A Dangerous Man

by Janmarie Anello

  Richard grimaced. "Do you remember the color of her eyes?"

  "How could I forget? Green. Not just any green, mind you, but a lush, leafy green, shining like a sparkling pool of shimmering water in spring. The boy is positively ears over head for the chit."

  "It is the same girl," Richard muttered. Now he was going to have to deal with some lovesick puppy. He remembered Leah telling him that she wanted to marry some country bumpkin and inexplicable anger hissed through him.

  Why should he care if she wanted to marry another? She would wed with Richard whether she willed it or not.

  He flexed his hand. "What is this fop's name?"

  "Alexander Prescott. Sir John's son. He and Randall met at Greydon Hall some years ago. Geoffrey must know him. They would have gone to school together."

  "I am sure he does" Richard stared into the flames. "I am sure he does. Would you care to witness the deed?"

  "Can't, old chap. Have to meet with the solicitors in the morning and set out for Greydon Hall by early afternoon at the latest. Tedious business, this. Mayhap you could postpone a week or so? I could be back by Friday next"

  "No," Richard said. "I want the evil deed done as soon as possible. Stop by when you return and I will introduce you to my bride. Now hand me that bottle, and call for another. I want to forget about today, tomorrow, and yesterday. In fact, I want to be so high in the altitudes, I cannot think at all."

  Her visit to the kitchens the next morning was a mistake, Leah realized, as the conflicting scents of cooking grease and roasting meat caused her stomach to lurch. Still, she could not wallow in her room, immersed in self-pity, or take to her bed with a fit of the vapors, as had her aunt. Though she was tempted.

  "Are you unwell, Miss Jamison? You look a bit pale," the cook said, shuffling toward the wooden pedestal table with a dozen loaves of freshly baked bread cradled in her arms. Most of her beet-colored hair was tucked up beneath her cap. The few strands clinging to her brow emphasized the concern in her eyes. "Shall I heat the kettle for tea? It would take but a few minutes."

  Leah sent the servant a shaky smile. "No, no, Mrs. Hawkins. I am well. Just a bit tired." Which was not quite a lie, as she had spent most of the night tossing about in her bed, haunted by the devil's black eyes. And the taste of his lips. And the sensual sweep of his hands. "Though I wonder if you might spare a few jars of your famous currant jelly? And perhaps a wedge of your best cheese?"

  Plump cheeks blushing with pleasure, the cook nodded. "For you, miss, anything. I'll be just a moment"

  Leah stacked the warm loaves into the large wicker basket on the table. When her father had announced his plans to bring her to London, she should have suspected what he was about, but all she had thought of was Alexander. How dreadfully she had missed him since he had joined his family in Town for the season. How she had feared he would fall in love with someone else while he was away. Now she was the one on the verge of marrying another. All her childhood dreams were dying.

  Tomorrow was her wedding day.

  She rubbed her hands over her aching eyes, then pressed her fingertips to her cheeks, as if she could smooth away the burning heat. Tomorrow was her wedding day!

  A day she had envisioned for years.

  She would wear roses in her hair and the most elegant gown ever created. Her joy too great to contain, she would smile and weep as she walked down the aisle on her father's arm while her groom awaited her arrival with his love shining proudly in his eyes. Always in her dreams, Alexander was the one who stood there waiting. Now, she could not see Alexander's face, or the chapel, or the roses.

  All she could see were the duke's eyes, blazing with emotion, burning with need. All she could feel was the heat of his hands holding her, touching her as no one else ever had. All she could dream of was his kiss.

  A full day had passed and she could still taste his kiss.

  Leah groaned as the flood of memories quickened her breathing and the beat of her heart. She was drawn to him in a way she did not understand. He consumed her thoughts. He possessed her soul. But he did not love her.

  Was she wrong to want to marry for love?

  Was she a fool to hope that someday he might come to love her? Did she want to marry him even without his love?

  If she were truly honest with herself, Leah had to admit that she did. But not like this. If only they had met at a garden party, or at a soiree, or at any of the other places where men and women usually meet. If only he wanted to marry her for who she was, her beliefs and her dreams ... if only he loved her.

  He was so handsome with his curly black hair and his charcoal eyes, his hard, chiseled cheeks and his breathtaking smile. But it was not simply his looks that called to her.

  From the moment he had taken her into his arms, from the moment they'd kissed, she had felt connected to him in a way she did not understand and could not explain. His pain was her pain, his desire, hers, and beneath it all, a quiet need that had called to her, as if she and she alone could ease his loneliness.

  Or perhaps it was her own loneliness she had tasted, her own desperate need. She chided herself for her foolish notions, but she felt them all the same.

  The clink of glass hitting glass pulled her from her torturous thoughts. The ache in her belly remained.

  "Here we are," Mrs. Hawkins said, arranging the jam jars in the basket. She tucked a muslin cloth across the top, motioned for a footman to carry it out to the waiting carriage.

  "Mrs. Hawkins, you are wonderful. Thank you," Leah said. She returned to her room to gather her gloves and her bonnet. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she headed for the door.

  Her father stepped into her path. "Leah, a word if you please."

  For the briefest of moments, she contemplated striding past him, but experience had long ago taught her that he would not hesitate to chastise her in front of the servants.

  She moved into the library, crossed her hands at her waist, and waited for him to shut the door. Perhaps, one day she might forgive him. One day in the distant future when the pain of his betrayal had diminished.

  But not today. His continued silence dragged a weary sigh from her. "Was there something you needed?"

  "Just wanted a few moments with my daughter before I give her away." He heaved himself onto the window seat, his portly belly hanging over the waistband of his pantaloons. He rubbed his hands together, his grin widening. "By this time tomorrow, you will be a Wexton. A fine old name from a fine old family. I've done some research, Leah. Did you know that boy can trace his pedigree back to the days of the Conqueror?"

  Truly the man had no shame. "He is hardly a boy, Papa. But never mind that. Do you think I care about his pedigree?"

  "Well, you should." He jabbed his finger through the air. "Think of the bloodlines, Leah. Think of Jamison and Wexton blood mingling together. Think of the children you will have. You should be thanking me rather than moping around the house"

  "I am hardly moping. I am going about my duties as I always have" She stared out the window, at the storm clouds gathering low in the sky. The air was damp and chilly. She should have ordered warm bricks for the carriage. "How did you get the duke to agree to this match? I've tried to determine the truth, but I truly haven't any notion."

  "I told you. I dangled your dowry and he took it."

  Had she honestly believed her father would tell her the truth? "Papa, is there a purpose to this visit? What is it you want?"

  "To see you happy."

  She shook her head. "You do not care if I am happy. May I please be excused?"

  "I want you to accept your fate"

  "Do I have any choice?" she asked in a choked voice. "You are certainly not going to change your mind, so unless he changes his by tomorrow, I will find myself wed. What else can a daughter do? Unless, of course, I decide to flee."

  "You would not dare!" He narrowed his eyes as he studied her features, then said in a tiny squeak, "Would you?"

  She could hardly admit the
notion had crossed her mind. Unfortunately, she was all too aware of the bleak fate a woman without protection faced, even if that protection came from a dastardly father willing to force his daughter into marriage against her will. A tiny voice in her mind told her that she lied, that she wanted to marry the duke. For she greatly feared she had fallen in love with the blasted man. Was this love at first sight? This turbulent churning? This aching need?

  "By this time tomorrow, you will be a duchess-someday, my grandson will be a duke" He slapped his hand against his thigh. His laughter bounced off the stuccoed ceiling. "I never thought I would live to see this day."

  The breath rushed from Leah's lungs. Her hands clenched as anger surged. "I am sick unto death of hearing you say that. You seem to forget. You already have a grandchild!"

  "No, I do not!"

  "Of course you do," Leah cried, weary of the secrets, weary of the lies, weary of holding her tongue as if nothing had happened. "Just because you pretend it isn't so, does not make it true! Somewhere out there is a child who has your blood running through its tiny veins, and we do not even know if the child is a boy or a girl."

  She pressed her hands to her forehead and started to pace. "Oh God, he must be four years old by now. How can you ignore that? And what of Catherine? Do you never wonder where she is? Or even if she is still alive?"

  "Be silent," he shouted. "I told you never to mention her name in my house again. She is dead to me"

  "But she is not dead to me. And I will not be silent. Not anymore. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of them, and pray for them, and despise you for what you did to them" She sucked in her breath. She could not believe the words that had just left her mouth.

  Her father looked equally stunned, with his cheeks fiery red, his eyes wide, his lips pushing out. "Well, despise me if you will," he said, rising to his feet, advancing on her with his arms tight, hands fisted. "But that changes nothing. Tomorrow you will wed St. Austin."

  The urge to flee was strong, but she stood her ground. He would not dare strike her now. "Yes, I imagine I will. And I will pray that God forgives you your sins. Now, if you will excuse me, I am late."

  The carriage ride was torturous. Every rut in the road, every surge of the wheels rattled through her bones, but a visit to the children was just what she needed to ease her anguished thoughts and emotions.

  Yet even here, surrounded by a dozen young boys, all laughing and talking at the same time, their eager faces covered in jam, bread crumbs speckling their shirts, her doubts and her fears still plagued her.

  Her spirits did not lift until Thomas appeared at the pantry door. The red glaze of illness still covered his eyes, but the fever had dropped and the chills were gone.

  God was good, after all.

  "Something has come up," Leah said to Mrs. Bristoll. "Some ... urgent business."

  She could not bring herself to mention her upcoming nuptials. She had yet to give in to her fate.

  She pressed a purse into Mrs. Bristoll's hand.

  The good woman tried to protest at her having done too much already, but Leah simply shook her head. "I want you to have this. For food and medicines. I do not know when I will be able to return. Not for a sennight, at the very least. Perhaps even a fortnight." If at all.

  The enormity of her situation finally struck her. She had no idea what her future would bring, or even where she would make her home. A chilling numbness spread over her skin, even as the air around her was stifling hot from the burning coals in the grate. Still, she could not worry Mrs. Bristoll or the children. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders to hide her trembling. "You will always have my support for the good work you do here, Mrs. Bristoll. When I am settled, I shall send you my direction. Now, children," she said, forcing a cheerfulness into her voice as she rummaged through the basket for the books she had buried there. "Who would like to hear a story? I have Sonnets for the Cradle."

  Chapter Six

  "Your betrothed does not seem anxious for her nuptials," Geoffrey said, his low voice barely audible above the long case clock tolling the hour. "I wonder why that is?"

  Richard stared into the grate. All he wanted was to finish this farce, but his bride seemed determined to make him wait and his brother was chattering in his ear as if this were an ordinary wedding and not a disaster brought about by his drinking and gaming. The muscles in his shoulders clenched as he gripped the marble chimney piece. "Geoffrey, if you value your life, you will not say another word"

  The coals shifted in the grate. The flurry of sparks flared as brightly as the golden flecks in Leah's eyes as she had announced she would not marry him. As the minutes ticked by, Richard was forced to consider that she had meant what she'd said. What if she'd left town to escape him?

  No, she would not be so foolish, but he had to admit, she possessed the courage to give it a try. Not that she would succeed. He would track her down and haul her to the altar if he had to. He needed this marriage to buy her father's silence and to keep Alison safe from the dangers surrounding her.

  Geoffrey shuffled his feet across the carpet, the sound grating on Richard's nerves like fingernails scraping through chalk dust. Even her aunt looked worried, casting furtive glances toward the door. He looked at the clock.

  It was now going on the quarter hour. He would give his bride one more minute. Then he was going to search the house, and so help him, when he found her, he was going to give her a lesson in wifely obedience.

  "The duke is here. It is time."

  Leah ignored the treacherous lurch in her stomach brought about by her father's words. She had not yet eaten today. Naturally she suffered an indigestion. She was tired from lack of sleep. Naturally her legs felt weak. She was being forced to wed a man who surely must despise her. Naturally, her throat ached and her head was pounding and her father's pronouncement looped through her mind. He is here. It is time.

  "You look so like your mother," Papa said, the lines around his eyes softening as he gazed at her, as if he were a fond parent and she were an eager bride.

  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms, as if the friction would ease the chill spreading over her skin. The dress truly was a stunning creation, silver shot silk covered with beading and pearls, made for her mother, but never worn.

  How she needed her mother, now more than ever.

  The longing she felt for her sister brought the threat of tears perilously close, a longing for her strength, for her guidance, for her loving support. But more than anything, Leah wanted to know she was safe. Try as she might not to lose hope, it was growing more difficult to believe she would ever see her sister again, much less the child.

  No, she pushed her treacherous thoughts away.

  She would not give in to despair.

  Her father cleared his throat, picked at the folds of his neck cloth, then blurted out, "As your aunt is a spinster and your mother is dead, it has fallen upon me to instruct you in your marital duties."

  "Please, do not," Leah choked out, her hands flying to her cheeks, her mind rushing forth with memories that brought a flush to her neck, the bold, sensual caress of the duke's lips upon hers, the answering ache tugging low in her belly, the uncomfortable yearning that haunted her still.

  Of course, her father ignored her protests, his only purpose ensuring she knew how to breed his future noble grandsons. Granddaughters were never mentioned as he stammered out a useless summation that basically told her to lie still, do your duty, and do not protest, come what may.

  It was the "come what may" part that brought an unladylike sheen of sweat to her palms and a clenching to her stomach.

  Some small part of her had truly believed this moment would never arrive, that the duke would come to his senses and withdraw his offer, but he was here. It was time.

  She took a last look at her room, at the pleasing hues and harmonious blends of blues and golds. She would not miss it, she decided. All she would miss was her aunt.

  She drew a
deep breath and strode down the stairs, leaving her father to follow her. This marriage might not be of her choosing, but she would face it with dignity and honor.

  What else could she do?

  She found some comfort in the knowledge that her pin money, an annual sum settled upon her by the duke to spend at her discretion, would ensure her ability to see that the children of Mrs. Bristoll's foundling home never suffered from want again.

  It seemed a coldly calculating reason to wed, but, then again, the duke was only marrying her for her money, or so he had claimed, though she did not believe him. Just as her racing heart warned her that her own faulty reasoning was a lie.

  Was this love at first sight? This aching need so unlike anything she had ever felt before?

  At the salon door, she paused, her legs refusing to bring her forward, her vision blurring, images floating past her like moments of awareness in a dream. Her aunt by the window, linen handkerchief pressed to her lips, the sky beyond a deathly gray from the lingering clouds and the setting sun. The vicar perched on the settee, his well-worn prayer book clutched in his hands. A younger man she did not recognize, though his features proclaimed him a relation to the duke.

  Then her eyes found him. Richard. Standing before the fire. Broad back and long legs formally clad in black coat and matching trousers. Dark hair gleaming in the firelight.

  The devil in evening clothes, backlit by the flames.

  She made no sound-unless it was the soft movement of her gown that alerted him to her presence-but his back stiffened, his head swung around, and his obsidian eyes met hers through the haze. Her sudden lack of breath was anger at having to wed where she would not, or so she told herself, but as he sauntered toward her, as her senses filled with j asmine and amber, her aching heart once again warned her that she lied.

  Self-preservation set her tongue against her teeth.