Lord Ruin Read Online Free PDF Page A

of laughter. “Don’t you worry about that.”
    “I predict a marriage.” Lucy grinned at Mary as if Anne weren’t able to see. “Indeed, yes. A marriage all because Anne has injured her ankle.”
    “Your injury
will
lead to a wedding,” said Mary with a smile. “Yes, I daresay so.”
    Anne’s last thought as she drifted into the welcoming arms of unconsciousness was that she hoped her sisters were right.
    As it happened, they were.

 
    Chapter Four
      
    Ruan saw to his own horse when he made the Abbey at about half past one in the morning. Thank heaven for a full moon and clear sky, or he’d have never tried to make Corth Abbey before morning. Good weather and good luck. The front door was unlocked. He didn’t need to rouse the servants. Greatcoat folded over an arm, he went upstairs. He heard voices from the parlor, his mother’s among them. Time enough for explanation in the morning, he decided, walking past with a silence learned on campaign. He did not particularly care to hear his mother’s reaction to Emily Sinclair tonight. If he made an appearance, he was in for an inquisition. He hadn’t the patience for it, not at this hour.
    Whenever he came to Corth Abbey, he stayed in the same room. Just as Dev always had the same room if he spent a night at Cywrthorn or at the estate in Cornwall. The idea that by week’s end he would be an engaged man buoyed his spirits, quite unnaturally for a man of his temperament. He fully intended to break through that layer of disdain Miss Emily Sinclair had adopted toward him. The girl refused to be easily caught. Well, the hunt was on, and Emily Sinclair was no better than a hapless fox and him the baying hound. She would be his duchess. Lord Ruin ought to marry the most beautiful woman London had seen in many a season. Young, fresh, and so lovely he intended the shortest possible engagement.
    His room was closest to the stairs. Dobkin, his valet, had traveled with his mother’s servants the day before and had in his usual thorough and methodical manner arranged the room in anticipation of his arrival. A fire warmed the chamber. On the nightstand, a lamp cast a soft glow so he didn’t have to fumble for a light. His trunk stood in one corner, and he knew his clothes were laid out in the wardrobe. He threw his greatcoat over a chair and decided not to wake Dobkin. Coat and waistcoat he let drop on a chair. Loosening his shirt, he made for the washstand and sluiced the travel grime from his face and neck. He was pulling off his boots when he realized he was not alone.
    Panic had him reaching for his coat, but the fright passed. God knows a woman transformed any room she stayed in, and he did not see a single sign that the one in his bed was there for any purpose but the obvious. Her clothes would be somewhere. Perfume bottles arranged on the dresser, perhaps a pair of slippers near the bed, stockings or a shawl draped over a chair. On a suspicious whim, he threw open the wardrobe. And breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing but his own clothes inside. On the table was his shaving kit, laid out as if Dobkin were about to appear with a cup of foaming lather. Really, there wasn’t any doubt. Barefoot, he walked to the bed.
    “Dev, you rogue you.”
    The woman lay on her back, one arm thrown above her head. Sound asleep, despite the noise he’d made undressing. Not beautiful. Nor was she unaffecting. He sat on the edge of the bed. He rather liked her features, framed as they were by a few wisps of pale hair that had escaped a tidy braid. Sleeping, she looked as far from a whore as, well, the woman he intended to marry. The significance of her being in his room was not lost on him. One last hark to the wild life he and Devon were to leave behind.
    “This,” he said in a whisper as he slowly drew the covers down to her waist, “is what comes of a man owning a brothel.” To his surprise, she showed no sign of waking. He adjusted the bedclothes so that nearly the whole of