Dangerous Gifts

by Mary Jo Putney

  “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!

  His hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. If he had been closer tonight, he might have slain the duke when the drunken sot had attacked her. Luckily that other mortal had happened along in time to save Leah from harm. It would have enraged the powers of Faerie if Ranulph had killed the duke because of a mortal woman. Debts must always be paid, and those between Faerie and the mortal world weighed heavy indeed.

  Intent on his thoughts, Ranulph spun about with dangerous alarm when a warm hand touched his wrist. His grip on his sword relaxed when he saw that he had been accosted by Lady Kamana, the Indian faery.

  “You again,” he said, voice cool though in truth he was pleased to see her. “I thought you would have joined one of the faery courts by now.”

  “Nay, my lord.” She tossed her head. Her long black hair was pulled into a luxuriant silken rope, banded every six inches by a circlet of gold until the tip brushed the earth. “I will not choose a permanent home until I’ve seen more of your land.”

  He’d forgotten how richly purring her voice was. Instead of her Indian silks, she was garbed in the provocative evening gown of a grand London lady. Perversely, the English garments made her seem even more exotic.

  “You’ve made your little country girl very beautiful,” she observed.

  “You recognized her?” he said, surprised.

  “Of course. You could not have made her outward appearance so beautiful if it did not reflect her soul. She is young as only mortals can be young, but her heart is good, and music runs through her like pure fire. Otherwise the faery glamour you laid on her would be a pale thing, fit only to convince mortals.”

  “Mortals are easily deceived,” he said dryly. “I’ve made her the toast of London, but the foolish girl has not yet fallen in love, and I cannot ask my price until she does.”

  “Patience, Lord Ranulph. She will find the love of her life soon.” A smile touched her voice. “Very soon.”

  Ranulph frowned. “Do your Folk see the future clearly? I can sense it sometimes, but not with any detail.”

  “When I concentrate, I can see patterns of destiny like silver threads that run through time and space,” Kamana said slowly. “They touch each other and create shining webs of love and hate and friendship.”

  “You can see Leah bonded to me?” Ranulph asked urgently. He’d sensed that he would soon be sharing his domain with another, but desire might be distorting his intuition. “She will be my consort?”

  “Never fear, my lord. I see your thread intersecting that of your consort, forming a knot that will bind you together for eternity, or near enough.” Kamana drew the heavy rope of her hair through her fingers, absently toying with the gold bangles that circled it. “Like all gifts, mine is a mixed blessing. I followed my own thread of destiny here, not knowing how close it would come to destroying me.”

  “You said the passage was difficult,” he said as he imagined the months of confinement on shipboard.

  She was silent for a long moment, her habitual shimmering vivacity stilled. “Even more difficult than I told you when we first met. At the start of the voyage, there was not enough of nature living on that ship. The mortal who was bringing the specimens back to England found me dying among his shrubs. He understood my malady, though I could say little, and demanded that the ship stop at a small tropical island. Days we stayed there, and I recovered my strength among the flowers and palms. When the ship continued, the mortal brought more greenery into the hold to sustain me for the rest of the journey.”

  “But he extracted a price from you,” Ranulph said flatly. “It is ever the way of mortals to extract treasure from the Fair Folk when they have us in their power.”

  She flashed a smile in the darkness, shimmering again. “Aye, he asked a price, but not for himself. Merely to preserve his beloved nephew from death in battle, then find the boy a good mate. ’Twas not a price I mind paying.”

  “You were fortunate.”

  “I merely followed dest
iny’s thread.” She swept a perfect English curtsy. “Good night, my lord. I intend to stay in London for a time, so we shall meet again.”

  He bowed, then vanished into the shadows of the duke’s garden.

  Kamana stood and watched him leave, her inner vision studying the silver thread of his destiny.

  Chapter Four

  Lady Wheaton at her side, Leah entered the Duke of Candover’s ballroom with the graceful confidence that came to her naturally now. She had recovered from her encounter with the Duke of Hardcastle, and never let herself be caught alone by any of her other admirers. She had also improved her flirting, which made it easier to control the men who flocked around her. Flirting was a game, enjoyable in itself and also good at keeping people at precisely the distance one wanted them.

  Lady Wheaton murmured, “Brace yourself, my dear, you’ve been seen.”

  Already men were flocking toward them. Most Leah knew, though a few were strangers drawn like moths to the flame. Several of them immediately demanded introductions from Lady Wheaton. Lord Wye planted himself in front of Leah and bowed. “You are in exceptionally fine looks tonight, Miss Marlowe.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a friendly smile. She had already turned down three proposals from Lord Wye, but he had not given up yet.

  Lord Jeffers intoned, “She walks in beauty, like a swallow’s flight.” He hesitated. “That’s the first line of my new poem, but I’m not sure I’ve got the right phrase yet.”

  Leah touched his hand. “I’m sure you will,” she said warmly. Then she turned so Lady Wheaton could make introductions. In the last weeks Leah had mastered easy social intercourse. In fact, she’d learned that beauty made almost all things easy.

  Yet she was no closer to finding someone to love. The most attractive men she had met were those who were happily married, like her newly wed host, the Duke of Candover. Wanting nothing from her, such men were relaxed and charming companions.

  At every social function she attended, she looked for the man who had rescued her from the Duke of Hardcastle, but without success. Instead of a guest, might he have been a servant, perhaps a gardener? She wanted to kick herself for running away in embarrassment that night instead of making his acquaintance. Ah, well, he was probably married and unavailable.

  Leah had just returned from waltzing with a portly baronet when Lady Wheaton murmured behind the cover of an opened fan, “Captain Duncan Townley has just arrived. He doesn’t go out socially very much, so he’s the only one of my eligibles that you haven’t met.” She tapped her lips with the fan reflectively. “Since no one else has taken your fancy, perhaps he will. Half the women in London dote on him. A hero of Waterloo, you know, and heir to a viscount.”

  Leah glanced toward the door, then caught her breath involuntarily. The man who had just entered was stunning, the epitome of the bold, dashing hero who would make any woman’s knees melt. Though not exceptionally tall, his lithe, broad-shouldered form radiated intense virility. A lock of dark wavy hair fell over his forehead as he surveyed the ballroom with hooded eyes. Leah tried to estimate his age. Not old, though, certainly under thirty. Awed, she whispered, “He’s magnificent.”

  For an instant, she thought that he had noticed her. Then her view was blocked by women crowding forward to see him. She understood perfectly. In fact, she had to suppress a mad desire to walk up to Duncan Townley, link her arms around his neck, and announce that she was his destiny.

  Such foolishness! Or was it? There was magic in her life now. Could Ranulph have sent her to London to meet Duncan Townley? The faery lord had said that she could command the love of heroes if she wished.

  Smiling at her protégée’s reaction, Lady Wheaton said, “Shall I introduce you?”

  “Not yet. I must go to the ladies’ retiring room and fix my hair.” More nervous than she had been since the night of her presentation, Leah made her excuses to her circle of admirers and left. But instead of returning to the ballroom after checking her appearance, she detoured to the music room, which was blessedly empty.

  She dropped onto the bench in front of the pianoforte and forced herself to breathe slowly. She must be calm when her godmother introduced her to Duncan Townley. With a man like that, who could have any woman, she would need every iota of her beauty, and charm as well. Nor could she appear too eager. She’d learned enough of men in the last weeks to know that many were captivated by a woman who seemed unattainable.

  Her gaze went to the keyboard of the pianoforte. Unable to resist it, she stripped off her gloves and began to play, keeping the sound soft so that it would be inaudible in the ballroom. Mozart soothed her, reminding her of who she really was. Some days she feared that she was in danger of losing herself.

  By the end of her first piece, she was so caught up in the music that she went immediately into Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” The knot of tension that had been part of her since coming to London dissolved. Eyes closed, she played by touch, gently rocking back and forth as her hands coaxed the divine melodies from the instrument.

  At the end she sighed with happiness, head bowed as her hands stilled on the keyboard. Then the sound of clapping hands startled her from her reverie.

  Her lids snapped open. To her shock, Duncan Townley was standing in the doorway applauding. Their gazes met for a charged moment. In his eyes she saw the same kind of intense interest that she felt for him.

  He entered the music room with a pantherlike smoothness that riveted her attention. “So this is where you’ve been hiding, fair lady,” he said in a voice like deep, rich chocolate. “I saw you across the ballroom earlier, but you vanished before I could find you. I’ve been looking ever since.” He halted beside the pianoforte. “You play extraordinarily well.”

  Leah’s heart began to beat in triple time. The voice, the height and build—this was the man who had rescued her from the Duke of Hardcastle. “Thank you,” she said, amazed at how steady her voice sounded. “You’re Duncan Townley, and I am Leah Marlowe. Since my godmother intended to introduce us, we can now say that the formalities have been duly performed.”

  As soon as she spoke, his brows drew together in puzzlement. He must find her voice familiar also. How foolish of her to think that it would be possible to pretend their first meeting had never happened. She continued, “Besides, we have already met, in the garden of Hardcastle House. I am very much in your debt, Captain Townley.”

  “So it was you,” he exclaimed. “With your voice like singing bells.” His gaze was almost fierce in its intensity. “Hardcastle’s behavior was despicable—but I understand better now why he forgot himself as he did.”

  Leah blushed, and wished that she hadn’t. With this man, she cared about the impression she made. Cared desperately. He was glorious, the most attractive male creature she’d ever seen, except for Lord Ranulph, who was too alien to affect her heart.

  Dear God, Duncan Townley couldn’t be faery, could he? Her gaze shot up as she looked to see if his eyes were the same emerald green that showed in her own mirror. She exhaled with relief when she saw that they were a rare and striking transparent gold. Not green, thank heaven.

  She must say something before he decided that she was an idiot. Casting about for a topic of conversation, she said, “My godmother says you are a hero of Waterloo.”

  Wrong topic. His golden eyes darkened. “I simply did my duty. There were many heroes that day, and too many of them are now dead.”

  The tan skin tightened over his face, revealing the fine line of a newly healed scar over his sculptured cheekbone. She guessed that it had been made by the slice of a saber. He might have been killed or blinded, but instead, the scar enhanced the rugged masculinity of his appearance.

  The thought of him being wounded brought the reality of war to her as newspaper stories never had. On impulse, she stood and lightly touched the scar. Since her gloves were still off, there was an intimate contact of skin to skin. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “It must be bitter to lose
so many of your friends, and then be acclaimed when they have been forgotten.”

  The warmth returned to his eyes. With utter simplicity, he turned his head and kissed the palm of her hand. “Thank you for understanding.”

  The touch of his lips sent fire shivering through her, warming deep places that she had not known existed. This was what she had longed for, she realized dazedly. The first tentative recognition between two souls that, God willing, would lead to love.

  Without haste she lowered her hand. “I should return to the ballroom. My godmother would not be happy to learn that I was alone with a man.” She made a face. “You know what happened the last time.”

  His brows arched. “Do you think I am like the Duke of Hardcastle?”

  She considered flirting to keep him at a distance, but decided that it was already too late for that. “No. You are unlike anyone I have ever met.”

  For a moment, there was an expression that seemed almost like pain in his golden eyes. Then he smiled. “You’re right that it is time to return to the ballroom. The next dance is a waltz, and you will dance it with me.”

  The thought of being held in his arms sent a delicious shiver through her, but she shook her head regretfully. “I’m sorry, this waltz is spoken for.” She lifted her fan from the pianoforte and studied the sticks, where she had written the names of her partners. “Sir Amos Rowley, I believe.”

  “What a pity that you lost your fan.” Duncan plucked the fragile object from her hand, then folded it neatly and tucked it inside his coat. “I shall gallantly volunteer to see that you are not forced to sit out this dance.”

  Her mouth curved. “I shall miss that fan,” she said as she drew on her gloves again. “It was a gift from my godmother.”

  “I foresee that I will miraculously find it later.” He placed her hand on his arm. “Naturally I must call on you tomorrow to return your fan. In gratitude, you will grant me a drive in the park.”