A Dangerous Man (20 page)

"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.

Richard 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."

"Oh, dear. This is terrible. This way, please."

Lady Cunningham led them to a bedchamber at the top of
the stairs, then went to issue instructions and reassure her
guests.

Richard gently set Leah on the center of the bed. His hands
shook as he pushed the soggy hair from her cheeks. "Leah?
Can you hear me? Open your eyes..

Margaret came up behind him. "Please, let me help you-"

"Go away," Richard snarled, never taking his eyes from his
wife's face, as pale as the crisp, white sheets beneath her
head, save for the bright patch of red staining his cravat.
"Haven't you done enough already? Are you proud of what
you accomplished with your jealousy and spite?"

"You cannot think I planned this?" Margaret cried, reaching for his shoulder, pulling her hand away when he sent her
an I-will-kill-you-if-you-touch-me glare. "Richard, truly, I
didn't know where I was. In my confusion, I thought we were
together again. I surely did not mean for your wife to see us
like that, or for her to injure herself."

The sight of tears streaming down Margaret's cheeks jolted
him from his blinding rage. Margaret might be lewd, crude,
and more than a little rude, but Richard had never known her to be vindictive or purposely cruel. He sighed heavily. "I
do believe you, Margaret. It's just that I am worried."

Margaret bit her lip and nodded. A moment later, he heard
her footsteps retreat. It seemed as if an hour passed before
Lady Cunningham returned with an armful of blankets, followed by a portly, bewigged man of about fifty who introduced himself as Doctor Somebody-or-other.

Richard didn't catch the man's name, nor did he care.

All he could think about was his wife.

The doctor stripped off his jacket and marched to Leah's
side. "What happened?"

"My wife fell and struck her head"

The doctor clucked his tongue, but said nothing as he performed his examination.

Richard's gut twisted with each passing second until he
could stand the silent torture no more. "There is so much
blood ..." The room seemed to swirl around him. It was
absurd and sent a tingling chill over his skin. He should be
immune to the sight of blood. He had seen enough of it
during the war. But this was different. This was his wife.

"Head wounds tend to bleed profusely, even with very little
damage," the doctor said matter-of-factly. "And she has quite
a nasty cut to the back of her head, no doubt from striking a
rock or the pavement during her fall. The gash across the
temple is more superficial, a scraping off of skin as she
twisted. No, it isn't blood loss that is a danger to her. It is the
trauma to the head"

The doctor snipped away a chunk of Leah's glorious hair at
the base of her neck. The bleeding had slowed to a trickle, but
it sped up again as he washed the wounds. He smeared a thick
paste over the gash, then wrapped a clean bandage around her
head. Turning her onto her side, he examined her for injuries
to her arms, back, thighs. She never opened her eyes.

An eerie sense of time grinding to a halt afflicted Richard.
His heart seemed to stop. His skin, which only moments before was so frigidly cold, now seemed numb. "What can
I do?"

The doctor frowned. "There isn't much anyone can do,
except watch and wait. If she regains consciousness soon, I
should hope for the best. . ."

He forced himself to ask, "And if she doesn't?"

"Let us wait and see, shall we? There is no use in dealing
with uncertainties."

Richard ran his fingertips along her jaw. She was so still,
so pale. What if he lost her when he'd only just found her?

"I would like to take her home," he said, his voice a shaky
rasp that scraped his throat.

"I would advise against it, Your Grace. A jostling carriage
ride is the last thing she needs right now."