A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  Hart stalked to the window and jerked it open. A quick glance showed that the library stood a story above the groomed lawns on the east side of the mansion. Without a second’s hesitation he gripped the sill and lowered himself down, out of the window, along the exterior wall. He hung easily for a second before looking straight below.

  Rosebuses. An entire battalion of rosebushes crowded the ancient walls beneath him. Adding another curse to the litany he’d already produced since meeting Mercy Coltrane, Hart let go of the sill.

  “Hart!” Fanny called as Hart entered the morning room the next day.

  It was early afternoon and the room was filled with guests awaiting the musical entertainment Acton had arranged. With a little grunt Fanny heaved herself up from the settee as Richard hastened to her, catching her under the arm and pulling. Hart eyed his sister in mute surprise.

  Always a softly rounded woman, Fanny had grown substantially rounder. Her cheeks were pink dumplings, her throat necklaced by puffy little rolls of flesh. She held her hands out in fond greeting. One look at his face, however, and she dropped them. “Whatever happened?”

  “Happened?” he echoed, still amazed by Fanny’s increased girth. He touched his face. “Oh. This. I was riding this morning and didn’t attend where I was going. When my head was turned the horse ran me through some branches.”

  “Nasty, that,” Richard said, peering at the raw scratches crisscrossing the side of Hart’s face.

  “That doesn’t sound like you,” Fanny said.

  “Well, it was me,” Hart said in a tone that suggested she forget the incident.

  “Ah, yes. As it’s your face, it would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

  Dear Fanny. Lovely, loving, but not particularly bright. Her gleaming honey-gold curls bounced as she nodded sagely. Her bosom, a mountain of tightly constrained flesh, bounced in counterpoint.

  “And you, I trust, are doing well this morning?” Hart asked. She lowered her eyes and smiled shyly. Every exposed part of her person turned some variation on the shade pink.

  “Yes. So far, at least.” She glanced up. “Richard has told you?”

  “Yes, Fan. Congratulations. I cannot tell you how very pleased I am for you both. Whatever child you have will be most fortunate in his parents … particularly his mother.”

  “Oh, Hart!” Tears shimmered in her large cornflower-blue eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Francesca.” Hart shifted uneasily on his feet.

  “I’m sorry, Hart. I know how such displays distress you, but this motherhood thing has me so … emotional!”

  “So I see.”

  “I promise I won’t cry anymore.” She sniffed and took three deep breaths. The seams of her bodice creaked. “There. I’m better now.” She smiled a brave, watery smile. “See? I shall contrive to be a perfectly composed mother”—she gulped—“to … to … be!” She buried her face in the large linen handkerchief Richard produced.

  “Do something,” Hart said to him.

  Richard, aside from gazing sympathetically at his wife, didn’t move.

  “Oh! A mother! Me!” Fanny said, hiccuping uncontrollably.

  “Do something, man!” Hart repeated more forcefully.

  “What?” Richard asked. “She’s been crying off and on for weeks now. I’ve purchased two score handkerchiefs since Fan’s been breeding. Not much else to do, ’cept keep myself well stocked with the tear towels, don’t you know.”

  “Is she all right?” Hart asked. “She’s not sick, is she?”

  “No.” Fanny shook her head. “She’s not sick. She’s expecting … a … a … baby!”

  “Poor Fan.” Richard patted her shoulder.

  “Get her some Devonshire cream,” Hart said on a sudden inspiration. “She always liked Devonshire cream when she was a lass. Would you like some Devonshire cream, Fan?”

  She nodded, still sniffing. “Devonshire cream would be nice.”

  “Get it,” Hart ordered Richard.

  “Perhaps we can have Acton’s cook find something,” Richard cooed. “Come along, Fan, dearest. We’ll search out a nice little cubbyhole and have ourselves a cream tea, shall we?”

  Hart let out the breath he’d been holding as Richard escorted his sister from the room. Good Lord, he thought. If pregnancy affects steady, even-tempered Fan this way, just think what it would do to someone like Mercy Coltrane. His brows snapped together. Where the bloody hell did that thought come from?

  As if in response to some internal—and infernal—call he’d made, the woman who was responsible for his scratched face, whose actions—or rather the contemplation of whose potential actions—had driven off what little rest he found in slumber, appeared. Beside her was the Dowager Duchess and a man he assumed was James Trent, Duke of Acton.

  Try as he might, Hart was unable to concentrate on Acton with Mercy standing so close. He contented himself with giving his potential brother-in-law a cursory study. A bit beneath average height, barrel chested, curling ginger-colored hair receding from a pleasant, blocky face. Hart’s gaze passed over him to Mercy.

  She did not give any indication they had met before. She looked at him with no more than polite interest, her mouth trembling on the cusp of a smile. She was rigged out in some impossible pink plaid outfit, the heavy skirts draped behind her knees, a waterfall of pale lace and ruffles tumbling behind her as she advanced with that too-long stride of hers. It was, he noted, a high-collared gown, unlike the décolletage of the other ladies in the room. Did she always take pains to hide the scar he had given her? His jaw tightened.

  The Dowager Duchess snapped a huge white ostrich feather fan open as they approached. She raised her thin silver eyebrows.

  “Perth,” she said. He bowed from the neck. She turned and rapped her son sharply on the arm. “James, may I present Hart Moreland, Earl of Perth. Perth, my son, James Trent, Duke of Acton.”

  Acton stepped forward and offered his hand. Hart took it and they shook. Then Acton turned.

  “Miss Coltrane, may I present—”

  “The Earl of Perth? So I heard.” She dimpled saucily. “Yes. You may present him. And I will present myself. Mercy Coltrane, Mr. Perth. Late of Texas. That’s a territory in the United States of America,” she said. “And where do you hang your hat, sir?”

  “Here and there.” He was aware his voice was not as smooth as he’d have liked. Impudent little baggage.

  “Perth is an inveterate tourist. Spends all his time roaming about the world,” the Dowager said. “We are most fortunate he has postponed his latest sojourn in order attend our little party.”

  “Not at all, madam. It is my pleasure.”

  “Well, I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of someone as well traveled as yourself, sir,” Mercy said. “You must have some interesting tales to tell.”

  She stuck out her bare hand.

  He had no choice but to take it. Her fingers were warm and delicate and utterly feminine. She knew it wasn’t decent to extend an ungloved hand. She was mocking him. It was there in the challenging glint of her eye, the defiant angle of her chin.

  He did not resist the temptation to hold her hand a bit tighter than necessary or, when it was clear she actually expected him to shake it, carry it to his lips, pressing a kiss on the back of her long fingers. Velvet softness—He was gratified to hear a tiny gasp. She pulled her hand free.

  Mannerless little American heathen. She’d be lucky if society put up with her brazenness for a fortnight. He lifted his gaze to find both the Duchess and Acton had turned indulgent smiles on the redheaded chit, as if charmed by her bold behavior.

  “Miss Coltrane,” he muttered.

  “Dear heavens, sir!” Mercy exclaimed, a riotous flush high on her cheeks. “Whatever happened to your face?” She covered her lips with the tips of her fingers in a theatrical display of concern. Hart was certain she was covering a smile. Brat.

  “A horse,” he said evenly, “ran with me through some low-hanging branches across the riding tr
ail.”

  “And you couldn’t control him?” Mercy asked, her gold-spackled eyes opening even wider. She turned to Acton. “Your Grace, you will have to speak to your grooms about fitting a rider’s talent to his mount. Otherwise nasty accidents like that which has befallen Mr. Perth will be bound to happen.”

  “Lord Perth,” Hart corrected. “And the horse was not beyond my abilities.” Damn it all, she’d provoked him into defending his equestrian skill.

  She ceased fluttering her eyelashes at Acton, who was nodding sententiously. The Duke looked as though he were plotting a riding program for him. She turned back. Her eyes gleamed with triumph. “Did you say something, sir?” she asked sweetly.

  “He wants you to call him by his proper title, Miss Coltrane,” the Duchess said.

  “And that is?”

  “Lord Perth.”

  “I see,” Mercy said, looking from Acton to the Duchess in a pretty study of consternation. “Well, I must admit I feel quite inordinately pleased with myself for managing as much as I have in keeping your hierarchy straight. Wouldn’t you just accept my competence in remembering the important titles and forgive me my ineptitude with the little ones?” She fluttered again.

  He felt a constriction in his throat but managed to hold off laughing. The impossible hoyden. It would never do to encourage her.

  Acton, however, showed no such restraint. He laughed heartily. Mercy, looking as though having someone laugh at her was the most delightful experience in the world, smiled at Acton, sharing his humor. Even the Duchess gave an unladylike snort. “You are a naughty gel to tease Perth so. He doesn’t understand your American sense of the absurd,” she chided.

  “I hope Miss Coltrane will allow me to remedy that oversight,” Hart said, shooting Mercy a telling glance.

  “Acton,” the Dowager Duchess said, her gaze fixed beyond her son’s shoulder, “Mr. and Mrs. Wrexhall have arrived. With Miss Moreland.” She directed their attention to the doorway.

  Sure enough, his eldest sister, Beryl, and her husband, Henley Wrexhall, had arrived. They looked enough alike to be mistaken for siblings. Both were of medium height with slender, spare builds. Both of them had brunette hair and dark eyes and their similarly sharp features revealed quick intelligence. Though Henley, Hart noted, looked distracted and his gaze slipped from side to side as he nodded a greeting to those he passed.

  Behind them, a vision of petite femininity, Annabelle appeared, the hem of her lacy gown barely moving as she approached. Hart felt a familiar swell of pride. She was like a tiny, pretty little rosebud. Her hair was a shade popularly referred to as strawberry-blond. When she was a toddler, he’d teased her by telling her it was pink.

  Perfect, ladylike Annabelle. She played the piano with something near talent, she was fluent in three languages, and she was—if the written reports from her governesses and instructors were to be believed—exceptional at mathematics. She would make a fine duchess.

  True to her inherently decorous nature, Annabelle did not rush forward in unseemly haste. She moved slowly, with measured steps, an expression of cordial recognition on her serene countenance.

  “Hart,” she said. “It is wonderful to see you again.” Trust Annabelle not to make any untoward comment about his scratched face.

  “Hart, whatever has happened to your cheek?” Beryl demanded as soon as she was within speaking range.

  Henley, stopping behind his wife, puckered his brow and cleared his throat. “That looks painful. What happened?”

  “Riding accident,” Mercy Coltrane offered from his side.

  No manners. None at all.

  Beryl and Annabelle turned inquiring gazes on the American interloper and Hart found himself once more studying her. She looked stridently exotic in her bright pink dress, bold and vivacious. The contrast between her and his sweet-faced, pastel-clad sisters was acute. He hoped Acton noted it.

  The Duke stepped forward, bowing in his most formal manner. “Miss Henley, Mrs. Wrexhall, Mr. Wrexhall, how very delighted we are that you have arrived. I trust your trip was uneventful?”

  “Yes, it was fine,” Beryl said. Annabelle smiled shyly.

  “May I present Miss Mercy Coltrane?” Acton asked. “She is doing us the honor of being our guest while her friend and chaperone, Lady Timmons, recuperates from an unfortunate accident.”

  The women murmured “Pleased to make your acquaintance” at each other and Henley claimed his “charm” at having been introduced.

  “We haven’t seen you in far too long, Hart,” Beryl said, turning back to him. “When will you come home?”

  “Bentwood is your home now, Beryl. Yours and Henley’s. I am only a guest there.”

  “Nonsense,” Henley said staunchly, a moody shadow crossing his narrow features. “Bentwood has belonged to the earls of Perth for generations. We only hold it in trust for the day you bring your own bride there, Hart. Beryl and I would do quite well in town. Quite well.”

  “Bentwood needs an overseer. I travel far too much to see it properly managed,” he said. It was an old conversation and he was disconcerted that Henley’s words still had the power to awake a small, hopeless longing.

  He dare not live in England again, no matter how he longed for Bentwood. There were too many opportunities for his past to be discovered here. Too many people came and went between England and America these days. Witness Mercy Coltrane.

  He still did not know exactly what to do about her. If she was very good, and very wise, and kept up her pretense of not knowing him, perhaps he wouldn’t have to do anything at all.

  Polite conversation sprang up about him and he bent his head dutifully so that he would appear to be attending Annabelle’s soft dialogue. He couldn’t concentrate. He was too aware of Mercy.

  He would not turn. He didn’t need to. He could smell her, a fragrance he’d learned in one brief conversation and that he intuitively knew he would never forget. A sharp woodsy scent. No pleasant florals for Mercy Coltrane.

  A footman approached and whispered something to the Duchess. She nodded and dismissed the servant before saying, “Acton, you must inform our guest that the orchestra is ready to play. I will not be attending. I have the beginning of the headache.”

  Annabelle and Beryl expressed immediate concern and asked if they might do something to relieve their hostess. Mercy silently regarded the Duchess.

  The Dowager waved down the sisters’ solicitude. “Thank you, but you can best serve me by not calling attention to my absence. Take our guests into the conservatory, Acton.”

  “Of course, Mother,” Acton said, holding his arm out for Annabelle. With a glance at Hart for approval—which he gave with a slight nod—Annabelle laid the tips of her fingers on Acton’s arm and was led off. Henley cleared his throat again—a nervous habit Hart did not remember from past acquaintance—and after darting a quick glance at him made a lavish court bow to his wife. She linked her hand through his arm and they, too, departed.

  That left him standing with Mercy among the flux of people heading for the conservatory.

  He turned toward her, giving her a predatory smile. “It would appear, Miss Coltrane, that you have been left in my care.”

  Chapter 5

  “You’d best stick to the unapproachable guise,” Mercy said, gratified by the bemusement her words surprised on Hart’s face.

  “Miss Coltrane?”

  “The threatening mien is not nearly so effective as that Olympian detachment.” It wasn’t much of an indication of his thoughts, but there was a definite tightening of his features. With a bit of patience, Mercy thought, she would have him shouting at her within the week. And she wanted to make him shout.

  She wanted to break down that icy facade and make him feel something: anger, worry, amusement. If she could touch the well-hidden humanity in the man, perhaps then he might help her find Will.

  But not, she thought, yet. This indifferent man would know nothing of desperation. He would know nothing of how it felt to l
ose one’s family. He would know nothing of promises made to dying mothers or healing a breach that one was responsible for.

  He was regarding her dispassionately, and it was obvious only his impeccable manners kept him from abandoning her while the last of the party departed the room. Wouldn’t want to raise comment by leaving a lady standing alone and unattended, would we? she thought.

  “I’m not going to the musicale, Mr. Perth. So you needn’t stand here wondering who you can foist me on.”

  “If you cannot find the wherewithal to call me Lord Perth, perhaps a simple Perth might not be beyond your abilities.”

  She shrugged. “Perhaps … Perth.”

  Not a shred of emotion. “If you are not attending the entertainment that your host has gone through the trouble to arrange, where are you going? To practice your lariat skills on Acton’s tame deer?”

  She laughed, startling him into a fleeting glance of bafflement. What? No one ever laughed at his quips? “Now, how did you know I was an absolute magician with a lariat? But, no. I am going to the kitchen.”

  “If you require some refreshment, all you have to do is ask your maid to fetch it.”

  “I don’t have a maid. I make use of one of the Dowager’s tweenies when necessary. Never could understand why someone would want another person hovering about for the sole purpose of picking up the odd thread trailed in. Seems demeaning. And I wouldn’t want to demean Brenna. She’s a darling girl. Loads of hair. She’s promised to help me arrange my own. Isn’t that sweet? I mean, this woman has hair”—she paused, trying to find some way to describe the magnificence of Brenna’s tresses—“abundant hair. She wears rats atop her head.”

  He was silent a minute. “Rats?” he asked, curiosity apparently overcoming his aversion to talking with her.

  “Yes,” she answered. “They are these structures you perch like a hat on your head and then cover with your hair. Quite wondrous. She’s promised that she will help me with my own—”

  “I don’t really care to hear about the tweenie’s coiffure,” he said. “The point I was attempting to make is, if you want something, ask one of the servants.”