A Dangerous Man

by Janmarie Anello

  Panic tried to claim her, urged her to leap from the bed, run from the room, from the house, from this man, from the danger beckoning her toward him. He does not love you, her mind screamed. But he will, her heart told her.

  He came down beside her, slid his hand along her jaw, his thumb stroking and teasing, his skin rough and soft at the same time. He was not unaffected, his breath rushing in and out of his chest, same as hers. "Leah," he said, her name rolling from his tongue. Then, as if needing to say it again, "Leah"

  Good heavens, how she liked the sound of her name spoken in his resonant voice, dark and seductive, that shook with the same need burning within her. "I do not understand," she whispered.

  "You must trust me in this. This is as it should be between us," he said, but there was a startled look in his eyes that confused her, a fierceness to his hands as he gripped her arms before sliding his fingers into her hair, angling her head to better fit his lips to her mouth.

  Then he clasped her shift in his fists, drew it up past her knees, and panic sent her hands to his wrists, gripping them. He did not laugh at her maidenly fears. He withdrew his right hand, stroked his fingers along her jaw until her eyes met his.

  "Leah, you have no need to fear anything that will happen between us, here in our bed. This I promise you, on my honor."

  She wished she could speak, but her voice was trapped, overcome with emotion. Covering his hand with hers, she kissed his palm, telling him without words that she wanted him, in her bed, in her body. This was right. This was love.

  As he eased her shift past her shoulders, cold air shivered over her skin, but the heat of his hands soon banished the chill. His eyes darkened as his gaze roamed over her breasts, down the length of her stomach to the curls between her thighs.

  His breathing was ragged, and her skin was afire.

  "You are perfect," he said, before lowering his mouth to her throat, tracing a lazy path to her breasts. Licking, touching, tasting his way from her belly to her hips. Everywhere his tongue roamed he left shivering, burning flesh.

  An uncomfortable yearning built in her belly, in her breasts, in the damp skin between her thighs. She slid her fingers though his hair, arched her back to better fit her breasts into his hands. Her breathing quickened until she was practically panting, sending her breath over his skin.

  She had not known, could never have imagined, where he would touch her, the need he would arouse within her. His finger slipping deep inside her, rubbing her most sensitive flesh in slow, thrilling circles, stroking, teasing, seducing shudders and moans from low in her throat.

  As shyness fled, desire urged her to move her hands over his shoulders, her mouth on his throat, learning the feel of him, the taste of his skin, his muscles firm, hard, stretching and straining beneath her palm. His dark gaze met hers, his smile slow and seductive, and she knew she had pleased him.

  She grew bolder still, sliding her hands down his arms, spreading her fingers wide, running them over his chest, tracing the dark swirl of hair, lower and lower, but not so low as to touch his sex boldly pressing into her thigh. She was not quite brave enough yet.

  When he finally moved over her, pushing his hips between her thighs, she was not afraid. His eyes were intense, dark and smoky, wanting her as much as she wanted him.

  "Richard," she whispered. It was the first time she said his name, and a powerful shudder ripped through him. His fingers twining with hers, he moaned her name as he took possession of her body in one rapid thrust.

  She gasped, though the pain was not nearly as shocking as she had expected, more of a searing ache, but he kissed her and soothed her, and soon even that burning disappeared, replaced by the most amazing sensations as he slowly withdrew, then slid deeper still. His mouth covered hers. His hands gripped her hair. His scent filled her lungs. Her body thrumming and aching, tension building, then she was shuddering, her mind floating away, as exquisite pleasure pulsed through her body. She cried out his name, the muscles of her passage convulsing.

  He cradled her face between his palms, his eyes, dark and relentless as he hovered above her. "You are my wife," he growled through clenched teeth. "There will be no more talk of divorce or annulments. Do you understand?"

  She tried to nod, but he seized her lips in a furious kiss, as he thrust within her, as he shuddered above her, as he collapsed against her, as he gave her his seed.

  His pulse racing swiftly, Richard rolled onto his side. Hands wrapped firmly round her back, he pulled her to him until they lay face to face, skin to skin, legs tangled beneath the sheets. She felt so small, so fragile in his arms, her skin still burning with the heat of their coupling, the sweet scent of roses clinging to her hair, the more arousing fragrance of their desire making him harden again, making him want her again, though he had yet to catch his breath. His tongue still held the taste of her mouth and her skin, but he wanted more. So much more.

  He had wanted to go slow, to make it last, make it good, she was a virgin for pity's sake, but he had felt as if he were the virgin, hands shaking, fingers fumbling, ready to spill his seed just from kissing her. What was it about this woman that made him lose his mind? His senses? His control?

  His earlier words came back to haunt him.

  This is as it should be between us, he had told her, but it was not. He had lied. Sex was a bodily function. A meaningless joining of parts, a rush of release, then it was over.

  It was not this perilous journey, fraught with emotion. Not this heat of possessive longing. This dangerous bent of his thoughts. His wife. His ... wife. His.

  His last coherent thought before drifting off to sleep, arms securely wrapped around Leah as she curled against his side, was that he should have heeded logic and reason.

  He should have sent her to Cornwall.

  Chapter Nine

  When Leah awoke the next morning, it was all she could do not to pull the covers over her face and hide away in her rooms.

  She recognized her longing for exactly what it was: a cowardly reaction, a fluttering embarrassment at the thought of seeing her husband again. Mumbling something about a morning ride, he'd left over an hour ago, but not before he'd pulled her close and kissed her to the point of breathless exhaustion.

  Good heavens, what must he think of her?

  She had certainly not followed her father's advice to lie still and do her duty. No, she had behaved like a wanton, moaning when his hands swept over her breasts, shivering as his fingers slipped between her thighs. Just the memory of his mouth on her throat, his tongue tasting and teasing, brought the heat of longing to her belly, the burn of desire to her skin.

  Still, she was not a coward. She would not hide.

  Nor would she feel shame at having responded to her husband.

  She loved him. She could admit it now, even if only to herself. She didn't understand it any better today than she had yesterday, but she didn't care anymore. She loved him.

  And he would come to love her, too. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but soon, he would love her as much as she loved him.

  But she would not win his love by cowering in her rooms.

  She flung back her blankets, donned her wrapper, rang for her maid. As she waited, she made a slow sweep of her rooms.

  What had seemed hideous in the firelight was even more so with the morning sun blazing on the yellow walls. The odd assortment of tables and chairs brought to mind a Chinese pagoda, Turkish temple and Egyptian tomb all at the same time.

  A young girl about the same age as Leah arrived, a bundle of freshly ironed gowns draped over her arms. She bobbed a curtsy. "Good morning, Your Grace. I'm Marielle. I've unpacked most of your trunks and had water brought up"

  Your Grace. Leah shivered. She would never get used to it. "Thank you, Marielle. A bath sounds heavenly."

  She washed and dressed with excruciating care in a sprigged muslin frock, the swirling gold woven within the fabric a perfect match to her hair. It was a foolish vanity, but she wanted Richard to see he
r as an elegant lady and not the raggedly dressed hoyden he'd seen on more than one occasion.

  Thank goodness he hadn't listened to her gibberish about a divorce. It was an ill-conceived plan, she realized that now, but she had been so frightened, nearly desperate, until he had shown her without words that she belonged to him.

  A burning flush spread through her cheeks. She had to stop thinking about him or she would never get anything done.

  She scribbled a note to her aunt, and another to Mrs. Bristoll with her new direction, then handed the missives to the maid.

  "Marielle, please see that these are delivered."

  A quick pat of her hair, a few deep breaths to steady her swirling stomach, then she opened the door and proceeded down the stairs. Once she reached the bottom, she froze.

  One look around the massive hall with its gilding and marble reminded her that she had no idea where she was or where she was going. Richard had said he would introduce her to the servants and give her a tour of the house when he returned.

  Perhaps she should have remained in her rooms after all.

  Luckily, Geoffrey came down the steps behind her. He was dressed for riding, his brown eyes gleaming at her as he grinned. "Good morning, sister. You look confused. Could you, perhaps, be searching for breakfast?"

  Leah laughed. "You save me again, Geoffrey. I begin to think you my knight-errant."

  "At your service," he said with a regal bow and a flourishing sweep of his hands.

  Chatting happily about the fine day and beautiful weather, he linked his arm through hers and led her down the corridor.

  As they strolled past the library that looked as if it housed ten thousand books, Leah found herself gaping like a traveler in a foreign land. Each room they passed was more elegant and exquisitely furnished than the one before.

  Her stomach grew queasy, her hands cold. While her childhood home was lovely enough as a tribute to her father's wealth, it could not compare with this grand palace masquerading as a house. The frightened child inside Leah wanted to run back to her rooms and hide, but she refused to give in to her insecurities. She was mistress of this home now.

  "And this is the dining room," he said, then turned to leave.

  "Wait! Aren't you eating?"

  "Can't. I am engaged to meet with friends, and I am late."

  Leah squeezed her hands for a moment, her fingernails digging into her palms. She breathed slowly and deeply, then stepped inside the room. It was empty.

  She choked back a nervous giggle.

  Good heavens, what was wrong with her? She needed to gain control over her wayward emotions before she saw Richard again.

  Leah had thought this room, at least, would be small and cozy, but it was huge, and paneled with the richest waxed mahogany she had ever seen. Still, it was a cheery room, lit by mullioned windows hung with gold-fringed crimson draperies.

  Drawn by the enticing scent of roasted meats, she walked to the sideboard.

  "Good morning," Rachel said as she breezed across the room and sat at the table. A footman appeared at her side.

  "Just tea" She glanced at the plate in Leah's hands. Her lips pursed ever-so-slightly, her brows lifting in a dainty look of surprised disapproval.

  Leah sighed. At home, breakfast was a casual affair, a serve yourself whenever you wanted. Everything here was rigid and formal, from eating to dressing for breakfast. Rachel's frock, a delicate, sarcenet silk the color of butter, seemed better suited for a grand ball than a morning meal, leaving Leah feeling frumpy and underdressed. But Rachel was smiling, her blue eyes soft and inviting. Here at least was a welcoming face.

  "I know this might all seem a bit overwhelming," Rachel said before sipping her tea. "But I do not want you to be distressed. I will be right beside you during the days and weeks to come to lend you my advice and support. We will begin today by touring the house and meeting the staff. Tuesday is our at home day. That is when we receive visitors. We won't have to worry about that until next week. By the way, dear, that is Geoffrey's seat. You should sit one seat over, or at the head of the table. I hesitate to say anything. But if I do not, you will never learn our ways. Don't you agree?"

  Leah glanced down the length of the gleaming mahogany table, which could comfortably seat fifty people. She looked back at Rachel, who sent her a vacuous smile.

  "I wonder why I have never met your family," Rachel said.

  In truth, Rachel had taken the seat that should have been Leah's, at Richard's right hand, but Leah kept her silence. She did not want to alienate her new sister the first time they spoke. "My father rarely comes to Town"

  "Are you related to Major Jamison of the King's Guard?"

  "No," Leah said, unfolding her napkin.

  Rachel frowned. "Do not be so mysterious, Leah. We are sisters now. Tell me about your family, dear. Who are your relations? Where are you from?"

  "I have only one aunt, my mother's sister, Emma Burton, who came to live with us after my mother died-"

  "Oh, how sad that your mother is gone. But tell me more about your father, dear. How does he know St. Austin? Where are his estates? What is his title?"

  And now the point of Rachel's curiosity became clear. Gone was the illusion that Leah had found a friend in her new sister.

  "My father has no title," she said bluntly, refusing to cower beneath the intensity of Rachel's gaze. "He owns cotton mills. In Lancashire."

  "Your father is in trade?" Her eyes were wide, lips pulled back, an expression of horror one might expect if a rat had just crawled across the table.

  Leah would have laughed if she did not realize Rachel's reaction would soon be repeated in every drawing room in the ton.

  "Never mind," Rachel said when Leah didn't respond. "Tell me about you and St. Austin. Where did you meet?"

  "My father and Richard arranged everything," Leah said. She had no intention of discussing her marriage with Rachel. She might be smiling prettily, but her questions seemed more an interrogation than an interest in becoming better acquainted.

  "That is as it should be, dear, but I am more interested in you and St. Austin." Leaning forward, Rachel dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Surely you must realize legions of women have tried for years to bring St. Austin up to scratch, without success. That is, until you"

  Visions of Lady Margaret Montague rose unbidden in Leah's mind. The proprietary air with which she'd clung to Richard's arm. Her silk skirts swaying flirtatiously around his legs.

  Had he loved her? Had he thought to marry her?

  It does not matter, she told herself, ruthlessly cutting off her thoughts. Just as it did not matter that she had once thought to marry another. They were wed. They had to build a future together, as Richard had told her, and then, shown her.

  "Naturally, I'm curious about the woman who finally managed to snag him in the parson's mousetrap. Was it love at first sight, or a slow wooing? I'm on tenterhooks to know."

  Richard striding into the room saved Leah from having to reply. When he glanced at Leah, his eyes appeared startled, as if he had forgotten he even had a wife, much less expected to find her at his table. A sudden nervousness brought her hands to her stomach, a breathless ache to her chest. She didn't know what to do or say. She peeked at him from beneath her lashes.

  The perfect cut of his riding clothes drew her gaze to his broad back and tapered waist. Had she truly run her hands over the chiseled muscles hidden beneath the bottle green coat and buff pantaloons? Buried her fingers within the silken strands of his hair? Clung to his powerful hips as he'd entered her body?

  She laced her fingers together on her lap. Heat spread over her skin, as if she had developed a sudden fever.

  Rachel laughed. "Richard, your blushing bride looks as if she might faint dead away at any moment"

  Leah grabbed her fork, attacked her eggs with a vengeance.

  Silently, she cursed her fair skin that reddened when she felt the least discomfort or embarrassment. She needn't have w
orried about her clothing or the artful arrangement of her hair, she realized as he turned to greet her.

  After a politely stated, "madam," he bowed, all stiff formality and polite indifference. Gone was the flesh-and-blood man who had touched her so tenderly in the night, replaced by the cold and arrogant Duke of St. Austin, his exquisite civility chipping off pieces of her suddenly aching heart.

  Her thoughts grew foggy, her hands cold.

  For a brief moment, she felt as if she were back in her father's house, back when she first met this man and his obsidian gaze had raked over her with his unrelenting stare.

  She had not expected him to fawn all over her like some moon-struck calf, especially in front of Rachel, but she had expected some warmth, some sign that what had passed between them was as special to him as it was to her.

  Somehow she managed to smile and nod and pretend to listen as Rachel continued her less-than-subtle probing, all conducted through a pleasant smile and gleaming eyes.

  "I had asked Leah how the two of you met," Rachel said to Richard. "Perhaps you would care to tell the tale, St. Austin? Naturally I'm curious about the child you took to wife."

  She turned innocent blue eyes on Leah. "By the way, dear, how old are you? Or should I say, how young?"

  The butler walked over to the table and stood beside Leah. "Pardon me, Your Grace?"

  She pushed her eggs to the side of her plate, mashed her toast with her fork. The unbearable churning in her belly sent a wave of nausea up her throat. The dreaded sting of tears touched her eyes. She did not know why she felt the urge to cry. It was silly, really. He was all that was polite and civil.

  "Leah," Richard said. His voice was the same deep baritone rumble that had trembled over her skin in the darkness, only now it was filled with cold indifference.

  She folded her hands on her lap and smiled at her husband as if she were happy. Then she saw it. The brief flare of sen sual heat in his eyes. The sweep of his gaze moving over her lips, making her shiver as surely as if he stroked his fingertips over her mouth. Try as he might to maintain his indifference, he was not unaffected. It was a start. "Yes?"