Free A Rose at Midnight by Anne Stuart Page B

scooped her up in his arms, the enveloping cape wrapped around her bound arms and legs, the hood hiding her face. “Very romantic,” he said in a dry voice. “I suggest you don’t waste your time trying to struggle. I’ll be able to subdue you quite efficiently, but I’d have to hurt you. I’m not ready to do that. And the servants aren’t likely to come to your rescue, even if they thought you were being taken against your will. Don’t fight it, Ghislaine. You have no escape.”
    She’d prided herself on accepting the inevitable, and she recognized the truth in his words. For now, for the next few hours, at least, she was entirely at his mercy. She needed to conserve her strength, her energy. Because sooner or later, her chance would come. And Nicholas Blackthorne would learn firsthand about the fires of hell.
    The Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening glanced out the carriage window into the storm-clouded countryside. If he’d had any choice in the matter he would have stayed at Meadowlands until the weather cleared. But Ellen had been determined to leave, and he’d been just as determined, in his own deceptively indolent fashion, to accompany her. Besides, if the weather had been clear he would have had very little excuse to ride in the excellently sprung carriage belonging to his old school chum Carmichael. Ellen knew he had a new gelding, and while he never liked to exert himself unnecessarily, he also detested enclosed spaces like carriages. He would have been hard put convincing her he actually wanted to be immured in a carriage with her for almost ten hours. Not without telling her the truth.
    She smiled at him, pushing her golden-blond hair back from her pale face, and he smiled back. She was one of the few women who wouldn’t be intimidated by his oversized frame. Carmichael called him The Mountain, and his most recent mistress, a deftly inventive opera singer whose talented mouth knew no limits, had used other, even franker terms for him.
    He would miss Carlotta, he thought with a sigh. Miss her bawdy ripeness, her screaming tantrums, and her enthusiasm in bed. He couldn’t hope to find that same unabashed enthusiasm in a woman of quality. He’d resigned himself to the fact that his marriage bed would be a staid, polite affair, conducted in darkness beneath layers of covers. At least he had every intention of enjoying the time outside the bed with someone compatible.
    Ellen Fitzwater was more than compatible. She was charming, innocent, alarmingly clever, and possessed of boundless affection for him, rather like a well-trained spaniel. And like any true Englishman, he loved his dogs. She was also quite lovely, with her soft curves and English-rose complexion. It was some time after the incredibly proper Miss Stanley had broken their engagement that he’d first realized Ellen would suit him admirably. Part of that decision had been helped by the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to do anything about it for several years. He was a man of strong opinions, likes and dislikes, but prided himself on being a tolerant man. Things tended to fall into place for him—he’d been blessed with a respectable fortune, a minor title, loving parents, a form that women tended to find pleasing, and an ability in matters of gaming and sport that made him universally appreciated. If occasionally he saw things a little too clearly he usually managed to maintain a polite veneer. He suffered fools, not gladly, but often. He was usually just too even-tempered to do otherwise.
    Ellen had almost disrupted his well-laid plans. He’d had enough town bronze to know that she wouldn’t make a splash during her first season. He’d kept an eye on her progress, ready to step in if some enterprising young man came up with an offer, but as he’d expected, the young men of London didn’t have the supreme good taste to appreciate a subtle beauty like Ellen. Tony was a firm believer in monogamy, and he was too fond of Ellen to offer