A Dangerous Man

by Connie Brockway

  She was trying to be good, he noted dispassionately, apparently having taken his admonitions to heart. She was dividing her conversation, her notice, and her restrained laughter impartially among those clustered around her. She never fixed her attention on any one man for too long. She smiled demurely at her lap, her eyes lowered, a model of maidenly virtue.

  It was only Nathan Hillard who was allowed to stay with her longer than was strictly seemly: their heads bowed too near each other as they spoke in hushed tones, their gazes level and earnest, the subject of their conversation obviously serious.

  It was infuriating.

  And, he thought, it wouldn’t do any good. Mercy had made an enemy of her hostess. She hadn’t played by Lady Acton’s rules. She had shown Lady Acton how vulnerable her ancient bloodlines were and worse, made Lord Acton aware of her as a desirable woman, perhaps even a matrimonial prospect. Lady Acton would never forgive her.

  Mercy glanced up and their eyes met across the room. Oh, no, my dear, he thought in answer to her silent demand. He wasn’t going to tell her what he’d found out about Will … or what he suspected about his involvement with her accidents. Not until he knew exactly what this brother of hers was or had become. He’d try again tonight and every night until he found out.

  All afternoon she’d been looking for an opportunity to have a private word. He’d made sure there was none. He knew that she considered their conversation at the barn incomplete. She would want to hear everything he knew, hear every piece of evidence that had led him to his assertion that her brother was a drug addict. But if she’d taken his warnings about Lady Acton to heart and gone to pains to present a blameless facade to these people, so must he. They would not be found closeted together. Damn it, he would save her from her impetuous heart.

  “Hart.” The sharp snap of a fan opening drew his attention. Annabelle stood beside him, the breeze created by her fan agitating a profusion of pale ringlets.

  “Annabelle,” he greeted her, dismayed that her appearance didn’t ignite the swell of pride it once had. All that white was a bit much. White lace, white flowers, white flounces, white feathers. “Have you ever considered wearing an indigo-colored gown?”

  She blinked at him.

  “Not that I know much about lady’s fashion,” he continued, “but I think you’d look very nice in something dark blue. Maybe velvet.”

  She took a deep breath. “I really don’t understand you, Hart. Dresses, for heaven’s sake. I am assured by my London modiste that I am most à la mode.”

  “You have a London modiste?” He wouldn’t pay the next bill. Rigging Annabelle out so she looked like some giant spring lamb. All those frizzed curls—

  “I didn’t come to discuss fashion with you, Hart,” she said. “I need to speak to you—alone.” There was a decisive note in her usual dulcet voice. She looked about. “The conservatory will do as well as any other place.”

  He nodded and followed her into the adjoining glasshouse. Once inside, she turned around.

  “There will be no announcement of forthcoming nuptials between Acton and myself at the ball,” she said. “Please, let me finish. I know this is a great disappointment for you and I am very sorry you have had to return to England for nothing, but I did not recall you lightly. I”—her voice wobbled—“I sincerely believed Acton would offer.”

  “I am not disappointed, Belle,” he said, studying her. “Don’t concern yourself with me.”

  Her little mouth puckered as though she were containing a deep-seated anger.

  “Belle, I am only concerned for you,” he said.

  “Well, you have a fine way of showing it,” she suddenly snapped. “I haven’t seen you in a year and when we do meet, you act like a stranger.”

  He was taken aback by the vehemence of her tone. She quivered with … irritation, he realized in surprise, not the hurt he’d expected.

  “Instead of spending time with your family,” she went on in a low, furious voice, “you flaunt your infatuation with that American interloper!”

  She might as well have slapped his cheek.

  She went on, ignoring his stiffening posture. “You saw to it I was raised as befitted our class and social position,” she said. “Why, now, on the eve of settling my future, have you ignored the axioms you have had me schooled to and indulged this vulgar whim?”

  “Whim?” His voice was careful, composed.

  “Yes. What else can it be? You are the Earl of Perth, you would not seriously consider a mésalliance with that person.”

  “Would I not?” God, how little she knew him.

  “No,” she said flatly. “I may be young, but I am not green. Beryl has told me the sorts of … impulses that lead men to pursue certain types of women. I don’t care about your base inclinations. I only care that those inclinations have affected my future.”

  “I see,” he said, biting back other words, as appalled as he was despairing. Because, when all was said and done, she was correct.

  He had had her groomed and polished and primed to be the perfect English lady. He had hired the finest governesses and tutors. He had even stolen a title to give her entry into the most exclusive society, assuring her—assuring them all—the life their father’s abandonment had nearly forfeited.

  He looked at her, nearly regal in her irritation. She’d achieved every criterion he’d set for her. She was utterly his creation.

  His stomach coiled. She was also insufferable, arrogant, contemptuous, and disdainful, hiding it all beneath a bland mask of pretty indifference.

  He smiled bitterly. He had made her … or rather paid to have her made. He couldn’t decry his accomplishment now.

  “What would you have me do?” he asked tautly.

  “I’ve been thinking.” Her silky little brows puckered with consternation. She’d never doubted for a minute that he would do what she asked, he realized. He added manipulation to the list of skills she’d honed. Her regret that she’d “failed him” had been phrased to produce an answering guilt in him.

  Very nice, he thought. Very effective. He could not help but compare her subtle maneuvering to Mercy’s blatant blackmail.

  “I believe if Mercy Coltrane’s attentions were fixed on one man the rest of the gentlemen would lose interest. Acton could go back to the business of choosing a wife and forget his preoccupation with acquiring a paramour.”

  His head snapped upright. “You think that is what he is doing?”

  “Hart,” she said in exasperation, “the one thing I would never have called you is naive. Of course. That is what all the gentlemen are doing. She has money, yes. And some looks. But for God’s sake, she is an American rancher’s daughter.”

  He stared at her. He’d never considered the possibility that these other gentle men were courting Mercy as a potential mistress. Naive, indeed.

  “You’re already well ahead of the pack in engaging her interest, Hart. All I ask is that you monopolize her for a few more days. It’s too late to do anything about the engagement ball, but perhaps my future can yet be salvaged.”

  “You love Acton so much?” he could not help asking.

  “I will make an exemplary duchess,” she replied. “And besides, Hart, if you have developed some sort of fondness for Miss Coltrane, you will be doing her a service.”

  “How is that?”

  “Well, if you don’t want her as your mistress, at least she’ll not be hounded by those who do.”

  She smiled. Docile, sweet Annabelle. “Please, Hart.”

  There was every reason to agree. He could not alter what Annabelle had become and he could not refuse to help her achieve the ambitions he’d helped foster. He would not use the term dreams. He doubted Annabelle thought of her goals in such fanciful terms.

  And—if what Annabelle said was true—he might save Mercy from some potential insult. His jaw throbbed. Damned if he wouldn’t make it crystal clear to any interested parties that she wasn’t to be used lightly.

  And, too,
you can be with her.

  “All right, Annabelle.”

  “Thank you, Hart.” She exhaled with satisfaction. “I knew I could rely on you, despite your extraordinary behavior over the last few days. We have always relied on you, dear brother.” And, having achieved her goal, she left him.

  He stood for long minutes, accustoming himself to his new perception of his sweet-faced baby sister as a pitiless, heartless manipulator. He thought of all the things he’d wanted so desperately to give his sisters, all the things his father had taken when he’d abandoned them: money, position, security.

  He’d tried to get it all back. And where had it led? Beryl was miserable, struggling to keep up appearances while her absentee husband did who-knows-what; Annabelle had become a vociferously ambitious, covetous doll; and Fanny was a puddle of maternal tears. God, how he’d failed.

  “Lord Perth?” Lady Jane Carr spoke from nearby, startling him from his preoccupation. He looked down to find her petite face angled up toward his. “Why it is you, sir!” she exclaimed.

  “Lady Jane,” he acknowledged.

  Her pink mouth curved as she looked around at the plants and flowers frosted by moonlight streaming in through the glass roof. “You’ve come to seek a moment’s tranquillity? I understand. It can be tiring, being around so many people all the time,” she said.

  What was she doing here? Hart wondered. Now that she’d discerned his identity and realized she was alone with an unrelated man, she should leave. But instead, she gazed about her, in no apparent hurry to depart.

  “The other evening you were telling me about all the wonders you’ve seen on your travels,” she said, sidling closer. “I’ve been in England all my life. I fear I will never be free to cater to my taste for the exotic.” She laid her plump, small hand on his arm. “I would love to have … an adventure,” she purred.

  He tiredly gazed down into her rapt, feline little face. He hadn’t seen this coming either. His eyes had been filled with Mercy Coltrane. They still were. He didn’t feel the least tincture of arousal when she hooked an arm through his and pushed her small breast against him.

  “Maybe you can convince your husband to take you on a tour.”

  Her eyes widened, more with consternation than affront. He almost laughed, albeit ruefully. Was he accounted such easy game?

  She smiled doubtfully. “Oh, no. Carr will never leave England. He’s always too busy with government issues. But your brother-in-law is one of Carr’s associates, is he not?” she asked. “I will have to speak to Carr about Wrexhall’s prospects.”

  Hart regarded her with chill silence. She must have recognized that her lure had fallen shy of its mark, for her skin turned dusky.

  “Not that I see Carr often,” she said, switching tacks. “I am so often left to my own devices. Alone.”

  “Unfortunate. Would you care to rejoin the party now, Lady Carr?” He motioned her before him. She didn’t move. Instead, she placed one hand on his chest. The other crept around his neck, clinging there as she gazed into his eyes.

  “You, too, are often alone, are you not, Lord Perth?”

  “I enjoy my solitude,” he answered, trying to think of some way to get rid of the woman. The amusement her contrivances had provoked had disappeared. He felt only a slight disgust, an encroaching ennui.

  “Perhaps”—she pulled at his neck, lifting her mouth to his—“we can enjoy the solitude together?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  She frowned. Firmly, he pulled her arms from him, holding her away. She stared at him, her face made ugly with embarrassment.

  “You have a reputation as a cold, bloodless man, Perth,” she said. “I see it is true. I wish you joy of your … solitude.”

  He stepped back, bowing formally. “Good evening, Lady Carr.”

  She sniffed contemptuously and left him once more, as always, alone.

  I am not watching for him, Mercy thought. I am not.

  She couldn’t help it if she happened to be looking in his direction when he’d followed Annabelle to the conservatory. When Annabelle had left and he had not, she had merely been glancing that way. And witnessing Lady Jane Carr duck into the dark glasshouse had been a matter of happenstance. And when … that woman … had reappeared, her color high, her eyes bright, patting her hair and licking her lips nervously … damn, damn, damn him!

  He entered a few minutes later and the breath caught in Mercy’s throat, painful with jealousy and longing. He was far too attractive. The black evening jacket was stretched across his wide shoulders in stark contrast to his snowy-white dress shirt and starched collar. He looked completely at ease, even coming from his assignation, utterly composed, elegant; in short, an aristocrat with blue blood, she’d been reminded, that would never flow in her veins.

  He caught her studying him and she tossed her head, turning back as Nathan Hillard returned from the buffet tables with a plate of delicacies.

  “I recommend the pâté. Goose heart, I believe. Or the salmon en croûte,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Hillard.” His fingertips brushed lingeringly across her knuckles as she took the proffered plate.

  “Anything I can do for you, Miss Coltrane?”

  “How chivalrous,” she mumbled, all too aware of Hart’s intent study. She did not want Hillard witnessing her agitation. “Would you be so kind as to get me a glass of punch?”

  “Of course,” he said, and hurried back into the anteroom.

  How dare Hart look at her like that? Mercy thought furiously, noting the other guests’ awakening interest. Had he not done enough already? Lady Acton had not said a word to her since this afternoon, Annabelle Moreland quivered with enmity, and Acton was sulking like a child because she’d refused to sit next to him during the play.

  All day Hart had avoided a single moment alone with her, stymieing her intention of finding out what he’d discovered about Will. Now he lounged against the wall, his arms folded across his chest, his light eyes tracking her slightest movement.

  She lifted a buttery canapé from her plate, raising it to her mouth only to see his lids lower and his gaze grow hotly vulpine as he stared at her lips. She dropped the blameless crust as though it scalded her. A lazy smile turned the corners of his wide, sensual mouth.

  Heat rose in her cheeks in answer to his leisurely perusal. It wouldn’t do. He could not ignore her one moment and publicly ogle her the next. Already she thought she detected the murmur of speculation among the others present.

  A dark thought arose. Perhaps, that was his plan—to provoke so much comment that Lady Acton would ask her to leave. He would be rid of her then, rid of her demands that he find her brother, and rid of her interference with his sister’s courtship. Perhaps, the dark musing uncoiled further, he hadn’t been going to London to look for Will at all. Perhaps he’d been meeting Lady Carr or some other poor besotted woman.

  The flush of sexual awareness became the heat of anger. She would have her conversation with him, she would learn what he’d found out, and she would find Will. Then she would leave this place, these people, and him. But until she had, she would stay here, an absolute picture of decorum.

  Shortly after the buffet ended, Hart disappeared. As soon as decently possible, she made her own regrets, intent on following him. She knew where he was going. Back to London.

  She raced to her room and donned her boy’s clothes, sneaking down through the servants’ entrance and running out to the stables.

  Too late. The stable lad smirked at her, cheekily telling her she’d missed Perth by a good hour.

  Frustrated, she sneaked back and pulled a chair to the window overlooking the front gate and settled in to wait. When Hart returned, she would confront him. But hour chased hour, and the fire in the hearth died and her eyes grew heavy.

  She awoke to a room as cold as it was dark. A few embers glowed fitfully in the fireplace and ice frosted the windows. She bolted upright.

  He must have returned by now. Grimly, she wr
apped herself in a blanket and crept down the hushed hallway toward his room. She paused outside his door, holding her breath, listening for any sound.

  He was awake. She could hear his footsteps crossing and recrossing the floor. She turned the handle and entered. It was black except for the dull illumination of the embers gleaming sullenly in the hearth.

  She looked around, had an impression of movement beyond the fire’s reach, of a shadow prowling the darkness. She saw him then.

  He was pacing along the edge of the light on the far side of the room, his strides quick and mechanical, as a caged panther prowls its cage, automatic and sightless, reaching the far wall and pivoting, pacing back.

  He was shirtless, bare chested, seemingly impervious to the deep, penetrating coldness of the room. She caught her breath. He heard. He dropped into a crouch, spinning around, his right hand flagging his hip. She stared at him, aghast. His eyes were glowing in the half-light, feral and ferocious. She dropped the blanket, frightened by the lack of recognition in his eyes.

  Slowly, he straightened. His gaze, hot and passionate, riveted on her face, consuming her, hunger and anguish inexorably entwined. For one unguarded moment he stood utterly vulnerable, exposed. He was haggard and exhausted and hunted. Shadows scored his lean cheeks, masked his eyes, and she had to go to him.

  She took a step forward and he backed away, turning from her, quivering with some nameless emotion. She stepped closer, uncertain of what to do, what to say. She had never seen such pain. Helplessly, she looked around for some clue as to its source.

  His few pieces of luggage still sat open on the floor near the bed, their contents still within. He’d not even bothered to unpack. His shirt lay on the smooth counterpane, his boots near the foot of the bed and on the floor against the far wall—she stared. Blankets were crumpled there. The single pillow still held the imprint of his head.

  It suddenly came to her. The Earl of Perth slept on the floor.

  Chapter 22

  “What happened to you?” she breathed.