A Dangerous Man (31 page)

Most people wondered why he bothered with a reprobate
like Pierce who seemed hell-bent on his own destruction.
Only Richard knew the man behind the mask of devil-maycare depravity. They were kindred spirits, each haunted by the
sins of their pasts.

On rare occasions, the gentle heart of the man Pierce used
to be would shine through. Like the time he had offered those
insightful words to Richard on how horrible it must be to watch
one's children die. But for one cruel twist of fate, Pierce's life
would have turned out very differently.

If Richard's suspicions proved true, Pierce was the father
of Catherine Jamison's child. There was no doubt that the two
of them could have met. Pierce spent many a month throughout the years at his uncle's estate, situated not many miles
from Leah's childhood home, but Pierce was not a man who would seduce an innocent maiden, then abandon her to the
streets. He confined his illicit relations to bawdy wenches and
courtesans, women to whom he paid good coin to service his
needs.

No, if it were true, something more sinister had to have
happened. Richard would wager a thousand pounds that
Leah's father set the whole sordid story in motion. It was one
more piece of the puzzle he was working to solve, though at
this point, his solicitors had turned up nothing. The lack of
clues was not surprising, given how many years had passed.

The carriage lurched to a halt. Richard trudged up the
stairs, entered his room, then stalked straight to Leah's door.

His blood roared in his ears, pounded through his veins, the
whisky muddling his brain until his need turned savage. He
curled his hands into fists, dragged them down the door.

With eyes clenched tight, he choked on a moan.

How long would it take to purge her from his heart?

To purge her from his soul?

An insidious voice inside his mind taunted him. Open the
door. Or are you afraid? He grasped the knob, turned the
handle. Just one look, he promised himself.

He wanted just one look. What harm could it do? He
wrenched open the door. She was asleep on the chaise, her
golden hair curling over the cushions, gold fire against plush
green velvet. An open book lay on the table beside her. A
candle burned low on its base.

His knees wobbled as he approached her, which he blamed
on the whisky and not her perfume, a blend of rosewater and
her own enticing essence, more powerful than the most potent
of opiates.

His fingers shook as he brushed the soft curls from her
brow, traced the fragile line of her jaw. Heat shot up his arm,
burned through his bones. His head was throbbing.

This was madness. He knew what he stood to lose.

Careful not to awaken her, he gathered her into his arms and carried her to bed. But when he should have released her,
he didn't. He couldn't. He pressed a tender kiss upon her
brow, but not her lips. He knew if he kissed her lips, he would
never let her go. He dragged his gaze up the length of her
body, memorizing her shape, her form. Her long, lean legs
outlined by the silk of her dress. The gentle flare of her hips.
The sweet curve of her neck. He wanted to wrap her in his
arms, to hold her against his chest. He wanted to love her.

His mind churned with the words, to love her.

With a supreme effort of will, he dragged his gaze to her
face, burned her image into his brain. Her sun-swept hair. Her
oval face. Her cheeks that glowed with a natural joy that
couldn't be dampened, not even in sleep. Her lips that had
so often parted for his kiss curled into a smile, and he hoped
she was dreaming of him. Then he cursed himself for a fool.

He pulled the coverlet over her shoulders, turned and
stalked to his door. Before he crossed the threshold, he
paused.

One more look. He wanted one more look.

He knew he would never see her like this again.

Rachel suppressed her smile as she strode into the blue
room and found Leah and Richard already seated at the table.
Neither spoke nor raised their gazes from their plates. The
only sound was the clank and clatter of silver scraping china.

A bubble of delicious laughter threatened to choke Rachel,
but she pressed her lips into a sober line and took her seat
with all the grace and dignity of her station. She had to take
care not to let her feelings show, but it was so hard. Too hard.

Every time she looked at Richard, she felt her stomach curl
and her breasts swell, aching for his touch. She longed to
trace the hard slope of his jaw, to kiss his brooding lips, to run
her fingers over his sex, to draw him into her body.

Good heavens, her pulse was beating frantically, and an
unladylike sensation of wetness covered her skin.

She pushed her gaze to the wall.

For weeks, she had been forced to watch Richard and his
foolish wife grow closer while all her attempts to drive them
apart had failed. Absurd as it had seemed, Rachel had even
begun to fear that Richard was falling in love with the girl.

The thought had driven Rachel to the edge of reason, until
she could scarce think for the jealousy and the fear that this
time, she had truly lost him. But all that was over now.

Richard had spent every night of the past two weeks at his
clubs or carousing with his scurrilous friend, Greydon, while
Leah remained at home with Alison and Geoffrey.

Though Leah tried to hide her growing agitation, her expressive eyes showed all of her pain, all of her confusion
while her face was as stark as the moon in winter.

And to think, Rachel owed it all to the fiasco of Geoffrey's
botched attempt to take his own life and the delirious ramblings of that drunken fool. The truth behind Richard's hasty
wedding had surprised her. Yet it made such perfect sense.

He was so damned honorable, he would sacrifice his life
for those he loved, and he loved Alison above all others.

She was his flesh, his blood, and Rachel's only real weapon
in her fight to win him back. How stupid of her not to have
realized it sooner. Now she knew what she had to do.

"Tonight is the Houghtons' ball," Rachel said into the silence. "You are promised to attend"

"I'm afraid I cannot," Leah said, her voice quiet, almost
hoarse, as if rubbed raw from smothered sobs.

Richard's hand tightened on his fork until the long bones
running from wrist to knuckles strained against his skin.

So, Rachel thought, he still harbored feelings for the chit.
She would have to act fast, before he cast caution to the wind
and confessed all to his young bride. Rachel could not let that happen. She greatly feared that Leah might forgive him
anything.

"Nonsense," she said, as if instructing a wayward child.
"You must attend. It is an engagement ball for Richard's dearest friend and his betrothed. If you do not go, everyone will
assume you disapprove of Lady Julia. I know you do not want
that to happen. All you need to do is dance once or twice, and
then you can leave. That shouldn't be so difficult, should it?"

His jaw as rigid as a chiseled slab of granite, Richard
shoved back his chair. He stood and bowed in Leah's general
direction. "I shall return in time to escort you to the ball. Now,
if you will excuse me, I have business to which I must
attend" He turned on his heel and stalked from the room.

Leah stared at her plate.

"You do look a trifle peaked," Rachel murmured, before sipping her tea. "Are you unwell? Should we fetch the doctor?"

"Do not trouble yourself on my account" Leah pressed her
linen to her lips, then folded the cloth and placed it on the
table, as if she were preparing to leave.

But Rachel wasn't through with her yet. "I cannot help but
notice that you look upset. 'Tis a pity. Somehow I thought it
was different this time. I thought he truly cared for you. But
I can see I was mistaken. It seems St. Austin is incapable of
lasting affection, after all." She paused, as if she were reluctant to continue, relishing the pain that closed Leah's eyes and
turned her cheeks a ghastly shade of gray. Then she leaned
forward and whispered, "He was in love once. Very deeply."

Leah's brows lifted, but she did not reply. She turned her
gaze toward the conservatory beyond the door, the towering
palms and ornamental trees, silvery green in the morning
sunlight.

The silence lengthened until Leah finally blurted out,
"What happened?"

Rachel sighed mournfully. "Such a sad story. Worthy of a
Shakespearean tragedy. Two star crossed lovers separated by their parents and the circumstances of their birth. She was the
daughter of a marquess, you see. Too high for a mere second
son. Her parents forced her to wed another. Richard has never
recovered. I fear he will never love anyone but her."

Leah placed her hands on the table, then slowly pushed
from her chair. Her face went as white as the tablecloth beneath her palms and she swayed on her feet.

For a moment, Rachel thought the girl might faint, but she
took a steadying breath. "Please, forgive me," she said,
pulling her shoulders back and meeting Rachel's gaze. "I find
I am a trifle unwell after all. But never fear, I shall rally."

Rachel smiled into her teacup. She almost pitied the girl.

This was the last ball she would ever attend, Leah decided
as she made her way toward the door, intent upon finding the
carriage and returning to the house. Her progress slowed as
every woman she passed seemed determined to greet her, and
every man, to ask her to dance. Where before she was a pariah,
tonight she was the reigning toast. Never had she felt more
alone.

No doubt she owed her new-found popularity to the great
hulking beast walking at her side, the arrogant Duke of St.
Austin, daring meager mortals to offer his wife some slanderous look or misguided word. As much as she willed herself to
remain unaffected, she breathed the intoxicating scent of his
skin, felt the heat of his fingers brushing over her arm as he
touched his hand to her elbow. It was all she could do not to
fling her arms around his neck and beg him to love her. But
she would not degrade herself with such a pathetic display of
neediness.

She wished he would leave her alone, join his friends in the
gaming parlours, anything but slip his hand from her elbow
to her spine, warm fingers splaying wide to guide her past the
couples rushing to join the first country dance.

He had not so much as looked at her since they arrived, save for a scathing glance at the neckline of her gown when
she'd first removed her cloak. Though modest in comparison
to the ladies around her, it was more daring than anything she
had worn before. Her tightly laced stay, while making it
nearly impossible for her to breathe, pushed her breasts together and thrust them upward. If she had hoped to elicit
some response from Richard, she had failed miserably, but
she kept her smile on her face and laughed at the witty banter
of her companions.

From across the room, she could feel the intensity of Lord
Greydon's stare upon her face, the same searching look with
which he had graced her when first she had met him in her
husband's library, and again as she had made her way through
the receiving line to meet his affianced bride. It made her uncomfortable, and Leah couldn't begin to say why. It was not
as if it were a predatory gaze meant to seduce her. Rather, it
was as if he were trying to solve some mystery, or as if he
were trying to see inside her soul. What he hoped to find,
Leah could not imagine.

His bride-to-be did not seem to notice. Lady Julia Houghton
tilted her head, the candlelight reflecting off the diamond tiara
resting atop her chestnut curls, her equally dark eyes gleaming
as she smiled at Pierce. Murmured voices around Leah called
Lady Julia cold, arrogant, distant. Leah saw a charming young
lady of wealth and beauty, innocence besotted with a man destined to hurt her, though she had yet to know it.

Once, Leah had been just as trusting, just as innocent.

Now she was the greatest fool. In love with a man who did
not love her, nor could he even bear to sleep in the same
room.

At first, Leah had not noticed anything amiss. It was only
natural that he would stay by Geoffrey's side until the crisis
had passed. But when Geoffrey had started to recover, when
the danger was over and life should have returned to normal,
Richard had grown more aloof, more distant, avoiding her, avoiding her bed, far from the flesh-and-blood man who
haunted her dreams.

Oh, whenever their paths happened to cross, he was all that
was polite and civil, as if they were strangers, as if they just
met, as if he had not kissed and stroked every inch of her
body, his body pulsing with need. Jealousy and suspicion
churned through her belly, clouding her thoughts, ensnaring
her reason.

What had happened to make him so distant? Why would
he not look at her? Speak to her? What had she done?

"Shall we dance?" The husky timbre of his voice curled
heat within her belly. His lips were so close to the curve of her
neck, she could feel his words vibrate over her skin.

A momentary urge to beg his forgiveness for whatever
crime she had committed threatened her composure before
pride surfaced and anger surged. She would not belittle herself for anyone.

The first sweet strains of a waltz floated over the deafening babble of voices. She willed herself to remain aloof, indifferent to his touch, but when she placed her gloved hand in
his, when he circled his arm around her waist, her heart beat
wildly within her breast. The air in the room grew unbearably
hot, sucking the breath from her lungs. Or perhaps it was his
dark gaze lingering on her lips, his black-as-night curls slanting roguishly over his brow, his bland smile, all that was
polite, all that was civil, a sham for the gossiping crowd.

She sought to distance herself from the devastating effects
of his touch. "So kind of you to ask me to dance, but you
needn't have troubled yourself on my account"