of a warm bath is quite…wonderful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he said. “Or not, as the case may be.”

“When…when do things start tonight?” He was wrong. The better she felt the more difficult it was going to be. An hour ago she'd been numb. She was coming back to life now, and the thought of what lay ahead of her was daunting.

“Late. I believe your part involves the thrust of midnight, so to speak.” He ran a careless hand through his thick brown hair, frowning at her. “You know they won't let you change your mind. They'll hold you down if you tell them no.”

“I won't change my mind.” She had no choice. Back out to wander the streets of Venice like a lost soul? She'd end up raped or dead.

He shrugged. “So be it. Marcello is waiting for you. Don't let him give you any trouble. He's a surly bastard.”

She was being dismissed. She rose, no longer as shaky as she had been, and he stayed where he was, watching her. She'd already gotten used to the fact that gentlemen didn't rise when she did. As a governess she was only slightly higher than a servant, but it still felt strange to have him lounge there insolently.

He was no longer the same man, she reminded herself, moving past him. But then his hand caught her wrist, halting her, and heat ran through her entire body, like an electric shock. She looked down at him, schooling her expression.