Truth about Leo

by Katie MacAlister

  “We’ll be happy to help Dagmar if you like. I know Plum is dying to know more about your wife.” His eyes twinkled behind the lenses when he added, “As am I.”

  Leo sighed again, a slow, exhausted sigh. “I’ll just have to warn Dagmar to let me know if anything untoward happens in Dalton’s home.”

  Harry started to speak but stopped when they heard, “Leo, I do believe that your wife is correct in her determination to get you into bed.”

  Leo stared at her while Harry doubled over in laughter.

  Plum blushed and added hastily, “That is, you look as though you should be in bed resting. Could you not go to a hotel with Dagmar? Harry, you are the most idiotic of men. Cease laughing or you’ll give Dagmar the idea that you’re mad.”

  “I appreciate the thought—both of the thoughts,” Leo said, giving his wife a little bow. “But as I can’t be by Dagmar’s side all day, a hotel is out of the question. I believe I have a solution to the situation, however. Philip Dalton and his sister were on the ship with us, and they extended an invitation to stay with them while we looked about for a house. I will take Dagmar there now.”

  “What an excellent idea. I seem to recall the Daltons from before I married my first husband—” Plum stopped, gave her husband an odd glance, and cleared her throat before going on. “I don’t remember a sister, though. Still, Mrs. Dalton was very kind to me at my coming out. She had a daughter much the same age, and I remember us clinging together for support at the endless round of balls and routs.”

  It took another twenty minutes before Leo was able to escort his wife out to the carriage, promises by both Plum and Dagmar to pay respective calls being flung between the two ladies.

  “And so it is decided that we will go to the house of a friend of Lord March?” the companion was asking when he climbed wearily into the carriage.

  “Yes, some people who were on the ship with us,” Dagmar murmured, watching him closely.

  “And are they quite nice?” Julia fretted with a silk fringe on the edge of her reticule. “I should hate to know what your mother would have to say to me if she knew I had said nothing against you staying with people who weren’t quite proper.”

  “I saw them at Amalienborg waiting to speak with Frederick, so I gather they are perfectly respectable. His name is Dalton, I believe.”

  Leo leaned back in the carriage, Dagmar at his side, feeling oddly pleased by that fact despite his exhaustion and pain. Across from him sat the companion, her inane chat drifting around the carriage like the incessant twittering of a bird. He closed his eyes, too tired to focus on what she was saying, and instead focused his mind on the two most immediate problems: what to do with a wife he hadn’t particularly wanted but who now seemed to hold an erotic sway over him and what sort of a reaction Lord Salter would have to find his mission cut short.

  “Leo,” Dagmar said, interrupting his musings.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you speak German?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. I want to practice saying a few things.”

  He opened his eyes to look at her. “Why?”

  She lifted a hand in a vague gesture. “You never know when you might be called upon to speak to someone German.”

  He couldn’t dispute that, so he closed his eyes again.

  “What do you intend to do after you abandon Julia and me at these Daltons’?” she asked in German.

  He opened one eye again and rolled it around to look at her. This was no language practice. She glanced toward her companion and gave her a toothy smile.

  Ah. That was the way of it. “Abandoned?” he asked in the same language.

  “Is that not the correct word?” She thought for a moment.

  “Leave is, I believe, the verb you are seeking.”

  “No, that doesn’t convey with it the sense of you dropping us and running away so that you don’t have to see me again.”

  He turned to face her, confused as to whether she was having difficulties with the strange vocabulary, or if she really felt he was abandoning her. “I am not dropping you and running away.”

  “No?” She picked at a hole in her gloves, and he made a mental note to tell Plum, who was evidently to oversee the acquisition of a new wardrobe, to include such frippery things as gloves and boots that weren’t patched and a shawl that didn’t show signs of moths. “What do you call a man who throws his wife at virtual strangers and then goes off and does who knows what?”

  “If you are implying I’m getting rid of you—”

  “You are.”

  “I’m not. I’ve explained to you about my landlady. You cannot stay at my rooms, and I won’t have you staying by yourself at a hotel. If you have a friend or relation in town, I would be happy to know about it, but otherwise, as you just said yourself, the Daltons appear to be respectable, and they offered to have us.”

  “Aha!”

  “What on earth is that supposed to mean?”

  “Aha, you admit you are dumping me so as to get away from me. I don’t know why you won’t just annul me if you don’t want me.”

  “Who says I don’t want you?”

  “What man would abandon his wife—”

  “I am not abandoning you, dammit!” he thundered, causing the companion to gaze upon him with mingled astonishment and concern. He bared his teeth in what he hoped was a smile before saying in a lower volume, “The Daltons asked us to stay with them.”

  “Us, Leo, us. Not Julia and me, but us, all three of us.”

  He frowned, puzzled.

  She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers, just a simple little touch, but it sent a streak of fire coursing down his arm and straight to his groin.

  He really had been without a woman for too long if the merest brush of a finger was arousing. He thought of going to one of the infamous houses available to gentlemen of means, but the truth was, his body wanted Dagmar.

  He was beginning to suspect that his mind wanted her as well, damn her delectable self.

  “I have rooms already,” he pointed out, trying not to think of her mouth or the way her breasts almost overflowed the bodice of her gown, or how her legs would feel wrapped around him. He needed distance, that’s what it was. Trapped with her pressed against his side, her warm, tantalizing scent filling his brain with all sorts of erotic images was clearly wreaking havoc on his ability to reason. Distance would help. He could go back to being a logical individual then.

  Dagmar glanced at her companion, but the woman appeared to be dozing. “And just what, might I inquire, do you plan on doing once you fling Julia and me to the wolves?”

  He rolled his eyes at her statement. “If you mean what are my plans for the rest of the day, I must see Lord Salter before word of my arrival comes to him by other means. He won’t like that at all, and since he’s not going to be happy about me being in England when I should be in Prussia, I’d like to keep him from losing what little temper he has. If you are concerned about my well-being, I assure you that once I have spoken with Lord Salter, I will return to my rooms.”

  “And do what?” Dagmar asked, her lips tight.

  Leo had an idea she was very angry, but couldn’t muster up the strength needed to placate her. If he could just get away from her tantalizing self, he could stop thinking of her lying in his bed and plan what he was going to say to Salter.

  “Rest.” What a blissful thought that was. Tantalizing, almost erotic in its attractiveness. He shivered slightly, wanting to feel the coolness of the sheets contrasted by the warmth of Dagmar’s silky flesh.

  In a desperate attempt to distract himself, he asked her, “Have you ever heard of a woman named Prothero?”

  Dagmar frowned. “Not that I can recall. Why?”

  “Dalton was in Copenhagen looking for her. He believes she murdered his nephew.”

>   “How horrible!”

  Briefly, he gave Dagmar the basics of what Dalton told him.

  “There were only a few Englishwomen in Copenhagen that I knew of, and none of them are of the right age or social class.” She looked distressed by this fact.

  Leo felt a need to comfort her but was too exhausted to do more than to say, “I will tell Dalton. Frankly, I think too much time has passed to ever find the woman. He’s just going to have to accept that.”

  “I suppose that would be for the best.” Dagmar was silent for a few minutes, watching him with a worried expression that did odd things to his heart. He was just contemplating one particularly delightful way to repay her for her concern when she asked, “Why don’t you stay with Julia and me? I’m sure there is plenty of room, and if not, I will sleep with Julia so that you may have whatever room the Daltons would give to me.”

  Oh, hell no, his mind told him. You can’t think when she’s near you, and you’ll need all your wits to cope with whatever Salter throws at you. Distance, that’s the key, distance emotionally and physically. Under no circumstances should you be in the same house as Dagmar. Different accommodations are preferable. Different cities, advisable. Hell, the way his body tingled all down the side that was pressed against her, different continents might not be enough.

  “All right,” his mouth said, and he had to fight to keep from banging his head against the side of the carriage.

  He was doomed now. Doomed, doomed, doomed.

  Nine

  Princesses who are too young to attend a ball do not perch on the tallest parapet of their cousin’s palace in order to throw down cups of wine upon the arriving guests, thereby staining their finery.

  —Princess Christian of Sonderburg-Beck’s Guide for Her Daughter’s Illumination and Betterment

  Dagmar sat at a small escritoire and tapped a quill against her lips while mentally running over the happenings of the last few hours. Before her sat a pristine diary bound in the loveliest calfskin she’d ever seen, its creamy pages as smooth as the silken nightdress that, like the diary, Louisa Hayes had pressed upon her.

  “Everyone should have a diary,” Louisa had said, presenting it to her. “Always write down the important things that happen to you, and what people say and what they do. That way you’ll never forget even the smallest of details.”

  It was a rather odd thing to say, but then, Dagmar reflected, Louisa Hayes was a bit of an odd person. Take, for instance, the episode that occurred the moment that they crossed the threshold of the Daltons’ town house.

  “Lord March! Princess Dagmar!” The tall, gray-haired woman whom Dagmar had last seen the day before, on board the ship, rushed forward, her hands extended in welcome. “I can’t tell you how delighted we are that you have so kindly allowed us to shelter you while you are looking around for a house—oh!” She stopped just as she reached Dagmar, one hand clutching her throat while the other shook as it pointed past her. “But you…I saw you in my dream!”

  Have arrived at Dalton House, Dagmar wrote on the first page, feeling that since the diary was a gift, she was obliged to do as its giver had commanded. Upon doing so, Mrs. Hayes almost swooned at the sight of Julia, claiming that she had seen her in a dream. Is she mad? Prescient? Or perhaps just confused?

  She certainly had seemed all three when she babbled something about having a dream where someone resembling Julia had threatened to stab her through the heart. “Which is ridiculous when you think about it,” Dagmar said aloud as she set down the quill. “Because why on earth would she dream that someone as sweet as Julia wished to stab her? No, I think she’s just a bit off center.”

  Still, it had been somewhat disconcerting to have their hostess take such an instant—and vehement—dislike to her companion. Julia, naturally, felt the awkward situation the most.

  “I shall go away to a hotel,” Julia had declared in a harsh whisper when the two ladies were escorted upstairs to the bedchamber that was to be given over to Dagmar. “I shan’t stay where I am not welcome.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Dagmar said with more confidence than she felt. She watched Louisa as she puttered around the room with her housekeeper, making sure everything was just so. “Mrs. Hayes is clearly one of those high-strung women who imagines things.”

  “But she said she dreamt about me,” Julia had said, tugging at her sleeve. “She said I had stabbed her. Me!”

  “We both know that there are some women who thrive on drama in their lives,” Dagmar said quickly, not wishing to dwell on the fact that the woman clutching her arm was one. “We shall simply forgive her little peculiarities. In all likelihood, we won’t be here very long—yes, Mrs. Hayes?”

  “I asked if you were sure you would be happy here. If you and Lord March would just agree to take Philip’s suite—”

  “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable in this room,” Dagmar had answered politely, but now that the space of a few hours had passed, she took a moment to consider the implications of sharing a bedchamber with Leo.

  For one, she’d get to see his firebird again. She looked forward to that, as well as touching it, and possibly, although who knew where this thought came from, licking it.

  Licking men’s backs: is it a thing that married people do? Must ask Julia when she’s not upset from being accused of wanting to kill our hostess. Also, is Leo up to bedding me? Drat. Still don’t know what that entails, so unable to make judgment on whether he’s fit for it or not. Wonder if there’s a book on such a thing? Mr. Dalton has a nice library. Shall check.

  Dagmar blotted the journal entry, decided she might like keeping a record of the events of the day, and went to check on Julia before proceeding downstairs.

  “Your room seems quite comfortable,” she told her companion a few minutes later, tucking a blanket around the latter’s legs. The bedchamber given to Julia wasn’t nearly as large or nicely decorated as her own, but Julia didn’t seem to notice, what with her repeated comments that she had no idea why Mrs. Hayes had taken such an aversion to her. “I wouldn’t fuss about it, Julia, I really wouldn’t. She might be a bit peculiar in the head, and Mr. Dalton won’t like you calling attention to it. Now, have you everything? Excellent.”

  “Oh, my dear princess, you are kindness personified to care for me in such a manner,” Julia said as Dagmar took up her candle before blowing out the lamp. The orange-and-red glow from the fireplace cast long shadows that seemed to reach inky fingers toward Julia’s bed. “But I cannot help but wish that we were in our own home, just the two of us, as snug as two little church mice.”

  “In a cold, drafty house that never seemed to be warm?” Dagmar shook her head and opened the door to leave. “Give me a small room with a cozy fire any day.”

  “I do hope that Lord March finds us a house very soon. I cannot like having you live with a woman who might be”—Julia’s voice dropped to a whisper—“quite mad.”

  “I’m sure she’s not that. She seemed fine other than the odd dream. Sleep well!”

  Dagmar escaped before Julia could continue, and hurried her way down the stairs and into a room that a brief tour earlier in the evening had shown to be a small library. The fire had been banked for the night, but Dagmar was well used to chilly houses and simply pulled her wool shawl tighter over her arms, holding her candle high in order to peruse the walls of books. She spent a good half hour searching for a book that would offer her some insight, but Mr. Dalton’s library was sadly deficient in either erotic literature or smutty stories of the ilk that her father’s groom used to leave lying around. Those had never been as helpful as she hoped, but perhaps now that she was older and more worldly, they would be more instructive.

  “Although really,” she sighed as she put back a book that looked promising but turned out to be a treatise on bizarre animals found in the depths of the ocean, “it would be hard to be any more innocent than I already am. Bl
ast Mama and her insistence that princesses not learn practicalities like how to bed a man.”

  She exited the library, the whisper of her gown trailing on the stone floor the only sound that followed her. Evidently the household had gone to bed, for there was only one night candle burning in the hall. She started toward the staircase, intending on returning to her bedchamber, when the low rumble of masculine voices reached her ear. Leo must be back from his visit—no amount of logic and sense could persuade him to delay until the following day—to Lord Salter.

  She didn’t hesitate; she simply went to the room from which the sound emerged and, with a quick glance around to make sure no footman was hidden away, opened the door a crack and put her ear to the gap.

  “—can’t imagine that he would actually carry through with that threat.”

  “You have no idea just how enraged your godfather can get when he’s crossed,” Leo said in a tone that had Dagmar frowning. He sounded exhausted. “Needless to say, I have been ordered back to the Continent to finish what I started. I told him I wouldn’t be able to leave until I had the situation with the princess settled, and that’s when he threatened to run me through with a dull saber and dump my carcass in the sewer so the rats could finish me off.”

  Dagmar’s frown grew. This Lord Salter person wanted Leo to leave her? She didn’t like that idea one bit, although she couldn’t for the life of her explain just why. After all, it wasn’t as though she was a weak woman who had to have a man handy to take care of her. She’d done just fine on her own since her Dearest Papa had died. So why did it make her stomach feel cold and clammy when she thought about Leo returning to Europe?

  “Not without me, he doesn’t,” she heard a voice growl and was more than a little startled to realize it came from her.

  “You look like he’s chewed you up and spat you out,” Dalton told Leo, which gave Dagmar the impetus she needed.

  She opened the door and marched into the room, her candle held before her as she imagined Joan of Arc might have held a sword. “Leo, I insist you come to bed with me right now. No, don’t protest that you don’t want to. I didn’t sit up for countless nights keeping you alive just so you can drop dead now. Don’t dawdle. The bed won’t stay warm forever.”