by Anne Stuart
Page 48
Author: Anne Stuart
For the first time in what seemed like days he wanted to laugh. At this point his darling fiancée was innocent enough not to realize that was a far cry from an insult.
But that would change. “I’ll be most interested to hear your observations. ”
She came back to the table, poured herself a glass of wine and drained it in one, unappreciative gulp. “When are they expecting us?”
“At any time. ”
“Then perhaps you might summon one of the maids and allow me some privacy in which to prepare myself. ”
He’d rather hoped to sit and watch her strip down and attire herself in her Grecian whore’s outfit. But she was looking just the slightest bit dangerous, and he hadn’t forgotten how she’d managed to dispatch with Christopher St. John. There were no water ewers available, though a wine bottle could make a fairly effective weapon.
He rose, languidly, and he expected that he looked like the very devil in the flickering firelight. “As you wish, my love. Take your time. Perhaps you might like a bath?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I expect I’ll be in need of one even more after the festivities,” she drawled. “But yes, if you could procure me one it might settle my nerves. ”
“Nerves, my love?”
“All brides are nervous, my dearest. ” There was a real edge to the endearment. “And I don’t want to disappoint your friends. ”
He found he was grinding his teeth. He stopped, immediately. “As you wish. ” And he bowed himself out of the room.
Miranda watched him leave, a composed expression on her face. The moment the door clicked behind him she would have been tempted to run and lock it, but there were no keys in the doors at Bromfield Manor. The truth was plain but unpalatable. He really didn’t care for her, not in the tiniest bit.
She glanced toward the windows. She could try to escape, but they were on the second floor, and she’d already checked. There was no balustrade or terrace to afford her an easy exit.
She could pull on the plain black domino, Lucien’s cloak, eschewing the golden monstrosity he’d brought for her, and she could probably manage to sneak out of the house that way. The only problem being that they were on the edge of the moors, and she was far too pragmatic to court death before dishonor.
She’d hidden the ancient dagger beneath the pillow on the bed, and she pulled it out to look at it. How many men had it killed? Could she bring herself to stab him?
Yes. If he handed her over to his friends, and then brought her back to this bed, then yes, she could stab him before she left. And stab him she would.
She sat silently while they brought a bath and filled it. The maid assigned to her was thankfully subdued, presumably having been accustomed to the foul goings-on between Lord Bromley’s friends, and she helped her in silence, washing her back, drying her, helping her dress like a sacrificial vestal virgin in the embarrassing costume. She even plaited and arranged her hair in a pseudoclassical style, bent down and fastened the gold sandals on her feet, and then stood back.
“Will there be anything else, my lady? Some of our ladies prefer to start the evening with a bit of assistance. ”
Miranda managed to emerge from her welter of abstracted misery. “Assistance?”
“We’re told to offer laudanum, if you prefer it, or brandy to settle the nerves, or the evening’s punch, which tends to animate guests most effectively,” the maid said with a blank expression.
Miranda seriously considered, then rejected the idea. She would follow this night through with whatever it held. “No, thank you. I shall be fine. ”
The maid opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again, and Miranda suspected why. She probably didn’t look fine. She probably looked as devastated and broken as she felt.
“Would you please inform his lordship that I’m ready?”
She waited until the girl was gone, then went over to look at the pier glass, curious how she looked as a whore.
She gasped. She might as well be standing naked. She could see the thrust of her small breasts, the dark nipples clear through the wispy fabric. The line of her body, the darker triangle of hair, the outline of her legs. All was revealed and yet disguised in a gown made for sexual titillation.
She closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at her face. It was pale and ghostly, and her eyes were nothing but dark holes. They hadn’t offered her makeup, but she bit her lips to bring color back to them, pinched her cheeks. She smiled brightly, and to her discerning eyes the effect was ghastly.
Lucien wouldn’t even notice.
The door opened behind her and she turned. A great many candles lit the room, brightening it, and he could see her quite clearly. He froze for a moment, staring at her, and she wanted to weep, to scream at him, to beg him to stop this.
And then he moved forward, calm and urbane. “You look quite magnificent, my love. You’ll be the perfect blushing bride. Unless you’ve changed your mind?”
Why was he asking her this? He was the one who’d brought her here; he was the one who was asking this of her. She smiled at him, her face muscles feeling stiff and tight. “I will do whatever you ask of me, my darling. If you desire this, then I desire this. ”
He stared at her for a long moment. “So be it,” he said in a tight voice. He picked up the domino and draped it around her shoulders, fastening it at her neck. His hands were surprisingly gentle, caressing at her throat as he fastened the cape, and she wondered what he would do if she lowered her face to rub against his hands. She kept her head still.
Instead he lifted his hand to brush her cheek, gently, and she would have broken, if he hadn’t turned away, starting toward the door and opening it. He paused there, holding out his arm. “Shall we join the others, my love?”
She took his arm, and went.
The halls he led her down were dark and shrouded, but he seemed to know where he was going. “Have you been here before?” she asked in a calm tone.
In answer he said, “Bromley holds these gatherings every few months. If I have nothing better to do I join them. ”
“You have a taste for degeneracy?”
He looked down at her and smiled grimly. “Haven’t you noticed?”
She subsided. She could pull back, cry off. What was the worst thing that would happen?
She would lose. She hated to lose, but most particularly she hated the thought of losing to him. She was gambling on the hope that he wouldn’t go through with this, and she just might lose. He cared for her, whether he could admit it or not. She was certain of it, though she couldn’t say why. He would pull back himself, take her away from this terrible place.
But he continued moving forward, and she kept up with him. He was walking swiftly, not bothering with a cane this evening, as if he were in a hurry to get to the dark heart of the night.
She heard the noise from a distance, the soft murmur of voices growing louder until they approached a wide set of doors. Impassive servants stood on either side, and they waited for a nod from her terrible, beautiful lover. The doors were opened, and they were greeted with a roar.
26
He was holding her bare hand, Miranda realized belatedly. He would be able to feel the cold sweat on her palms, the faint tremor. She pulled her hand away, surveying the room with a critical eye.
At one end of the huge hall there was a dais, which one might purport to be an altar, albeit one dedicated to the darker arts. She was marginally relieved to see that instead of a sacrificial stone there was a low bed. Not that she’d ever believed the stories about sacrifice. Her father and grandfather had been far from proper gentlemen but their wickedness didn’t go the way of murder.
She glanced around her. People were wearing all sorts of strange garments, from nuns’ habits and priests’ robes to the simple, enveloping dominos that left one with no idea who they were. Little wonder, if the members of the Heavenl
y Host were as august as she’d heard.
A short, slightly rotund man approached, and she could only guess he was the host of this particular gathering. He, too, was wearing classical costume, with a laurel wreath on thinning hair styled à Brutus and the mask of a goat on his face.
“We call you all to witness the marriage made in hell of our dear brother Lucien the Scorpion and his chosen lady, and we ask you all to partake of the chalice that will sanctify this unholy union …”
He was carrying some kind of glass vessel, and it took her a moment to identify it. It was a goblet shaped like a phallus, though admittedly more like Lucien’s impressive appendage and less like St. John’s tiny stub. She supposed before the night was over she would have knowledge of any number of penises, and would be able to judge what was normal and what was not. A grim shiver of amusement ran over her.
It was cold in the room, even though she could see the sweat stand out on the foreheads of some of the people who pressed around them. Or perhaps she was simply nervous. Lucien stood beside her, silent. Damnably silent.
She reached up, unfastened the domino and let it fall to the floor. She could feel Lucien’s start, as the assemblage roared in approval.
The man, whom she presumed was Lord Bromley, held the obscene glass up to her. “Take of our communion, my dark lady, and we shall …”
“I think not,” she said in a cool voice. “It looks most unsanitary, and I have grave doubts as to what’s inside. ”
The room was struck silent, as if the devil himself had suddenly appeared. The goat lord seemed nonplussed. “Er … all right. ” He handed the goblet to a waiting minion, then turned back to her, trying to regain his concentration. “We call upon the powers of darkness, Beelzebub and his angels, to curse this union …”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. You don’t seriously expect to conjure up the devil, do you? I doubt you even believe in the devil. This is all extremely tiresome—could we get on with it?” Cheery good humor was beyond her at this point, but she could manage bored annoyance quite well. Even if she thought she heard a muffled snort of laughter from the man who brought her.