A Dangerous Man (7 page)

Of course, her father ignored her protests, his only purpose
ensuring she knew how to breed his future noble grandsons.
Granddaughters were never mentioned as he stammered out
a useless summation that basically told her to lie still, do your
duty, and do not protest, come what may.

It was the "come what may" part that brought an unladylike
sheen of sweat to her palms and a clenching to her stomach.

Some small part of her had truly believed this moment
would never arrive, that the duke would come to his senses
and withdraw his offer, but he was here. It was time.

She took a last look at her room, at the pleasing hues and
harmonious blends of blues and golds. She would not miss it,
she decided. All she would miss was her aunt.

She drew a deep breath and strode down the stairs, leaving
her father to follow her. This marriage might not be of her
choosing, but she would face it with dignity and honor.

What else could she do?

She found some comfort in the knowledge that her pin
money, an annual sum settled upon her by the duke to spend
at her discretion, would ensure her ability to see that the children of Mrs. Bristoll's foundling home never suffered from
want again.

It seemed a coldly calculating reason to wed, but, then
again, the duke was only marrying her for her money, or so
he had claimed, though she did not believe him. Just as her
racing heart warned her that her own faulty reasoning was
a lie.

Was this love at first sight? This aching need so unlike anything she had ever felt before?

At the salon door, she paused, her legs refusing to bring her
forward, her vision blurring, images floating past her like moments of awareness in a dream. Her aunt by the window, linen
handkerchief pressed to her lips, the sky beyond a deathly
gray from the lingering clouds and the setting sun. The vicar
perched on the settee, his well-worn prayer book clutched in
his hands. A younger man she did not recognize, though his
features proclaimed him a relation to the duke.

Then her eyes found him. Richard. Standing before the
fire. Broad back and long legs formally clad in black coat and
matching trousers. Dark hair gleaming in the firelight.

The devil in evening clothes, backlit by the flames.

She made no sound-unless it was the soft movement of
her gown that alerted him to her presence-but his back
stiffened, his head swung around, and his obsidian eyes met
hers through the haze. Her sudden lack of breath was anger
at having to wed where she would not, or so she told herself,
but as he sauntered toward her, as her senses filled with j asmine and amber, her aching heart once again warned her that
she lied.

Self-preservation set her tongue against her teeth.

"Your Grace," she murmured, her voice amazingly steady,
given the churning in her stomach and her lack of breath.

"Miss Jamison," he said as he bowed before her. His lips
curled up a fraction in what some might consider a smile. He
held out his arm. One dark brow arched as he waited.

Exquisite civility had returned, though the unrelenting
gaze of the insolent man who had kissed her remained.

Despite the tension gripping his gut, Richard felt a smile
tug at his lips as her eyes met his with a glimmering challenge, the gold buried within the green reflecting the flames.

Had he truly expected fits of female hysterics? Fluttering
lashes as she fell into a faint? From the woman who had dared
to storm his home and toss his marriage offer back in his face?

Not that he'd actually offered her marriage, his conscience
nagged him. No, he had announced she would wed him in
two days, as if she were an underling hired to carry out his
commands.

Yet here she was with her head held high, placing her hand
upon his arm without hesitation. As she walked by his side to
stand before the vicar, Richard found his admiration soaring,
which made his arm clench beneath her palm.

He did not want to feel anything for this woman.

Certainly not admiration, or pity.

Definitely not the desire that plagued him still, an aching
awareness of her standing beside him, the faint scent of roses
bathing her hair. His skin grew hot, then cold again, his emotions racing from rage to resignation.

He tried to attend to the moment, but all he could think about
was the woman at his side. That she was lovely, he could not
deny, yet she also appeared so young, so vulnerable, standing
beside him, the slightest tremor shaking her hands, the beading on her gown glimmering in the candlelight, reflecting the
burnished gold of her hair.

How could he want this woman?

By rights, he should hate her, and he probably did.

But he also wanted her, had wanted her from the first moment
he'd laid eyes upon her. He should be grateful, he supposed, that
he felt some lust for the woman to whom he would soon be
shackled for life. After all, she would be the mother of his children, should he ever choose to bed her. Was she a party to this
treachery? Or a sacrifice to her father's ambition?

The long case clock tolled the half hour. His eyes downcast, cheeks covered in sweat, Geoffrey took his position at
Richard's side. Her father cast Richard a wide-lipped smile,
as if they were all one happy family gathered for a feast.

He flattened his palms against his thighs to keep from
strangling the bastard where he stood.

That pleasure would have to wait, at least for the moment.

The vicar was mouthing the words that would bind Richard
to this woman for the rest of his life, this beautiful, brave
woman who faced him boldly, unwavering eyes meeting his,
and all he could think was he did not want a wife.

Then it was over, as quickly as it began.

Only moments before the room was silent, save for the vicar's
monotonous voice droning on and on. Now everyone seemed to
be speaking at once. His brother welcoming Richard's wifehis wife!-into the family. Her aunt, hugging her while weeping all over her shoulder. The vicar offering his congratulations.

Her father walked over to where Richard stood, slapped
him on the back. "Beautiful ceremony, eh, son?"

Truly, the man did not recognize his danger.

Hands clenching, the muscles in his legs tightening with
splendid tension, Richard smiled. "Geoffrey, would you
please be so kind as to escort-" Good God, he had to clench
his jaw to push the words past his teeth, "my wife out to the
carriage? I would like a word with her parent in private."

"Please, call me Thaddeus," the man said, the pink in his
cheeks matching his waistcoat. "Or Papa. I rather like the
sound of that"

"Yes, I am sure you do," Richard said, keeping his voice soft,
relishing the moment at hand and the anger pushing the blood
through his veins. "Lest you forget, I married your daughter for
one reason and one reason only. I have fulfilled my end of the
bargain. Now let me explain yours. You are never to come near
me or any member of my family ever again."

"Now see here," Jamison sputtered. "If you think to renege
on our deal, I will tell the world about Alison-"

Richard grabbed him by his over-starched cravat and hauled
him off his feet. "If you so much as whisper her name in your
dreams, I will know it. My vengeance will be fast and furious. I will crush you beneath my boot like the worm that you are. I
will throw your daughter to the wolves like yesterday's trash. I
will institute a very public, very ugly, divorce. And if you think
I won't, then try me. For I would have nothing left to lose,
which would make me very dangerous indeed." He leaned in
toward the man. "Now, have I made myself perfectly clear?"

A blood-red flush stained the man's cheeks, but he pursed
his lips and nodded his assent.

"And one other thing," Richard said, flexing his hands as
he thrust the bastard away.

Jamison rubbed his fingers over his throat. "What's that,
son?"

"Never call me son again or I will be forced to kill you for
the insult."

Leah embraced her aunt one last time as they said their
farewells at the curb. The urge to cling to Emma's shoulders
and never let go was strong, but she forced herself to step
back. "Please, Aunt, do not weep. I will visit you often, and
you must call upon me at my new home"

"You are right, of course," Emma said, touching the back
of her hand to her brow. She raised her tear-stained gaze to
the duke's. "You will treat my niece with kindness, my lord?"

He did not correct her mistaken address, a small act of
compassion that brought a faint smile to Leah's lips.

"I assure you, madam, she will have my utmost respect and
attention," he said with a bow before handing Leah into the
waiting conveyance, then hauling himself in behind her.

The door swung shut with a resounding thump.

"Your brother will not accompany us?" Leah heard the
breathless catch in her voice, but with each passing second,
she was finding it more difficult to control her spiraling
tension.

She was alone in a dimly lit carriage with a man-not just any man, but her husband! Heading toward his home. Where
they would be alone. In the dark. In his bedchamber.

Dear heavens, what had she done?

"Geoffrey will ride ahead to ensure all is ready for our arrival." His large presence loomed heavily on her senses as he
sprawled on the bench opposite hers, his too-long legs touching her knees, his booted feet resting against her slippers.

The feeble light from the single lantern cast unearthly
shadows over the hard, chiseled lines of his jaw, the curve of
his sensuous lips, the dark, dangerous glint in his eyes.

The coach was too small. There was not enough air. She
slid along her bench until her shoulder touched the wall.

His dark brows arched up. "Leah, I assure you, there is no
need to fear me ""

She forced a little laugh, though it sounded more brittle than
the scornful tone she had hoped to achieve. "I do not fear you,
sir. Nor have I given you leave to use my Christian name"

"As we are now wed," he murmured, his dark eyes studying her face, as if he would memorize every inch, every
curve. "It would seem a trifle odd to stand on formality, at
least when we are private. But if you prefer, shall I address
you as Your Grace?"

Your Grace? No, she was simple Miss Jamison, not the
Duchess of St. Austin, but it could not be a dream.

She wore his ring on her finger. A lovely gold band.

"Yes, I would prefer it," she said, twisting her hands in
her skirts. This conversation was inane, but she could think
of nothing of import to say. All she could think was she had
made a dreadful mistake. She would love him, she already
knew it.

She was in very great danger. She had to fight her perilous
attraction to this man. She had to protect her heart.

The coachman called to the horses and gave a quick snap
of the reins. The sudden lurch of the vehicle as it rolled into
motion stirred the queasy sensation in the pit of her stomach.

Before she could think to utter a protest, the duke closed the
distance between them, captured her trembling hands between
his palms. Though they both wore gloves, she was well aware
of the strength of his fingers, of his powerful grip and the heat
of his skin, which sparked an answering heat in her belly.

"Your Grace," he said, his lips pushing together in a tight
line, as if he were fighting a grin. "We are not the first to wed
out of duty and honor and family obligation. We surely will not
be the last. We must find a way to move forward from here"

It was a perfectly reasonable, rational thing to say.

"I would prefer to find a way out," she grumbled, which
was not quite as reasonable, nor even slightly rational, but he
had hold of her hands and he was gazing at her through his
intensely disturbing, devil-may-care eyes and his beguiling
scent was wrapping around her. Then he did the most despicable thing yet.

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that sent shivers over
her skin. His eyes darkened. His gaze dropped to her lips and
she knew ... he would kiss her again. She meant to lean
backward, but she moved forward, her eyes drifting shut.

He was making a grave mistake.

Even though he recognized this truth, Richard could not
stop himself from lowering his head and tasting her lips,
lightly tracing her teeth with his tongue, waiting until she invited him in with a soft, little sigh that made his body go instantly hard.

He forced himself to keep his hands on her back, only her
back, as he drew her closer, breathed her scent of roses and
lotion, felt the warmth of her breath against his lips. And now
he knew. It was not the whisky that had made him kiss her.

The carriage rolled to a stop before he could deepen the
kiss, before passion swept away reason and he found himself
taking his wife, his virgin wife, in a cold, dark carriage with
no thought to her pleasure or his peace of mind.

His pulse marched swiftly to the beat of his heart. He lifted
his hands away from her person, threw himself back against
the stiff leather squabs. Uncomfortable tension clenched his
legs as he watched the slow dawn of awareness creep into her
eyes. As passion waned, their amber-green softness darkened
with the glimmer of some strong emotion. A burgundy flush
spread over her cheeks, drifting down her neck, drawing his
gaze to the rapid rise and fall of her bosom as she fought to
catch her breath.

"Do not kiss me again," she said, brushing her palms down
her arms, as if she could wipe away the heat of his hands from
her skin. "And do not touch me "

"Do you intend to deny us both the pleasures of our marriage bed?" Why he said it, he did not know, as he had no intention of ever bedding her-though the heavy ache in his
groin gave truth to that lie. Now that he thought about it, why
the hell not?