A Dangerous Man

by Janmarie Anello

  Would he agree to her plan? Why would he not? It was not as if he had wanted to marry her. No, she had her father's treachery to thank for the agony about to befall her, and for the lines of misery now etched into Alexander's face.

  "Leah, are you out here?" Lord Geoffrey trotted through the door, two glasses clutched in his hands. His smile was the easy, unaffected grin of a perfectly charming man and Leah couldn't help but like him. "I've brought your lemonade."

  She laced her hands together at her waist before he drew near enough to notice their trembling. She even managed to smile, and then to laugh at his playful bantering, as if she were happy, as if her heart weren't breaking, as if her dearest friend did not hate her, as if the man she loved were not, at this moment, in the ballroom conversing with another woman, as if she were not about to set him free.

  Richard found her on the terrace, her wispy golden hair shimmering in the torchlight, framed against the midnight sky, his brother standing at her side.

  She tilted her face into the rose-scented breeze and closed her eyes. A mysterious smile touched her lips, as if she were lost in a pleasant dream-or planning her escape.

  Geoffrey murmured something near her ear, and she laughed.

  It was a simple sound that seemed to float above the musical notes sweeping out of the ballroom until it wrapped around Richard, until he didn't know whether it was guilt or need clenching his gut. He had made her shiver in fear, and then in desire, but he had never made her laugh.

  He leaned one shoulder against the wall, the bricks cutting into his back keeping him sane as he crossed his arms over his chest and allowed himself to gaze at her-at his wife, dammit.

  Would he never get used to the word?

  This was the first time he had seen her at peace, her hair flowing over her shoulders, lustrous gold silk he itched to feel tangled around his wrists, his fingers buried in the curls, holding her close for his kiss.

  She laughed again and the sound beckoned him closer.

  Good Lord, he should hate her. Truly he should. She was the daughter of his enemy, for pity's sake, but he found he could not. Nor could he deny his growing admiration. In the face of their situation, did she weep and wail? No, she held her head high and moved into her future with courage and conviction.

  Faced with the ton did she whimper and faint? No, she marched into the ballroom and dared them to condemn her.

  And every time he touched her, she responded with dawning passion, making him hard. Dammit, everything about her made him hard and aching to touch her. She was beautiful, more beautiful than any woman of his memory, but it was her eyes that slayed him with their intensity, with their expressive honesty that seemed to show all her emotions. And now she was his wife.

  Whether he willed it or not, it was done.

  They had to find some way to carry on from here.

  Self-preservation warned him he should send her to Cornwall.

  Lust told him to drag her to bed.

  As if sensing his presence, her chin lowered. Her smile waned. Her face turned as pale as the stars glimmering in the night sky beyond her. She turned, slowly, meeting his gaze with her own unwavering stare, her green eyes reflecting the light from the torches, and something else, a touch of misery, or pain.

  Richard pushed his gaze to his brother, saw the glasses gripped in his hands. A simmering fury leapt to life within him, set his pulse to pounding, his hands into fists.

  Geoffrey, who moments before had been laughing like a young boy without care, turned as gray as the stone balustrade upon which he was leaning. He pushed away from the wall.

  "Dear sister, I must bid you goodnight," he said, sweeping Leah a courtly bow. "I shall see you at breakfast"

  As he passed Richard, he paused. "It is lemonade," he said, his voice gritty and low, like sea-glass being scraped over gravel. "I have had nothing stronger than coffee, tea or this ... putrid concoction in three days"

  Only now, standing this close, could Richard see the sooty pallor to Geoffrey's skin, the thin film of sweat on his brow, his shaking hands. Still, he wasn't sure he believed him.

  "I told you, I mean to change. By the way," Geoffrey added, as if only just remembering. "I do like your wife. She is perfectly charming."

  With that he disappeared into the ballroom, leaving Richard alone with the woman in question. His wife.

  Leah could not take one more moment of this unbearable tension, of his dark and smoky eyes returning her gaze, his expression, inscrutable. His stance, unaffected.

  "I would retire," she said, not recognizing the low rasp of her own voice. After her confrontation with Alex, she was weary to her soul. Now only one more conversation remained.

  The most difficult yet.

  Perhaps she would wait until tomorrow. "If you would have someone show me to my rooms"

  "Of course. I will escort you myself." He offered his arm. Ever the gentleman. Exquisitely polite.

  He led her down the steps, into the darkness, and her heart raced faster than the rapid pace he set. Though she needn't have worried. Once they reached the bottom, he merely opened a door and led her through a private entrance, bypassing the crowd still lingering in the ballroom.

  In a matter of minutes, he steered her through a maze of passages and staircases to the family apartments. She was excruciatingly aware of every breath he drew as he walked beside her. She wished she could think of something to say, something witty and charming that would draw his attention to the person inside her, but, as always, the moment he came near her, all rational thought slipped away.

  At the far end of the corridor, he stopped.

  "These are your chambers," he said, his voice rumbling with an odd sort of huskiness that trembled over her skin.

  Her father's words came back with a vengeance.

  Lie still, do your duty, and do not protest, come what may.

  Her heart seemed to leap into her throat. She could not swallow. She could not even breathe.

  Surely he did not mean to claim his husbandly rights. He did not know her. He did not even like her, she was sure, although there was something in his eyes that gave her pause.

  Her skin grew cold, yet shivering hot at the same moment. Time stretched out between them, coherent thought dissipating into the tension, until all she could see was this man standing before her. All she could hear was her own heart beating and the steady whir of his breath moving in and out of his chest.

  His head inched lower, his lips, warm and spicy and oh-soenticing, hovering mere inches from hers. Her hand came up, whether to push him away or to pull him near, she did not know.

  He gave a muffled curse, then opened the door.

  Leah walked into a nightmare. Grecian urns and Egyptian tables. Chinese paintings and Turkish carpets.

  It had to be a nightmare. It was too ugly to be a dream.

  Still, attending to the furnishings eased her trembling and gave her the courage to speak the words she needed to say.

  She tried not to notice how handsome he was, standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, night-dark hair curling over his brow. Or the play of candlelight on the burnished bronze of his skin, or the heated look in his eyes as his gaze made a languid perusal from her eyes to her toes, then back again, leaving her breathless and aching in his wake.

  "I want you to know that I did not marry you because of your charming proposal," she said as she crossed to the window, putting the length of the room between them.

  "I am happy to hear it." He approached her slowly, a soft smile on his lips that made her throat tighten, made her stomach burn. Good heavens, she was about to leap out of her skin.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist. "Nor did I wed you because my father ... coerced me into the match"

  His eyes grew darker still, not with desire, but with a hard, ruthless gleam. "Did he strike you?"

  The cold menace in his voice brought her brows up, but she was not afraid. Did he think to protect her?

  Not trusting
her voice, she shook her head. Still, her course was set. She could not back away now.

  "I married you because I wanted to"

  He nodded, but his eyes said he did not believe her.

  She breathed deeply. "And now, I want a divorce."

  Chapter Eight

  Richard tilted his head as he slid from a murderous rage, where any lingering doubts concerning her innocence vanished into fury for the father who had no doubt beaten her into submission.

  It was one more sin for which the man must pay.

  Though he had used the threat of divorce against her father, he had never expected to hear the words coming from his wife.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I want a divorce." Her voice trembled, but her gaze never wavered from his. She moved to the grate, standing much too close to the fire as if a chill had seeped under her skin.

  The amber flecks within her luscious green eyes gleamed in the firelight, with sincerity, with honesty, with rigid determination. She gripped her hands to her waist.

  "Do you not see? It is the perfect solution. I know you did not want to marry me" The odd hum of soft silk gloves scraping together rose above the crackling flames. "I know my father forced you into this match"

  The urge to cross the room, to take her trembling hands between his and ease her fears became strong, but he locked his knees in place. Warning bells were ringing. His pulse was pounding, his breath burning in his chest.

  Or perhaps it was guilt clawing at his throat.

  He was unprepared for this moment. For the admiration swelling within his breast. To save his honor, she was willing to take on the scandal of a divorce?

  She deserved the truth, but he could not give it to her.

  "That is not true, Leah. I needed your dowry. I've told you that already. Your father and I came to an amicable arrangement

  "An amicable arrangement? Hah! I do not believe that for a moment" She started to pace before the fire, bringing Richard's gaze to the gentle sway of her hips. Backlit by the flames, the length of her legs were clearly visible beneath the shimmering silk. "Your eyes were flinging daggers at him this evening. I've no doubt if a man of the cloth had not been present, you would have throttled him."

  As she moved, her gown billowed out, then circled back around her legs, caressing her curves in a sensual dance.

  "Not that I am saying you would not have been justified," she said, oblivious to the desire stirring within him, the need he felt to touch his hands to her breasts.

  He swallowed thickly, wanting nothing more than to press his mouth to her throat, to skim his fingers over her hips and below her dress.

  "You have honored your obligations to my father by marrying me "" She held out one trembling hand. "Now we can both regain our freedom through a divorce. It is the perfect solution and he will not be able to stop us ""

  Richard tried to attend to her words, but his thoughts were diverted by the soft turn of her neck, by the tender white flesh of her shoulders and back ... and breasts, what little of those glorious curves were visible above her modest neckline.

  "Divorce is not easily obtained," he managed to say, his voice heavy and raw. "On what grounds would we seek it?"

  She was breathing rapidly, and he was losing his mind.

  "What grounds are acceptable?"

  He contemplated the row of buttons securing the back of her gown and how quickly he could remove it. "I am not entirely certain. But I believe adultery on anyone's part would be one. Have you committed adultery?"

  Her glare told him she did not find him amusing.

  Little wonder. His brain was dead, his tongue too thick to form rational words. "There is only one other reason that I know of, and I would rather not mention it."

  "That is it?"

  He nodded. Giving in to temptation, he crossed the room, drew her shaking hands between his. "And none of them apply to us. Even if they did, it takes years"

  "Years?" The breathless pitch in her voice brought a smile to his lips. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, her green eyes darkening with a desire she did not yet understand. She might be speaking divorce, but she wanted him, as much as he wanted her.

  She was his wife, with a lifetime stretched out before them.

  They had no choice but to build a future together.

  Still, the future did not seem as onerous at this moment, knowing now, without doubt, that she was not involved in her father's schemes. Not only that, she was determined to right the wrong her father had wrought. She was a remarkable woman, determined to live her life with courage, dignity and honor, admirable traits indeed. And now she was his wife.

  "Yes. Years," he said, stroking his fingers over her wrists, gliding his hands to her elbows where her gloves met her flesh. "To go through the courts. And then before Parliament."

  His wife. The thought brought an odd, twisting knot to his throat as he slid her gloves down the length of her arms. His fingers stroked the soft flesh on the underside of her wrists.

  "And one must also consider the scandal," he said, his last coherent thought as his mind started to undress her.

  "What about an annulment?" she gasped, trying to concentrate on the moment at hand and not on the swishing silk as he stripped off her gloves. Of course, she knew the risk she was running.

  She had finally remembered the neighborhood gossip, the outrage when Lord Greydon had sought to divorce his young wife. His son had died and he was wild with grief, but that had held no sway in society's eyes. The condemnation was vicious. Even the vicar had joined in, preaching on the evils of mortal sin.

  The scandal would haunt her for the rest of her life, but Leah would hold her head high. In her heart, she would know she had done the right thing, the honorable thing.

  But it was growing increasingly difficult to think with his fingertips tracing over her wrists, her thoughts scattering like pebbles tossed into the ocean.

  "Where have you heard of these things?" His grin was decidedly wicked, as was the gleam in his smoky black eyes, which did not appear quite so black at this moment.

  No, streaks of silver, quick flashes of lightning, were hidden in the devil's black eyes.

  "We are married," he said, softly, gently, as if he cared about her feelings, as if he cared about her. "For better, for worse. We must accept it and move onward from here"

  Though his eyes lingered on her lips, he made no move to kiss her, or to draw her into his arms. The only touch was his hands upon hers, fingers stroking over her palms.

  "There must be something you want from this marriage."

  I want your love, she thought.

  "I want freedom," she said, and he laughed.

  The sound was harsh, brimming with anguish, with hidden despair. What secrets did this man harbor?

  What pain haunted his past?

  "There is not a man-or woman-alive who is free"

  He said it with such venom, a sudden rush of shame burned her skin. While she had worried and bemoaned her fate, never once had she thought of this man, of how his life had changed, of what sacrifices he had made to take a wife he did not want.

  But she could no longer think. Not of divorce or annulments or blame. He was standing altogether too close to her person, holding on to her hands, his large, warm thumbs circling over her palms, the slight catch of his fingernails sending shivers up her arms. She swiped her tongue across her lips, which felt as parched as if she were wandering lost in the desert.

  His gaze followed the course of her tongue.

  "Do you grant me leave to kiss you?" His voice was a gruff whisper ripped from his chest.

  Her words in the carriage must have hurt him, she realized, when she told him never to kiss her again. He would not demand his husbandly rights. He would not take her if she were not willing to give. He was making her choose.

  Do you grant me leave to kiss you?

  Her mind said no, but her heart said yes. He was her husband. For better, for worse. He was right. Despite the inauspicio
us beginning of their marriage, they had to build a future together, and she loved him. She did not understand the how or when or where or why of it. She only knew it was true.

  Perhaps from the first moment she'd met him, or perhaps from the moment of their first kiss, when she had felt all his needs and his loneliness that matched her own desperate yearnings.

  Do you grant me leave to kiss you?

  "Yes." Before the word even left her lips, his mouth covered hers, and all thoughts of divorce and annulments dissolved, along with her fears. All that mattered was this man and this moment, his lips moving fiercely over her mouth.

  She clung to his shoulders, breasts crushed to his chest, as he dragged her against him, one large hand wrapped round the back of her neck, the other pressing low on her spine. Her thoughts swept away, lost in sensation, the heady heat of his skin, the spicy scent of his hair, her pulse pounding madly.

  This man, her husband, with his fathomless eyes and his hungry kisses, his tongue teasing and tasting, his breath warm on her skin. A moan slipped from her throat. The sound seemed to inflame him, sent his hands around her back, his fingers tugging loose the ribbons and buttons securing her dress. As it slipped from her shoulders, soft silk pooling at her feet, she shivered, not from cold, but unbearable need.

  Her stays followed her dress, until only her thin shift remained. He swung her into his arms, mouth clinging to hers as he brought her to bed. She should be afraid, but she felt surprisingly safe, even as his long legs slid down her shins, pressing her into the blankets. Firelight played over the harsh lines of his face, the dark depths of his eyes.

  Lifting her hand, she traced his cheeks, learning the shape of his beard-roughened jaw. And then he was gone. Mesmerized, she watched as he drew off his coat, untangled his cravat in slow, aching motions. By the time his waistcoat dropped to the floor, she could not breathe, the air having disappeared from the room, then his shirt came undone and he was lifting it over his head. She closed her eyes.