A Dangerous Man (33 page)

He shoved them against his thighs to keep from yanking her
into his arms. "Have you any idea what time it is, madam?"

She pulled the pins from her hair, ran her fingers along her
scalp until the curls tumbled down her back, soft, sensuous
silk he longed to feel spilling over his chest. The scent of her
perfume seeped into his lungs.

He breathed deeply. "Where have you been?"

Her lips pressed into a tight line, she finally turned to confront
him. Her eyes appeared huge, shimmering liquid pools, the gold
flecks hidden within the green catching the morning sun.

He leaned toward her, drawn without conscious thought, until his glance moved over her shoulders. The provocative
cut of her gown, the flimsiness of the fabric, the memory of
all the men at the ball who had drooled over her barely concealed breasts, sent him into a seething rage. He was irrational, and he knew it, but he could not seem to stop himself.
Jealousy had control of his brain. "I asked you a question,
madam. Where have you been? And with whom?"

She crossed to the far side of the room before turning to
face him. He let her go because he was afraid he might give
in to temptation, toss her upon the bed, and bury himself
within her sweet body. But he could not touch her. Certainly
not in anger. Definitely not in the fog of jealousy. Nor even
in passion.

Where was all his rigid control? The utmost respect and
kindness with which he had pledged to treat her? He rubbed
his fingers across his brow, then down the back of his rigid
neck.

She wrapped her arms around her waist, her head held high
as she faced him. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft, low, as if
reasoning with a tantruming child. "I do not understand your
question, Richard. The Houghton ball lasted until dawn, as
these events often do, as you well know. You must be more
specific in your choice of words. I gather what you really
want to know is if I've betrayed my wedding vows?"

The muscle beneath his jaw clenched. "Have you?"

The frigid blast of her smile made him shiver.

Her lips quivered, but she thrust her chin high in the air.
"As long as we are questioning marital fidelity," she said,
"perhaps you won't mind my asking whose bed are you gracing these days?"

Her voice was as cold as his blood ran hot. Clever girl,
turning his words back on him.

"It certainly is not mine," she said. "Or are you even limiting yourself to one? There are so many for you to choose
from, or so Rachel informs me, when one considers the opera singers and dancers, Cyprians and Demireps, not to mention
the noble ladies who would betray their wedding vows gladly
if you would cast them so much as a come-hither glance with
your ebony eyes"

"What I do is not the issue here"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "Of course. How silly
of me. You are free to do as you will while I must remain the
devoted, faithful wife, eager to gobble up the crumbs of your
affection if and when you see fit to toss some my way. That
hardly seems fair, my lord."

"If anyone has touched you," he said, his voice low and
filled with menace. He leaned toward her, lowering his head
until they stood eye to eye, "He is a dead man"

She did not back down. Instead, she curled her fists in the
lapels of his frock coat, whether to pull him closer or to push
him away, he did not know. "You are insane."

"You are right. I am insane. With jealousy! An altogether
unpleasant emotion, eating me alive from the inside out, but
I can't seem to control it. Tonight, I watched the men ogling
your breasts .. "He dropped his gaze to her heaving chest.
"And the desire to kill was so strong, unlike anything I have
ever felt before. So, tell me, madam. Do I have any reason to
kill Prescott, or any of the other wolves in men's clothing?"

She rolled her lips between her teeth, but did not reply.

Eyes locked on her mouth, he wrapped his hands around
her upper arms, then wished he hadn't as the heat of her skin
burned his palms. "Answer me!"

"No"

His brows lifted. "No? I have no reason to kill anyone? Or
no, you will not answer me?"

Her eyes widened, her face paled. A shiver trembled over
her skin. That he had caused her trembling fear made him
flush with shame, with self-loathing, with utter despair.

He turned on his heel and fled from the room. She was
right. He was insane. But she was the madness in his brain.

Leah pressed a cool, damp cloth against her swollen eyes.
Her throat was raw and her sides ached, but she did not cry.

Nor did she open her eyes when she heard her door creak.
It could only be Richard and she did not want to speak with
him. Perhaps, if he thought she was asleep, he would leave
her alone.

It was a cowardly reaction, but she was too weary for one
more confrontation, one more angry demand for explanations, as if she had done something wrong, as if she were the
one who had changed, when it was he who had changed.

Leah could almost point to the moment her marriage fell
apart. It was the third day of Geoffrey's recovery, when fatigue had finally forced her to seek her own bed. What had
happened during her absence from the sickroom? What had
caused Richard to turn away from her? Why was he pushing
her out of his life?

It was almost as if he were afraid, but that made no sense.

What a fool she was. Last night, she had vowed she was
through with him. But it was a lie. She loved him still.

She always would. He was etched into her soul from the
moment they met, when his obsidian eyes had entranced her.

The Persian carpet muffled the heavy thud of his boots as
he crossed the room. He lifted the cloth away from her face.

So much for pretending she was asleep.

He dipped the linen into the basin on her bedside table,
twisted out the excess water, then draped it over her forehead.
"Why did you not tell me you have been ill?"

"It is nothing," she said. She did not want his pity or his
pretense of concern. "I am fine. I just need to rest"

"The doctor should be here in a moment. Leah, I .. " He
trailed off, raised his eyes to stare through the windows at the
darkening sky. The first spatter of rain tapped on the glass. Dark shadows sharpened the hollows beneath his eyes. Deep
grooves creased his forehead and the corners of his lips.

This proud, arrogant man looked up at the ceiling, as if
unsure what he wanted to say. Leah found herself fascinated,
unable to look away, until his eyes swept down to meet her
gaze.

He cleared his throat. "I fear my behavior toward you, both
last evening and earlier this morning, was ..."

"Reprehensible? Unconscionable? Unpardonable?"

"Quite" His gaze never wavered from hers, his dark eyes
intensely disturbing. "I find myself in the extremely awkward
position of having to ... beg your pardon."

The last words came out on a rush, and startled a laugh
from Leah, despite her throbbing head. He tilted his head, his
eyes widening, the affronted look of a youth who had declared his love to a maid, only to have it tossed back in his
face.

"I imagine that caused you a prodigious amount of pain,"
she said, her voice scraping over the raw ache in her throat.
"You do not use that word often, I am sure"

He gave a brief nod. "I believe this was the first time."

I do not doubt it," she said, touching her fingers to her lips
to hide her smile. His gaze followed the motion.

The longing she read in his eyes set her heart to racing and
her skin to burning. His warm, familiar scent beckoned her
closer, tempted her to lean her hand against his cheek and
claim his mouth with her kiss. The strain of their relations
stood in stark contrast to their playful bantering and brought
the dreaded tears to her eyes.

His smile faded. "Truly, there was no excuse for my outlandish attack on you and I am heartily ashamed. Much to my
surprise, I find I am a jealous man, an ugly emotion I never
experienced before I met you. But I promise you, this will
never happen again. I only hope you will forgive me."

His confession should have made her happy, for it meant he must care, despite his recent distance-if he didn't, why
would he be jealous? But her head hurt too much to worry
about it and, this time, she truly thought she might weep.

She must have dozed off, for when she next opened her eyes,
Richard was talking with Dr. Ashcroft. The portly doctor
tugged on his periwig as he listened to Richard, their voices too
low for Leah to discern their words.

After Richard left, the doctor pulled up a chair beside the bed.
"His Grace tells me you are not feeling quite up to snuff. Let's
see if we can't determine what is wrong with you, shall we? It
appears you have been crying. Does this happen quite often?"

Leah nodded. Truly, she hardly ever cried, but over the last
few weeks, it seemed as if every new day brought a reason
to weep. Usually, she managed to choke back her tears.

Then there were days like this one.

"And the sight of food makes you ill?"

"Yes," Leah said, a sticky sheen of perspiration rising on
her brow, fueled by her growing agitation. She fingered the
edge of her coverlet. "Do you know what is wrong with me?"

"Two more questions should confirm my diagnosis. You
have been married for how long? Two, three months?"

"Almost three"

"And when was your last monthly flow? Sometime before
your wedding, I suspect. Is that right?"

The intimate question brought a burning heat to her cheeks.

"There is no need for modesty with me, Your Grace. You
must tell me everything if I am to make my diagnosis."

Leah had to think back in her mind. He was right. She hadn't
had her woman's time in months. She hadn't even noticed.

Good heavens. She placed her palm against the flat of her
stomach as she glanced up at the doctor. Dared she hope?

Her breath caught in her throat. The furious beat of her
heart sent blood rushing through her limbs. Her fingers tingled and her feet grew numb. She glanced up at the doctor.

He nodded, and his glasses slipped down to the tip of his nose. "Felicitations, Your Grace. I believe your child should
make his appearance in about seven months"

Leah pressed the back of her hands to her lips. Her eyes
drifted shut, her thoughts racing ahead of her breath. She
imagined a black-haired boy who looked just like his father.
Then the image of a raven-haired daughter with charcoal eyes
rose in her mind. How surprising life was. Just when the
world seemed so bleak, God granted His most precious gift.

A baby. She vowed she would be the most wonderful
mother. She knew without doubt that Richard would be an
amazing father.

"Now, you must remember to eat," the doctor was saying.
"Even though food might not sit well at first. That will pass.
And get plenty of rest" He stood, dragged his waistcoat into
place, then turned to leave. "The duke will be most pleased."

Leah grabbed his hand. "Wait. You cannot tell him."

"Why ever not? His Grace is dreadfully worried. I must reassure him that nothing is wrong"

"But I want to tell him myself. You must understand?"

He patted her hand. "Of course. I will simply inform him
there is no need to worry. You can give him the good news"

"Thank you," she said, her voice trembling. She watched
him until the door closed behind him. Then she laughed.

A babe! She jumped out of bed, and threw on her clothes.

Perhaps now the ghosts of Richard's past would be banished from their future.

Richard stood in the conservatory, staring at the dormouse as
it huddled in the comer of its cage. It stared back at him through
wide, solemn brown eyes. It was surrounded by beauty, by roses
and orchids and oriental camellias, a beautiful flower with the
sweetest perfume, but still it was an animal trapped in a cage.
Much as Richard was trapped. By his past. By his sins.

By a fear so great, it weakened his knees and made his hands shake. Hot shame burned in his throat. He had no
excuse for his vicious behavior, save for his sanity slowly
ebbing away.

Rain hitting the glass rooftop thundered through the conservatory, its roaring din deafening in its intensity. A wild gust of
wind rattled the frame. Richard closed his eyes, his mind calling forth a vision of Leah, all golden-haired innocence, her
limbs trembling as he brought her pleasure to a peak.

His desire was so strong, he started to shake, but it was
more than a physical ache. He wanted to hold her in his arms
when she slept, comfort her when she wept. He wanted to
love her. Damn, but he loved her.

A pain hit the center of his chest, a burning sensation that
intensified with every breath he drew. His long, lonely life
stretched out before him. He could not bear the image without her in it. He had only two choices.

He could remain trapped in present misery, or he could risk
all for a chance at happiness with his wife.