Dangerous Gifts

by Mary Jo Putney

  Still full of energy despite so much shopping, her godmother said, “It’s time to start discussing potential husbands. There are several available royal dukes, of course, but they are an unreliable lot. I want better for you.”

  Thank heaven for that. Even Leah knew that the unmarried royal dukes were fat, middle-aged, and chronically in debt. And from what she inferred from news stories, they were not very bright. She wanted to marry a man she could talk to. “I wouldn’t want to be a duchess. Indeed, I would make a sad muddle of such a high rank.”

  “You simply must put a higher value on yourself, my dear,” Lady Wheaton said briskly. “I’ve never known a beautiful woman who had so little confidence as you. In relations between the sexes, a woman’s beauty is power. You must use yours to acquire the wealth and security that ensure a woman a comfortable life. Granted, the royal dukes are poor choices, but there is the Duke of Hardcastle. Much more handsome than any of the Hanovers, and in the market for a second wife.”

  Lady Wheaton’s brows drew together as she continued, “Hardcastle is the greatest prize in the Marriage Mart, but there is young Lord Wye—you could win him with a snap of your fingers.” Grandly she demonstrated a snap. “If you like the military sort, there is Duncan Townley, who is a Peninsular hero and heir to his uncle’s viscountcy. Not the best title or the richest man, but very dashing. Or if you prefer poets, there is Lord Jeffers. Not so handsome as Byron, nor so good a poet, but far wealthier and better behaved.”

  Before her godmother could continue, Leah said with alarm, “But which are agreeable men? Surely that is paramount when choosing a husband.”

  “When enough wealth is involved, one scarcely needs to see one’s husband after the heirs have been produced. A wife who has done her duty to her husband’s family has enormous freedom,” Lady Wheaton said with an airy wave of her hand. “To continue, it is as important to know who is not eligible as to know who is. Under no circumstances can you accept dances from the following . . .”

  For the rest of the ride, her ladyship rattled off more names and pungent descriptions of each gentleman’s virtues or failings as a potential matrimonial partner. By the time they reached Wheaton House, Leah’s head was aching in earnest. She went directly to her room and flopped onto the bed.

  Shadow, who had been watching the passing scene from the window seat, jumped to the floor and came to join Leah on the bed. Leah cuddled the cat, grateful for the undemanding company. In a strange and disorienting city, she sometimes had the odd feeling that Shadow was her guardian angel.

  Even more than her cat, she needed music. Her gaze went to her harp, which sat silent in its case beside her wardrobe. She hadn’t played since arriving in London; she had simply been too tired. Perhaps after dinner . . . No, drat it. A dancing master was coming to make sure that Leah was proficient in all the latest dances.

  She sighed and her eyes drifted shut. In a few more days, she would be presented. Then she would be a belle, and it would all be worth it.

  Monique, Lady Wheaton’s French maid, was putting the last touches on Leah’s coiffure when her ladyship herself appeared in Leah’s bedroom. “The ballroom is full, and almost every man on my eligible list has arrived. It’s time for your grand entrance, Leah.” Lady Wheaton smiled, eyes dancing. “For the last week I’ve been dropping hints to friends about how beautiful my goddaughter is, so everyone is madly curious. Now stand up and let me look at you.”

  Leah stood obediently while her godmother examined her appearance, her shrewd gaze missing nothing. “You’ll do, girl. You’ll do.”

  “What I might do is faint,” Leah said weakly.

  “Nonsense. Look at yourself.” Lady Wheaton drew Leah toward the mirror. “You’re a warrior girded for war, armored in beauty to fight the great battle of the sexes.”

  “I thought I was in London for love, not war.” Then Leah saw her image in the mirror and gasped, all other thoughts forgotten. Her tawny hair had been swept into an irresistible confection of shining curls, secured here and there with golden combs. In a fashionably low-cut gown with a gauzy overskirt studded with brilliants, she looked like an exquisite faery princess.

  The thought made her flinch. In a sense, she was a faery princess, or perhaps a faery doll, decorated as a plaything to amuse a faery lord. Her gaze lingered on her reflection. She must give Lord Ranulph credit—when he came to collect his price, she would be unable to say that he had stinted on his part of the bargain. Shining hair, perfect complexion, alluring sylphlike figure—she had received beauty in full measure.

  She glanced at Shadow, who was sitting on her haunches watching. The cat’s golden eyes seemed to gleam with warmth and approval. Absurdly comforted by the cat’s expression, Leah said, “I’m ready, Aunt Andrea.”

  Arm in arm, the two women left Leah’s bedroom and descended the sweeping staircase into the vestibule that opened into the flower-filled ballroom. Leah felt as if she were wading into a river of sound as the roar of conversation clashed with the energetic playing of the musicians.

  Halfway down the stairs, heads began turning toward Leah and her godmother. Silence fell, rippling from the vestibule into the ballroom. One man said reverently, “By Jove!” while another exclaimed, “She’s a goddess!”

  Guests in the ballroom began crowding into the vestibule. Before Leah’s startled eyes, the area at the bottom of the stairs filled with people, their eyes fixed on her. Most of the expressions were stunned admiration, but here and there tight-lipped women resentfully analyzed the new competition.

  Leah froze, wanting to run back upstairs, but the pressure of Lady Wheaton’s grip kept her moving down. “I told you,” her godmother whispered triumphantly. “Look at them! You’ll be betrothed before the month is out, my girl.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and were instantly surrounded by men with avid eyes and lusting hearts. A tall, heavyset fellow demanded, “An introduction please, Lady Wheaton!”

  Beside him, a soulful gentleman said with a French accent, “A dance, mademoiselle, you must save me a dance.”

  A wide-eyed young man called out, “Your hand in marriage, my dear goddess. I shall make you Countess of Wye.”

  Other demands, other needs, chewed at her. Leah could feel the lust coming from the men like animal heat. They were tall, strong, closing in like wolves. . . .

  You wanted to be admired. The words formed in her mind, light and ironical. Lord Ranulph, perhaps, watching her in some strange faery way?

  The faint mockery of the thought steadied her. Well, she had wanted admiration. She simply needed time to become accustomed to so much attention. Already that first rush of panic was retreating.

  Lady Wheaton began making introductions and allotting her protégée’s dances. Leah was more than willing to let her godmother handle such things. Her own energy was engaged simply in keeping her wits about her. A pity she had never attended a ball as her normal, mousy self. If she had, she would have been better prepared. But of course, her normal mousy self had never been invited anywhere.

  After the flurry of introductions, she was handed into the keeping of her first dance partner, Lord Wye, the young man who had virtually proposed before he’d even learned her name. He was one of the eligibles Lady Wheaton had described, which meant that he was possessor of a vast fortune and an impressive title.

  Unfortunately, he possessed neither a chin nor conversation. Throughout their dance, he simply stared at Leah adoringly. She guessed that he was no older than she. She felt torn between sympathy for his shyness, and amusement at the way he blushed whenever she ventured a comment. The smile she offered him at the end of their quadrille reduced him to babbling incoherence.

  Her next partner, the Duke of Hardcastle, was more articulate. He was in his middle thirties, a widower and man of the world who was at the top of Lady Wheaton’s list of eligibles. He was quite a handsome man, and he made witty comments whenever the patterns of the dance brought them together. Altogether a good husban
d prospect, except that his hot, hungry gaze seemed to strip her naked.

  Yet even though Hardcastle made her nervous, she felt a glow of triumph at the knowledge that he wanted her. No one had ever wanted her old, plain self.

  She curtsied prettily at the end of the dance. “Thank you, Your Grace. You are very kind.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it.” His heavy lidded gaze studied her with searing intensity. “Until next time, Miss Marlowe.”

  He returned her to Lady Wheaton, who took advantage of an interval between dances to introduce Leah to some of the powerful women who ruled London society. Leah had recovered enough from her earlier nervousness to smile, curtsy, and acknowledge the introductions without stammering.

  Her progress was followed by approving comments such as “What pretty manners the girl has,” and “She does you credit, Andrea.”

  Leah was tempted to laugh. She was merely practicing the courtesy learned by any child in the schoolroom, yet some of the women acted as if her behavior was unusual. That meant either that great beauties were often rude, or that Leah was getting more credit for good manners than a less beautiful girl would.

  By the end of the long evening, she was enjoying every shred of admiration that came her way. Lady Wheaton was right—this was power. The warm gazes were balm after a lifetime of being ignored. Leah’s simplest remarks were greeted with laughter, as if she were a great wit. Her every smile was received like a precious gift. Her dances were sought after as if they were the holy grail.

  She had become a belle—and she loved it.

  Chapter Three

  By the end of a fortnight’s social activity, Leah was universally acknowledged as the Beauty of the Season. So many flowers had been delivered that every room of Wheaton House was perfumed with blossoms. She had started a collection of the poetry that had been sent to her. Half of the pieces came from the adoring Lord Jeffers, society poet and eligible bachelor. As Lady Wheaton had said, he wasn’t the poet that Byron was, but the man did know how to turn a pretty phrase.

  Resting in her room before preparing for a ball at the Duke of Hardcastle’s famous mansion, Leah smiled over Lord Jeffers’s latest effort, then tucked it away. The poet was quite charming, but in love with the idea of love rather than with her.

  She relaxed into her wing chair, welcoming the interval of peace and quiet. There had been few such times in the last fortnight. “It’s very exciting being a belle, Shadow, but I haven’t fallen in love yet,” she said with a sigh. “I haven’t even met someone I want to fall in love with. Is there something wrong with me?”

  The cat turned her head to Leah, for all the world as if she were listening. A thought appeared in Leah’s mind. You haven’t met the right man.

  Leah was no longer surprised at such incidents. Admittedly all cats were rather fey, but she was half convinced that Shadow had been sent by Lord Ranulph as some sort of guardian. If witches had familiars, why not faeries?

  A wordless note of disgust touched Leah’s mind. She grinned at the cat, who was twitching her plumy tail with irritation. “Do you find that thought insulting? I’m sorry.” She went to get her harp from its case, then sat again and ran experimental fingers over the strings. The familiar singing notes made her smile with pleasure. She settled down to play seriously. Her fingers were a little stiff, but they loosened rapidly.

  It seemed no time at all before Monique entered. The maid said, scandalized, “M’zelle, you should be dressing for the ball!”

  Leah almost protested that she wanted to spend the evening playing, but stopped herself. She had come to London to find love. There would be time for music later.

  The dance ended and the Duke of Hardcastle bent to kiss Leah’s hand. “You waltz beautifully, Miss Marlowe. But of course, you are beautiful in all ways.”

  Flushed from the swirling dance, Leah inclined her head graciously. “A good waltz requires a good partner.”

  The duke’s mouth curved in a predator’s smile. “As witty as you are lovely.”

  It hadn’t been that witty, but by this time Leah had become used to such exaggerated reactions. The duke tucked her gloved hand into the crook of his arm and continued, “The ballroom is very warm. Come into my garden for some fresh air.”

  Leah hesitated. He had called at Wheaton House several times, always claimed two dances at each event, and had taken her driving once. Aunt Andrea said that bets were being laid in the clubs that Leah would be the next duchess. Leah was not sure how she felt about that. Hardcastle cut an impressive figure and he was certainly a great catch, but he still made her nervous. She needed to become better acquainted with him. “I should like some fresh air, Your Grace.”

  As he guided her across the crowded ballroom, Leah studied the other guests. She had assumed that in London she would make friends with other young women, as she had at home, but that hadn’t happened. The really pretty girls were jealous, and the average ones avoided her. Remembering her own plain days, she guessed that they thought she was interested only in finding foils for her own beauty. The knowledge saddened her. She had not thought beauty would come at the price of friendship.

  Her gaze touched a strikingly lovely young woman with golden hair. She was about the same age as Leah, and instead of scowling, she offered a tentative smile. Leah started to smile back—until she realized that the blonde had vividly green eyes. Exactly like those of Lord Ranulph, or Leah.

  Hardcastle made some remark, and Leah hastily turned away from the green-eyed woman. Was she a faery, or another mortal who had made a devil’s bargain? Leah realized that she didn’t want to know the answer.

  As the orchestra struck up a new dance, the duke led Leah through the French doors. Several other couples were on the stone patio in plain view of the ballroom, so this must be proper. But when he steered her toward the steps that led into the dark garden, Leah balked. “My godmother said I should not be alone with a man.”

  His brows rose impatiently. “I am not a man. I am the Duke of Hardcastle. Lady Wheaton would approve entirely.”

  Before Leah could protest again, they were on a gravel path that led into the heart of the immense garden. It was pleasant to be surrounded by dark, shadowy trees and the scents of growing things rather than chattering ball guests and sweaty bodies. Leah relaxed, enjoying the cool air and the knowledge that she was being escorted by one of England’s greatest lords. This scene would have been unimaginable a month ago. “Your garden seems very lovely, Your Grace. I would like to see it in daylight sometime.”

  “Whenever you wish, my dear.” There was an odd, rough quality to his voice.

  The tree-lined path led into an open space. Though the night was moonless, there was just enough starlight to see the outlines of a marble statue set in the middle of a gently splashing fountain. Leah squinted at the statue, then blushed, glad for the darkness. The sculpture appeared to be a naked woman entwined most improperly with a swan.

  Deciding that she had bent the rules of propriety far enough, she said, “Please take me back, Your Grace. I’m beginning to feel cold.”

  “I’ll keep you warm.” The rough note she had heard before was stronger, and suddenly his arms were around her and his mouth grinding into hers. When she tried to utter a protest, his thick tongue slid between her lips.

  She gagged, feeling as if she would be physically ill. She pushed against his chest, but managed only to pull her face away from his revolting kiss. “Your Grace, please!” she pleaded. “You forget yourself.”

  “It’s because of you, my sweet,” he said hoarsely. His hand slid down and he squeezed her buttock, pressing her hard against his hot, obscenely swollen body. “You’re the most exquisite creature I’ve ever seen. You make me mad with desire.”

  Shocked by the unwanted intimacy, she snapped, “That’s not my fault!” She tried to twist away, but he maintained his grip. One of his groping hands caught her breast. Near hysteria, she gasped, “Let me go or I’ll scream!”

  “F
or God’s sake, don’t make such a fuss,” he said impatiently. “I wouldn’t seduce you in my own garden if my intentions weren’t honorable.”

  Before she could say that this was not seduction but rape, his mouth crushed down on hers again. She realized with horror that he was tugging at her skirt. Dear God, she would never be able to break free. He was too strong, too intent on having his way. And if he did, she would have no choice but to marry him.

  In her mind, she heard the cool words You wanted a beauty that would drive men mad. Lord Ranulph again? But she hadn’t wanted this!

  Suddenly a hard voice snapped, “Let her go!”

  The newcomer enforced his command by physically breaking the duke’s hold on Leah. Panting for breath, she retreated several steps and tried to see her rescuer. In the darkness he was only a faceless shadow. Of middle height, perhaps, with broad shoulders—and wonderful timing.

  “Damn you, sir, do you know who I am?” the duke snarled at the interloper.

  “I believe so,” was the icy reply. “You do yourself no credit, Your Grace.”

  “You criticize me?” Hardcastle said, incredulous. “How dare you interfere between a man and his affianced wife!”

  “She looked like an unwilling woman to me,” the other man retorted. “Was I wrong about that, miss?”

  “Tell this lunatic that we’re betrothed,” Hardcastle ordered.

  Leah wanted to say that she wouldn’t marry the duke if he were the last man in Christendom, but barely in time remembered that it would not be wise to humiliate a man so powerful. And in fairness, he’d had no reason to think she would not accept an offer.

  “Though I do not question your honorable intentions, Your Grace, you neglected to go through the formality of making an offer,” she said carefully. “You do me great honor, but . . . but I do not think we would suit.”