A Dangerous Man Read online

  "Good fortune? Did you see his face? He hates me! He doesn't even know me, why would he want to marry me?"

  Her father splashed liquid amber into his glass. "Your dowry, my dear." He punctuated each swallow of brandy he took with a satisfied sigh. When he finally downed the last mouthful, he swiped his hand across his wet lips. "When a man has enough money, he can buy anything he wants-even a duke and I've got money to spare"

  There was a gleam in his eyes that told her he lied.

  "One day, you will thank me for this," he crowed.

  "Thank you? For forcing me to wed where I would not?"

  She doubted he even heard her words, so happy was he, throwing out names and dates and titles.

  "Please, Papa," she said, touching her hand to his arm. "Do not do this. I beg you. I am perfectly prepared to do my duty, but I want to wed a man I love. A man who loves me ... a man like Alexander Prescott"

  "You would choose that piddlin' pup over a duke?"

  "There is nothing wrong with Alexander. He is a fine man. And he cares for me ""

  "What does that have to do with this?"

  "It has everything to do with it. I want to marry a man who loves me. As you loved Mama."

  He turned his head so that she could not see his eyes.

  "That was different," he said softly, almost gently, a glim mer of the man she remembered from her childhood, the man he used to be before her mother had died, before money and power became his only passion. Then his jaw hardened. "Think, girl. You are going to be a duchess"

  The hard line of her father's chin jutting out past his teeth told Leah further discussion was futile. "You must excuse me, Father. I have duties to which I must attend."

  The frantic beat of her heart brought a sticky sheen to her skin as she strode toward the door.

  I know you don't believe me," he said as he followed her from the room, "but I did this for you. I could not let you waste yourself on that ne'er do well, Prescott. He is not good enough for you"

  She should keep walking. She should not let him goad her into further discussion, but she could not let him insult the one person who truly cared for her well-being. "No. He is not good enough for you. Alexander is a fine man and a dear friend. And were he to ask, I would deem it my very great honor to marry him."

  "But he ain't never asked, 'as he?"

  The slip in his diction would enrage him more thoroughly than any retort Leah might make. She picked up her skirts and walked with quiet dignity up the stairs.

  She would not allow him to see his words hit their mark. While she had long cherished a tender regard for Alexander, they were friends, nothing more.

  Yet, on more than one occasion since her arrival in Town, she had caught him staring at her with an intensity that brought a blush to her cheeks. In her foolishness, she had allowed herself to hope, to dream of a future.

  Now, instead of sunshine and laughter, she was betrothed to a man with devil-dark eyes that had seemed to devour her, that had seemed to see into the deepest part of her soul. Until her father had spoken. Then his eyes had turned hard and cold and unrelenting, glimmering with fury.

  Was she to marry a man who hated her?

  To endure his contempt for the rest of her life?

  No, it was insupportable.

  She had always tried to be the dutiful daughter, but she could not do this. She could not marry a man who despised her.

  Chapter Three

  Richard strode up the steps of his Park Lane mansion. He threw open the door before his butler could reach it and stalked through the hall. "Where is Lady Alison?"

  "In the gardens, Your Grace," the servant said, tripping along beside him. "With Mrs. Parrish. They are to dine alfresco this evening." The butler's tone held no hint of alarm, no indication that all was not as it should be.

  The crushing weight in the center of Richard's chest gradually eased. Of course, he had known she was home. Of course, he had known she was safe. Still, there was that one moment of gut-clenching panic when that bastard, Jamison, had mentioned her name. Had Richard possessed a weapon at that moment, the man would have been dead.

  Then again, he had never suspected his true enemy lived within his own home. "Inform Lord Geoffrey I wish to see him. Immediately."

  Without waiting for a reply, he flung open the library door and marched straight to the sideboard, where the finest selection of whisky awaited him. He chose a potent highland brew, letting the pungent liquid roll over his tongue, but he strongly suspected it would take the entire bottle to burn away the bitter taste of this day's disgusting events.

  He prowled the room, a savage anger pushing the blood through his veins. He could not help but feel a grudging admiration at the skillful maneuverings of his adversary, even as he vowed he would have his revenge.

  Innumerable options presented themselves. With each came the delicious vision of seeing his enemy squashed like the repellent insect he was but not one, short of murder, would guarantee the bastard would keep his tongue between his teeth. Damn his eyes. As much as it would bring him pleasure to kill the cur, Richard found he had not sunk quite so low as to shoot a man in the back, even if the bastard deserved it.

  Which left only one option. Marriage to the man's daughter.

  Richard stripped off his cravat, tossed it onto the desk, rubbed his hand over his throat. She was either the greatest actress ever born to Britain, or a complete innocent in her father's vile scheme. The startled, wide-eyed look on her face as her father had announced their betrothal had seemed unaffected, as had her color change from a healthy, tanned glow to the pasty hue of the sickroom.

  No-startled was too mild a word to describe her face at that moment. Horrified would be more accurate, as if she had awakened in the middle of a nightmare only to discover she hadn't been dreaming after all. It was a feeling with which Richard was all too familiar. Was she a willing accomplice? Or innocent victim? Did it even matter? He had to marry her.

  He had to protect Alison.

  Damn Geoffrey and his recklessness!

  How could he drag Alison into his schemes?

  Richard paused at the grate. Hand resting on the mantel, he stared into the fire, but he didn't see the flames. All he saw was the bronzed gold of Miss Jamison's hair.

  Oh, she was beautiful, Richard would grant her that.

  When their eyes first met, his senses had scattered, and his mind ceased to function, and all he could see were her eyes and her lips and the sensuous shape of her breasts rising and falling in her hideous dress. In those few brief moments, unwanted-unwelcome-desire had surged through him, stronger and faster than ever before, until his body had tightened and his breathing had shallowed.

  Then her father had spoken, and his senses returned, along with the memory of where he was and why he was there.

  Geoffrey shuffling into the room pulled Richard from visions of wide, green eyes dusted with amber.

  It was her eyes, he decided. Her eyes had bewitched him.

  "You wished to see me," Geoffrey said, stopping just inside the door. His bleary-eyed gaze still bore witness to last night's debauchery, as did the stench of smoke and ale oozing from his uncombed hair.

  Perhaps he should wait to confront his brother.

  In his present temper, Richard greatly feared he might lay violent hands upon him.

  He quickly vetoed that idea and poured another drink.

  This time the fool deserved a beating.

  "Yes, Geoffrey, I did." Richard grabbed the bottle of whisky before sauntering over to his desk. He sprawled in his leatherbacked chair, stretched his booted legs out before him, and fixed his brother with a penetrating stare. "I just returned from a most fascinating meeting."

  Geoffrey pulled his right hand down the side of his face. "And?"

  "It seems you forgot to provide me with a few, oh, minor details. Would you care to enlighten me now?"

  "I do not know what you mean"

  Richard arched a brow, but said nothing.
He was too busy grappling with the urge to wrap his fingers round his brother's neck and throttle him.

  "I suppose you are referring to the vowels," Geoffrey said as he ambled closer, his low voice dissipating into the cavernous room.

  "Yes, Geoffrey. The vowels. The forgery. The fraud. The deception that could result in your hanging from a noose"

  Geoffrey's lips pulled back. He rubbed his hand over his neck as he lowered himself onto the chair facing Richard. "It ... it was not my fault," he stammered.

  "It is never your fault. Tell me, please, how you could fail to remember you went to that hellhole pretending to be me!"

  "It was a mistake," Geoffrey said, babbling now in a breathless rush. "I never claimed to be you. You had given me money, so I bought tankards of ale and gin for everyone round the table, and I said `compliments of the Duke of St. Austin.' They assumed I was you! It was not my fault."

  "Amazing" Richard waved his glass through the air. "Do go on, Geoffrey. You have piqued my interest."

  "Well, the play got deep. Then the others left until only Jamison and I remained-and you know the rest! I lost a lot of blunt and had to give him my promise to pay."

  "Except you signed your vowels with my name"

  "What else could I do?" Geoffrey pushed from his chair. "I could not very well tell him, then, that I wasn't who he thought I was"

  "Did you never think he would find out?" Richard exploded, rising to face his brother, hand tight on his glass. "Christ, Geoffrey, you asked me to intercede for you. The man is not an idiot. If he hadn't already determined the truth, do you not think he would have realized it today?"

  Geoffrey flung his arms through the air. "What harm was done? You've paid the man, have you not?"

  "I will tell you what harm was done, you stupid, irresponsible fool. You told him about Alison!" Richard rubbed his hands over his face, then glared at his brother. "I truly want to kill you. Were we not brothers, we would be meeting over pistols as we speak"

  Geoffrey slumped his shoulders. Moisture gathered in his eyes. "I was so foxed, I thought I dreamt that part. I remember him asking me questions, question after question, but I was so high in the altitudes . . "

  "I assure you, it was no dream. And you can be certain that leech knew exactly what to do with the information."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean, I had to sell my soul to guarantee his silence." Richard topped off his glass and raised it in a mocking toast. "You may wish me happy, brother. I'm to wed the miller's daughter"

  Geoffrey's eyes widened. "You cannot be serious?"

  "What would you have me do? Allow him to announce to all and sundry every sordid detail of our family history? I swear to Christ, if it were only you, I would have let you rot in gaol."

  "I am sorry," Geoffrey said. "So sorry."

  "Sorry is too little too late," Richard snapped. Trying to rein in his temper, he rubbed the aching muscles at the back of his neck. A sudden weariness throbbed through his bones. "I did not even realize you knew ... how did you learn the truth?"

  Geoffrey stared at him through haunted eyes. "You forget. I lived with them. Rachel flaunted that news before Eric every chance she could. She did not care if I was in the room or not. I do not understand, if she hated him, why did she marry him?"

  Richard snorted. "For the title, of course"

  "She made his life miserable. I swear she drove him to his death"

  "No doubt you are right," Richard said, gripping his glass. He stared into the golden liquor, mind closed to the memories and betrayals that had led to disaster. His skin was cold, despite the languid heat of the whisky in his belly. "Why did you go to that hell? Why not go to one of your clubs with your friends?"

  Geoffrey did not respond. His face was the same bleak gray as the marble monument marking their eldest brother's grave. The ticking of the mantel clock was the only sound in the room.

  Richard strode to the window.

  The sun was just now casting its last feeble rays before sinking into darkness. He did not know what to do anymore. He only knew Geoffrey was chasing disaster and seemed determined on taking the family down with him.

  An unbearable thickening at the base of his throat threatened to choke him. He had already lost one brother.

  He had no intention of losing another.

  "Come here, Geoffrey. Tell me, what do you see?"

  His eyes rolled heavenward, but he hobbled to the window. "Torches. Servants. A summerhouse. Roses"

  "Yes, and inside that summerhouse is a young girl who needs not only your discretion, but, more importantly, your protection" Richard met his brother's gaze. "If you cannot mend your ways for yourself, think of Alison. Think of me. And remember this warning. If you ever endanger her wellbeing again, by word or by deed, I will kill you myself."

  Geoffrey pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as he nodded. His chest heaved, once, twice. "I swear to you, Richard. I mean to change my ways."

  Richard could only hope this was true, but he had heard the words too many times before. Still, his brother had the shattered appearance of a man reaching the bottom of his own private hell, only to realize he'd destroyed everyone he loved on his journey down the cliff.

  Perhaps this time, there was hope.

  Geoffrey drew a strangled breath. "So, when do you get yourself buckled?"

  "As soon as possible. I want to silence that bastard." Richard thought for a moment. "Rachel is hosting a ball two days hence."

  "Yes. One year to the day of Eric's death"

  "Not too eager to shed her black gloves, is she?" Richard murmured. He sipped his whisky. "I believe I shall procure a special license and do the deed that afternoon, then present my wife to the ton at Rachel's soiree."

  He smiled, for the first time finding the slightest bit of humor in this sordid situation. "It should provide ample entertainment. I must admit, I rather relish the thought"

  Geoffrey laughed. "It is perfect. Will you inform Rachel of your plans?"

  "No" Richard stared at his reflection in the window.

  "That could be dangerous for your new bride. What of Lady Montague?"

  Richard grimaced. No, Margaret would not be wellpleased. "She can find out with everyone else. I do not think she could keep the secret"

  "You are truly going to marry this girl? What is she like?"

  Richard thought of sun-kissed hair and satin skin that flushed so prettily. "I have no notion, but I am sure to find out, more pity that"

  "Why? Why must you wed? Eric never denied Alison. Even if Jamison spreads his tale, no one could prove it was true"

  "But the damage would be the same, regardless," Richard said, refilling his glass before stretching out on his chair. "You know as well as I, the truth does not matter in the face of the latest on dit. Alison's name would be bandied about like so much garbage. And when she is old enough to make her come-out, it would all start again."

  Their whispers would precede her into every room, and follow her out again when she departed. She would spend her life the object of malicious speculation and gossip, knowing her parents had betrayed her, as they had betrayed everyone around them.

  Richard would not let her suffer that.

  He'd rather wed the Jamison chit. Perhaps, after the deed was done, he would simply stash her away at his Cornish estate and forget he ever met her. Yet even as the thought took shape, a vision of her tumultuous green eyes rose in his mind and he strongly suspected she would not be easy to forget.

  A rap on the door broke the silence.

  "Enter," Richard commanded.

  The butler stepped inside the room. "Pardon me, Your Grace. A Miss Jamison is here. She begs a moment of your time on a matter she says is quite urgent"

  Richard told himself the sudden surge in his gut was anger. He certainly wasn't eager to see her again.

  "Where is she, Harris?"

  "In the gold salon, Your Grace"

  "You will have to excuse me, Geoffrey. My anxious
bride awaits." He drained the remaining liquid in his glass, then rose and walked on not-quite-steady legs to the door.

  Damn. He was a trifle foxed. Perfect.

  Chapter Four

  The moment the duke strode into the room, Leah realized she'd made a dreadful mistake. The sardonic lift of his brows, the insolent curve of his lips, the raw, unleashed power as he moved, all warned her exquisite civility was gone.

  His bold gaze swept over her person in a languid perusal that was as scandalous as it was shocking and made her skin burn as if she were bundled up with hot coals.

  He did not stop walking until the tips of his boots touched her leather-clad toes, until she breathed the exotic scent of his skin, a sensuous, mysterious blend of jasmine and amber and spice. As much as it irked her to show any weakness, she took a step back, needing to put distance between them.

  Arms crossed over his chest, he leaned on his heels and watched her retreat through his smoky black eyes.

  Firelight flicking red and gold shadows over his face made him appear more than ever the underworld lord. His hair was disheveled, as if tossed about by the wind.

  "Miss Jamison," he said. "I find myself ... surprised."

  This was her moment to convince him they could not possibly suit, but she only just realized he'd left off his neck cloth, and his shirt was unbuttoned, revealing a dark, intriguing shadow at the base of his throat.

  She forced her gaze off to his left, to the burnished gold, damask-covered walls, to the crimson brocade draping the windows. The luxurious appointments confirmed her worst fears.

  The duke did not need her money.

  Her father had tricked him into the match. But how?

  "And a bit puzzled," he continued, his voice coldly mocking, yet infused with a smoldering sensuality. "Your father assured me you were as `sweet and biddable as you please."'