A Dangerous Man (5 page)

“I haven’t given you my confidence,” he said. “You have stolen it.”

“I will not tell a soul who you really are. Your
secret
is safe with me, Lord Perth,” she said with haughty dignity. “You see? I do know the proper form of address. Our eastern schools are quite thorough in drumming English hero-worship into their students’ heads. I shall have to remind myself of the error of misplaced veneration.”

“Quite. Now, forget me and, if I may make so bold, forget your brother.”

She would not answer him, neither his ill-concealed warning nor his presumptuous advice. She whirled around, her stiff taffeta petticoats hissing as they passed over the tops of his boots.

“And when you leave, for God’s sake try to be discreet. I would not like to have us discovered closeted alone in here.”

His words brought her skidding to a halt by the door.

She reached for the door handle and jerked it wide open. Conversation and light flooded into the room. She caught a glimpse of anger hardening his features just before he stepped back into the shadows.

Good
, she thought.
Let the Earl jump!

Those near the door turned curious faces to see who was exiting the library.

“I will not forget him,” she declared loudly. “I will find him.”

Chapter 4

D
amnation
! Hart thought. He wanted to follow the chit out into the drawing room, catch her by the arm, and spin her around and then … He ground his teeth. Instead, he stood shrinking in the shadows, trying to figure out how to exit the library unseen.

Though he was furious he’d allowed himself to be put in such a position, a flash of misplaced amusement underscored his anger. The little wretch. Offering him cash to find her cursed brother and soothingly assuring him he needn’t “kill anyone.” There was only one person who was in danger of that and she had just swept out of range.

Thank God, years of self-discipline had stood him in good stead during that horrendous interview. She hadn’t realized with what shock he’d recognized the young girl he’d shot in that Texas shack nearly six years ago.

Shock
. A novel experience. He’d thought himself
well beyond feeling even remotely surprised by whatever malicious games life threw his way.

But he hadn’t been prepared for her.

That she should reappear now, a green-eyed specter from his past, just when he was finishing the task he’d set himself over a decade ago, really was diabolically amusing.

Here he was about to settle the last of his sisters into the life he’d worked and sweated and—and
killed
to achieve for them and
she
appeared; gold-leaf-flecked eyes and laughing mouth, a tumble of burnished red hair … and a hole in her shoulder.

Her presence threatened it all. His hand curled into a fist. He forced himself to relax it. He’d have to make certain she didn’t destroy what he’d worked so hard to achieve. He would do whatever it took to assure her silence. Perhaps it would be as simple as having said no. Surely she realized his threat was serious.

He looked around the library. Any moment now some bright-eyed inquisitive would peek in to see who Mercy Coltrane had been with. Even if she didn’t give a damn for her own reputation, he couldn’t afford to be casual with his. A few whispered words to Acton and Annabelle’s engagement to him could be forgotten. The Actons were notorious sticklers.

Hart stalked to the window and jerked it open. A quick glance showed that the library stood a story above the groomed lawns on the east side of the mansion. Without a second’s hesitation he
gripped the sill and lowered himself down, out of the window, along the exterior wall. He hung easily for a second before looking straight below.

Rosebuses. An entire battalion of rosebushes crowded the ancient walls beneath him. Adding another curse to the litany he’d already produced since meeting Mercy Coltrane, Hart let go of the sill.

“Hart!” Fanny called as Hart entered the morning room the next day.

It was early afternoon and the room was filled with guests awaiting the musical entertainment Acton had arranged. With a little grunt Fanny heaved herself up from the settee as Richard hastened to her, catching her under the arm and pulling. Hart eyed his sister in mute surprise.

Always a softly rounded woman, Fanny had grown substantially rounder. Her cheeks were pink dumplings, her throat necklaced by puffy little rolls of flesh. She held her hands out in fond greeting. One look at his face, however, and she dropped them. “Whatever happened?”

“Happened?” he echoed, still amazed by Fanny’s increased girth. He touched his face. “Oh. This. I was riding this morning and didn’t attend where I was going. When my head was turned the horse ran me through some branches.”

“Nasty, that,” Richard said, peering at the raw scratches crisscrossing the side of Hart’s face.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Fanny said.

“Well, it was me,” Hart said in a tone that suggested she forget the incident.

“Ah, yes. As it’s your face, it would have to be, wouldn’t it?”

Dear Fanny. Lovely, loving, but not particularly bright. Her gleaming honey-gold curls bounced as she nodded sagely. Her bosom, a mountain of tightly constrained flesh, bounced in counterpoint.

“And you, I trust, are doing well this morning?” Hart asked. She lowered her eyes and smiled shyly. Every exposed part of her person turned some variation on the shade pink.

“Yes. So far, at least.” She glanced up. “Richard has told you?”

“Yes, Fan. Congratulations. I cannot tell you how very pleased I am for you both. Whatever child you have will be most fortunate in his parents … particularly his mother.”

“Oh, Hart!” Tears shimmered in her large cornflower-blue eyes.

“Don’t cry, Francesca.” Hart shifted uneasily on his feet.

“I’m sorry, Hart. I know how such displays distress you, but this motherhood thing has me so … emotional!”

“So I see.”

“I promise I won’t cry anymore.” She sniffed and took three deep breaths. The seams of her bodice creaked. “There. I’m better now.” She smiled a brave, watery smile. “See? I shall contrive to be a
perfectly composed mother”—she gulped—“to … to … be!” She buried her face in the large linen handkerchief Richard produced.

“Do something,” Hart said to him.

Richard, aside from gazing sympathetically at his wife, didn’t move.

“Oh! A mother! Me!” Fanny said, hiccuping uncontrollably.

“Do something, man!” Hart repeated more forcefully.

“What?” Richard asked. “She’s been crying off and on for weeks now. I’ve purchased two score handkerchiefs since Fan’s been breeding. Not much else to do, ’cept keep myself well stocked with the tear towels, don’t you know.”

“Is she all right?” Hart asked. “She’s not sick, is she?”

“No.” Fanny shook her head. “She’s not sick. She’s expecting … a … a … 
baby!”

“Poor Fan.” Richard patted her shoulder.

“Get her some Devonshire cream,” Hart said on a sudden inspiration. “She always liked Devonshire cream when she was a lass. Would you like some Devonshire cream, Fan?”

She nodded, still sniffing. “Devonshire cream would be nice.”

“Get it,” Hart ordered Richard.

“Perhaps we can have Acton’s cook find something,” Richard cooed. “Come along, Fan, dearest. We’ll search out a nice little cubbyhole and have ourselves a cream tea, shall we?”

Hart let out the breath he’d been holding as
Richard escorted his sister from the room.
Good Lord
, he thought.
If pregnancy affects steady, even-tempered Fan this way, just think what it would do to someone like Mercy Coltrane
. His brows snapped together.
Where the bloody hell did that thought come from?

As if in response to some internal—and infernal—call he’d made, the woman who was responsible for his scratched face, whose actions—or rather the contemplation of whose potential actions—had driven off what little rest he found in slumber, appeared. Beside her was the Dowager Duchess and a man he assumed was James Trent, Duke of Acton.

Try as he might, Hart was unable to concentrate on Acton with Mercy standing so close. He contented himself with giving his potential brother-in-law a cursory study. A bit beneath average height, barrel chested, curling ginger-colored hair receding from a pleasant, blocky face. Hart’s gaze passed over him to Mercy.

She did not give any indication they had met before. She looked at him with no more than polite interest, her mouth trembling on the cusp of a smile. She was rigged out in some impossible pink plaid outfit, the heavy skirts draped behind her knees, a waterfall of pale lace and ruffles tumbling behind her as she advanced with that too-long stride of hers. It was, he noted, a high-collared gown, unlike the décolletage of the other ladies in the room. Did she always take pains to hide the scar he had given her? His jaw tightened.

The Dowager Duchess snapped a huge white ostrich feather fan open as they approached. She raised her thin silver eyebrows.

“Perth,” she said. He bowed from the neck. She turned and rapped her son sharply on the arm. “James, may I present Hart Moreland, Earl of Perth. Perth, my son, James Trent, Duke of Acton.”

Acton stepped forward and offered his hand. Hart took it and they shook. Then Acton turned.

“Miss Coltrane, may I present—”

“The Earl of Perth? So I heard.” She dimpled saucily. “Yes. You may present him. And
I
will present myself. Mercy Coltrane, Mr. Perth. Late of Texas. That’s a territory in the United States of America,” she said. “And where do you hang your hat, sir?”

“Here and there.” He was aware his voice was not as smooth as he’d have liked. Impudent little baggage.

“Perth is an inveterate tourist. Spends all his time roaming about the world,” the Dowager said. “We are most fortunate he has postponed his latest sojourn in order attend our little party.”

“Not at all, madam. It is my pleasure.”

“Well, I’m pleased to make the acquaintance of someone as well traveled as yourself, sir,” Mercy said. “You must have some interesting tales to tell.”

She stuck out her bare hand.

He had no choice but to take it. Her fingers were warm and delicate and utterly feminine. She
knew
it wasn’t decent to extend an ungloved hand.
She was mocking him. It was there in the challenging glint of her eye, the defiant angle of her chin.

He did not resist the temptation to hold her hand a bit tighter than necessary or, when it was clear she actually expected him to shake it, carry it to his lips, pressing a kiss on the back of her long fingers.
Velvet softness
—He was gratified to hear a tiny gasp. She pulled her hand free.

Mannerless little American heathen. She’d be lucky if society put up with her brazenness for a fortnight. He lifted his gaze to find both the Duchess and Acton had turned indulgent smiles on the redheaded chit, as if charmed by her bold behavior.

“Miss Coltrane,” he muttered.

“Dear heavens, sir!” Mercy exclaimed, a riotous flush high on her cheeks. “Whatever happened to your face?” She covered her lips with the tips of her fingers in a theatrical display of concern. Hart was certain she was covering a smile. Brat.

“A horse,” he said evenly, “ran with me through some low-hanging branches across the riding trail.”

“And you couldn’t control him?” Mercy asked, her gold-spackled eyes opening even wider. She turned to Acton. “Your Grace, you will have to speak to your grooms about fitting a rider’s talent to his mount. Otherwise nasty accidents like that which has befallen Mr. Perth will be bound to happen.”

“Lord Perth,” Hart corrected. “And the horse was not beyond my abilities.” Damn it all, she’d provoked him into defending his equestrian skill.

She ceased fluttering her eyelashes at Acton, who was nodding sententiously. The Duke looked as though he were plotting a riding program for him. She turned back. Her eyes gleamed with triumph. “Did you say something, sir?” she asked sweetly.

“He wants you to call him by his proper title, Miss Coltrane,” the Duchess said.