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Authors: Mary Jo Putney

BOOK: Dangerous Gifts
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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 husband 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!”
“For 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.”
“Wouldn’t suit!”
Hardcastle said with disbelief. “A nobody like you is turning down the chance to become a duchess?”
“Yes,” she said in a small voice.
His jaw dropped. Then his expression changed to disdain. “I thought you worthy to be my wife, but you’re only a foolish, impertinent little girl. You’re quite right—we would not suit at all. I shall tell your godmother to summon her carriage because you are not feeling well. And I suggest that in the future, you avoid your sly tricks that lead a man to misread your affections.” He spun on his heel and stalked off.
Leah stood there, shaking, until her rescuer said gently, “Sit down.”
He guided her to a bench. She folded onto the cold stone. “Thank you,” she said unevenly. “When we came out for air, I . . . I had no idea what he intended.”
“It’s a fair guess that a man who takes a girl into a dark garden is up to no good,” her rescuer said dryly as he peeled off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. “I suggest that you accept no more such invitations unless you are in favor of accepting the gentleman’s advances as well.”
He had a really wonderful deep voice. As she gratefully wrapped the body-warmed fabric around her, she tried again to see his face, but couldn’t. He was simply a silhouette against darker shadows. Wanting his good opinion, she said earnestly, “Truly, I did not encourage the duke’s advances, despite what he said.”
“Then I presume you are very beautiful,” he said cynically. “Wealthy men tend to believe they are entitled to beautiful women, and beautiful women tend to assume that they deserve wealth. It’s a bargain that has existed since time immemorial, so perhaps the duke can be forgiven for misunderstanding.”
“What nonsense,” she retorted. “Marriage should be more about love than wealth and beauty.”
“You are very young,” he said, but his voice had softened.
Her mouth curved ruefully. “I suppose so. But I don’t appreciate having that pointed out to me.”
“Neither would I,” he agreed. “If you’re feeling well enough, allow me to escort you around the house. Your godmother should be waiting for you there.”
Silently Leah rose and took his arm. It was firm and well muscled beneath the linen of his shirt. Strength that had been used for protection, not assault. As they moved through the garden, she said, “I hope the duke does not choose to ruin me socially.”
“He won’t,” her rescuer said confidently. “The situation reflects badly on him.”
When they reached the side of the mansion, the flaring torches lining the driveway revealed Lady Wheaton waiting beside her carriage, her expression concerned. Though Leah would like to see her rescuer’s face, she did not want it to be at the price of him seeing hers, not after what had happened.
She stopped and slipped off his coat. As she handed it to him, she said, “You have my deepest thanks, sir. And—please don’t watch me go.”
Understanding, he said with amusement, “Leaving us strangers in the night, with all embarrassment safely covered by the dark. But what if we meet again?”
“We’ll pretend this never happened,” she said firmly.
“As you wish.” He executed a courtly bow, his shirt pale in the darkness.
She gave him a sweeping curtsy, hoping they would meet again under more normal circumstances. Then, head high, she crossed the soft lawn to her godmother.
Her rescuer watched her for a moment, unconsciously raising the coat to his face, as if seeking for a trace of her scent. Then he turned back to the dark garden, before she was so well lit that he could not fail to identify her in the future.
Hidden in the deepest shadows of the garden, Ranulph watched Leah join her godmother, his faery sight giving him a cat’s vision at night. He’d been in London for several days, exploring the great parks but always coming back to the dense patch of bushes and trees in the center of the square where Wheaton House stood. Hungrily his gaze followed as Leah climbed into the carriage. Goddess, but he tired of waiting!

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