It was enough to make Rachel want to wreak physical violence upon her enemy, to take a whip to her hide, anything to cause her the same pain Rachel now endured. A slight sensation of panic made her blood pump faster, her heart beat erratically.
But she smiled, her outward appearance a complete contrast to her inner turmoil.
Unlike Leah, whose every emotion showed on her face.
The foolish twit had so much to learn.
Margaret frowned as she pushed a strand of auburn hair off her brow. "I do not know. Do you think he truly cares for her?"
"Do not be absurd," Rachel said. "His wick is pointing up and he is merely following, as any randy buck would."
Still, Richard seemed fascinated by the girl, too fascinated for Rachel to brush it off as mere lust.
Perhaps it was better this way. Once they drove Leah into the arms of another man, Richard would be devastated, and Rachel would move in to comfort him.
Margaret's startled laugh brought the attention of several couples toward them. Their widened eyes showed their surprise at Margaret and Rachel's tete-a-tete.
"Do try to control yourself," Rachel said through tightly gritted teeth, which kept her smile firmly in place. "We do not want to arouse St. Austin's suspicions. We may never get another chance. Do you know what to do?"
Margaret gave a surreptitious tug on her gown to pull her outrageous decolletage even lower. It was a wonder her nipples did not show above the Brussels lace. "That boy was so devastated by her marriage, he was quite the easiest conquest I have ever made. You may rest assured, if you get Richard's wife onto the terrace at the right moment, I will arrange everything else."
Rachel hid her grin behind her fan as she watched Margaret's manipulations with avid eyes. It was almost too easy.
Richard forced himself to smile as he made conversation with the supplicants crowding around him, each vying for his financial support or his political backing. As long as they welcomed Leah into their circle, he would endure their flattery and the come-hither glances cast his way by their debauched wives.
Leah's hand tightened on his arm. He sent her a reassuring smile, which she returned with a shaky curl of her lips.
She was so lovely, she made his hands ache and his heart swell. The flurry of golden curls framing her face brought out the amber flecks in her vivid green eyes. Her luscious eyes were wide, not with fright, but with an apprehensive wariness of her surroundings. He dropped his gaze to the neckline of her dress, a green gossamer silk which hid more than it revealed, and still, unbridled lust tightened his groin, made his blood grow hot and his neck sweat. He wanted to drag her into his arms. He wanted to run his fingers through her hair and over her hips.
He wanted to smash his fist into the face of each and every dandy drooling over her breasts.
The intensity of his feelings shuddered through him.
Reliving the betrayals of his youth had slashed open old wounds, revived old desires he'd thought long buried.
At the time Rachel had married his brother, the shock that burned through Richard had seemed unbearable, but as that pain dissolved into supreme indifference, he had realized he had never really loved her at all. It was the youthful dream she had spun for him that he had loved.
Dreams of a family. Dreams of a home of his own.
His parents hadn't cared a whit about anyone but Eric, heir to the kingdom of St. Austin. While his parents had floated through society and traveled the world on their various adventures, it was Richard who had cared for Geoffrey.
He had comforted him when he was ill, soothed him when he was frightened, and laughed with him when he was happy.
But who had been there for him? He'd been just a boy himself. Bitterly, he thought how unfair it was to have more than one child if there wasn't enough love to spare.
He glanced at Leah. She was watching him with a trembling half-smile on her lips. He could well-imagine the darkness that clouded his features as he'd dragged himself yet again through the rubble of his past. He flashed her a reassuring grin.
Her answering smile lit her face with such joy, he wanted to pull her into his arms and bury himself in her sweetness. Did it matter how they came to be wed? Could they build a future on a foundation of deceit? Could he tell her the truth? The darkest secrets of his past? Could she possibly understand? Or would her eyes turn dark with disgust? Could he take that chance?
That she loved him, Richard had no doubt. He could see her love shining in her eyes, hear it in the soft cadence of her voice, feel it in the tenderness of her touch. He didn't know if he deserved it, but he was certain of three things.
He wanted her love. He needed her love.
And he was terrified, straight through to his soul, like a child shuddering in the night from a horrific dream.
He linked her arm through his. "Shall we dance?"
"I would love that above all things," she said, her breathless sigh caressing his lips like the softest kiss.
All he wanted was to sling her over his shoulder and drag her to bed. Instead, he pushed his way through the crush to the dance floor as the orchestra turned to a waltz.
"I thought of our last dance together many times while I was away," he said. As he wrapped her in his arms, he gave silent thanks to the man who invented this sensuous dance.
Color blossomed in her cheeks. How utterly charming she was. He pressed his hand into her spine, pulling her much closer than propriety allowed. To hell with decency, he thought savagely. She was his wife and he wanted to hold her.
"I dreamt of this often while I was away," he said in a voice gone husky and low. "Look at me, Leah."
When she lifted her luminous gaze to his, Richard was lost.
Smiling like a man enchanted, he twirled her about the ballroom, drowning in her glorious green eyes.
But for this moment, Leah would have been in misery. But for this dance, held close to her husband's chest, his hand wrapped around her back, burning heat into her spine.
The languid music, the sensual spell of his dark eyes meeting hers. If only she could demand he take her home and carry her to bed, but she was still too shy to be so bold.
"How much longer must we stay?" she said instead, hoping her eyes and her breathless voice conveyed the longing she felt.
He pulled her closer, scandalously so, until their chests were almost touching, until the merest whisper separated his cheek from hers. The shocked stares of the noble lords and ladies waiting to condemn her burned a hole in her back, but she did not care. So what if no one spoke to her, or looked at her except to sneer or send her nasty glares whenever Richard turned away. She would not let anyone see how much it hurt her.
This was his world, and if she wanted to be a part of his life, she would have to adjust.
"I will send for the carriage," he murmured as the music drew to an end. His eyes met hers and she could see his desire burning within them. It gave her a delicious sense of power to realize that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.
As he led her toward the door, Lady Margaret Montague stepped into their path. Margaret was shockingly draped in a deep blue dress, with an outrageously low neckline that barely covered her voluptuous curves. Her eyes fluttered demurely.
Insecurity swept through Leah. She gripped Richard's arm, but she couldn't bring herself to look at him for fear she would see desire for another woman burning in his eyes.
"Your Grace," Margaret murmured to Richard, her voice sultry and low.
"Lady Montague," he said, his tone polite, but not overly familiar, his arm warm and firm beneath Leah's hand. "I trust you remember my wife."
"Of course" Margaret gave a slight nod of her regal head in Leah's general direction. Then she turned toward her escort. "Might I introduce you to a friend of mine?"
As Leah glanced at the man who stood beside Margaret, the room receded, her thoughts grew foggy and the air seemed to shimmer, like the summer sun reflecting off a lake.
"Mr. Alexander Prescott
," Margaret was saying. "The Duke and Duchess of St. Austin." Her eyes fairly sparkled with malicious amusement. "Mr. Prescott, I understand that you and the duchess originate from the same part of Lancashire. Perhaps you have met already .. ."
Her words hung in an awkward silence. Leah had not seen Alexander since the morning after her marriage. The day he had kissed her and begged her to run away with him. The day their old, comfortable friendship had withered and died, leaving a stiff formality in its place.
Still, the changes these few short weeks had wrought in him stunned Leah. Gone was his sunny smile, replaced by a grim twist of his lips. His eyes showed all of his pain, all of his heartache, all of his lost hopes and dreams.
That his attentions had turned to another should make Leah happy. She wanted him to find a woman who loved him, as he deserved, but what would Lady Margaret Montague want with an innocent, trusting soul like Alexander?
"Her Grace and I share a previous acquaintance," Alexander said stiffly. "Lady Montague, I believe they are starting another waltz. Shall we dance?"
"Why don't you and the duchess dance this set?" Margaret said, fluttering her fan before her face. Her sharp gaze turned to Leah's, a calculating challenge in her smile. "The two of you can renew your acquaintance . . ."
Leah could think of no reason to deny this dance, even if it was shockingly bold for Margaret to put forth the suggestion.
"... and the duke and I shall contrive to amuse ourselves."
That is what I'm afraid of, Leah wanted to shout. The tension in the air was so thick, she could feel it pressing on her chest. She couldn't breathe. She had to get away.
She sent Richard a silent plea to take their leave.
Margaret's brows rose. "That is, if the duke does not object?"
No, Richard wanted to roar as an emotion he now clearly recognized as jealousy dimmed his vision and poisoned his thoughts. This was the young man Leah had wanted to marry.
Richard had never met him before, had caught only a glimpse of him from a distance on the day he had come to the house.
An ugly, insecure part of Richard he never realized he possessed had hoped the boy would be a gangly, awkward youth, with pustules and pimples ravaging his features, but the opposite was true. He was an Adonis, complete with spun gold hair, crystal blue eyes, and a past no doubt as spotless as the first snow of winter. The sort of man every woman dreamed of marrying, not some black-haired, black-eyed, brooding, beast of a man with a tortured past.
As if all this weren't bad enough, guilt bored a hole in his chest for his role in destroying Leah's dreams, a fact he had managed to avoid contemplating until this moment, presented with this vital young man she had once hoped to wed.
In truth, were it not for Richard and his sordid past, Leah would have married this man and given him beautiful, goldenhaired babes the thought twisted Richard into a murderous rage.
No doubt, this boy would have blessed her with a home full of laughter, not walls stained with silence, secrets, and sins.
Richard's hands clenched. His throat tightened as he told himself it did not matter. She was his wife. She was his.
But she had married him against her will.
To fulfill her father's dynastic dreams and to keep Alison safe from the gossip-mongers who would destroy her. Not that Leah knew any of that. And still she said she loved him.
How was it possible?
He felt physically sick, his skin hot, his stomach swirling, as eager ears all around them strained to hear his words.
Richard knew there was no way he could politely object to the dance unless he wanted to start a rumor as to his motives.
He choked back his refusal. "Why don't I fetch you a glass of champagne while you dance?"
He tried not to stare as Prescott took Leah into his arms.
After a few awkward moments of silence, the boy said something that made Leah laugh. The lad pulled her closer, too close, and gazed at her with a look of such naked longing that Richard felt savage, like a mad dog. He wanted to push his way through the crowd and tear the pup apart with his teeth.
Deprived of that pleasure, he turned his wrath on Margaret. "What is the meaning of this charade?"
She ran her fan over his arm. "Why, Richard, I do not know what you mean"
"Do not play coy with me," he said, brushing her hand away. "What game are you playing?"
"Lower your voice," Margaret whispered, turning her chin into her shoulder to hide the movement of her lips. "People are staring. And do stop murdering your wife with your eyes. Why, one might think you do not trust her. Is there more to their friendship than friendship?"
"What are you implying?" Richard said, his jaw so tight, he heard the joint pop.
"Nothing, Richard. Nothing at all. I simply wanted a few moments alone with you"
"I told you it is over between us "
"And I have accepted that. Truly I have. But I miss you still. Do you never think of me at all?" Margaret held up her hand. "No, do not answer that. I do not want to know."
She ran her fingertips along the edge of her fan, then waved it vigorously before her face. "My, it is hot in here. I feel a bit faint .... She swayed on her feet.
Richard swore as he grabbed her arm and propelled her toward the terrace doors. He had seen her faint many times in the past. The silly widgeon refused to eat during the day, then the oppressive heat and overwhelming crush combined with hunger sent her sailing for the floor at least once a night.
What a dreadful inconvenience and a dashed bore!
Why had he ever tolerated it in the first place?
The answer to that question was so obvious, it filled him with self-disgust. "Will you never learn?" he muttered as he guided her through the French windows onto the terrace.
A breath of fresh air would clear her head, then he would be done with this charade. Thunder rumbled in the distance. Wind shrieked around the corner of the house. Her gown whipped against his legs. A soft moan escaped her lips as she slumped against his side. Damn. What a bother!
He swung her into his arms and carried her to a stone bench along the balustrade. He searched her reticule for a bottle of hartshorn. When he couldn't find one, he knelt beside her and patted her hand. Minutes passed and still she showed no signs of coming around. "Margaret. Wake up. It is raining."
The murky scent of wet grass and mud rose from the gardens below the railing. The spattering rain gathered intensity.
Finally, her eyelids fluttered open. "Where am I? Richard? Is that you? You've come back to me, darling. I knew you would."
Before he knew what she was about, she flung her arms around his neck and locked her lips on his. He grabbed her shoulders to push her away, but she tightened her hold, her hands clutching her wrists behind his head, her nails digging into his scalp.
As he slid his palms along her arms to disentangle her grip, he heard voices behind him, then a sharp gasp.
With a strange sense of doom, he knew it was Leah.
He ripped Margaret's arms from about his neck. He shot to his feet and spun around, the moments passing before his eyes in brief, indistinct flashes, like lighting followed by impenetrable darkness. His gaze swung past Rachel to Leah standing at her side, her golden hair shimmering in the torchlight, her cheeks the pale, ashen color of the moon. Her eyes wide with shocked betrayal as she met his gaze. Moisture that he hoped was rain and not tears dripping down her cheeks.
He took a step toward her, or, at least, he thought he did, but time was moving so slowly he couldn't be sure.
She grabbed her skirts and took a step back, as if she meant to run for the house or turn into the gardens beyond the terrace. But she was standing too close to the steps. As she moved, her foot came down with no solid support to hold her.
The last image Richard saw was of Rachel lifting her arms, then Leah was gone. A brief, startled cry carried on the wind to hit Richard mere moments before he heard the thud.
Chapter Fifteen
Ric
hard flew down the short flight of steps, his heels skidding along the slippery stone. On the landing below, he found Leah sprawled upon her back, her hair spread out over the mud, her eyes closed, unaware of the rain beating upon her face.
His heart twisted hard and painfully within his breast. He dropped to his knees, turned his shoulders to shield her from the storm, brushed her soaked, muddy hair from her brow.
Her skin was as cold as the rain hitting his back. Blood poured from a gash across her temple, another to the back of her head, the wound there already swollen to the size of his fist. Several cuts and scrapes across her arms and elbows were her only other visible injuries. She was alive, but unconscious.
He yanked off his cravat, wrapped it around her head to stem the flow of blood, then gathered her in his arms and stumbled up the stairs and into the house. Panic tried to claim his thoughts as he listened to the too-shallow rasp of her breathing.
Margaret stood by the terrace doors. "Let me assist you."
"You bitch," Richard snarled as he brushed past her, heedless of whoever might overhear his words. "You wanted this to happen. You and Rachel. You planned this together."
"No," Margaret protested, but Richard ignored her.
He stalked through the ballroom. He was vaguely aware of the gaping stares and shocked gasps of those around him, but he didn't care. All of his thoughts, all of his senses, were centered on the frigid, motionless woman in his arms.
"Get blankets and a physician," he barked at a footman, who immediately ran to do his bidding.
Lady Cunningham rushed to his side. "What has happened?"
Before he could reply, Margaret said, "Her Grace was on the terrace when the storm hit. She slipped on the wet stairs."
A Dangerous Man Page 14