Dangerous to Kiss (25 page)

Having finished the burgundy and settled the bill, they scraped back their chairs. They were almost at the door when a young man with a thin, handsome face fringed with dark hair came barging into the room and stumbled against them. This was the Viscount Leathe who had made the toast which had soured Lawford’s mood. He righted himself almost at once, and had begun on an apology when he suddenly recognized Gray and drew back violently.

“Leathe,” acknowledged Gray, icily polite. The last time he had seen Lord Leathe was in the Bois de Boulogne in Paris when he had helped him onto his horse after knocking him senseless for daring to kiss and fondle his sister, Meg. Had it not been for the threat of scandal, he would have called him out. “I had heard,” said Gray, “that you were fixed in Yorkshire for the hunting season.”

Leathe spoke with deliberate insolence. “The hunting in London suits me better.”

A muscle tensed in Gray’s cheek. “Then no doubt we shall meet again before long.”

“I look forward to it,” drawled Leathe.

During the short walk home to Berkeley Square, Gray was seething. He had promised Leathe that the next time he came near his sister, he would put a bullet in his brain. During that terse exchange in White’s, Leathe had practically taunted Gray with the promise that Meg was still his quarry, and if that meant a duel
with her brother, so be it. Leathe was an insolent pup who was begging to be taught a lesson. He was wild and had an ungovernable temper which his years with the army had done nothing to improve. Scandal had followed on his heels from one posting to another, from the plains of India to the garrison at Dublin.

About six months ago, he had appeared in Paris like an ill-omened comet. Gaming, dueling, wenching—that was the sum of Leathe’s ambitions. This did not surprise Gray. It was common knowledge that bad blood ran in his veins. His mother had died in an insane asylum. His sister had disappeared off the face of the earth after her betrothed had died in suspicious circumstances. And Leathe himself had escaped some scandal at school by running away and enlisting in the British army. It was the father who had Gray’s sympathies. The Earl of Belvidere put a brave face on things. Though estranged from his son and heir, it was rumored that he had left no stone unturned to effect a reconciliation, but his efforts had been futile. Leathe was intent on burning himself out before he reached his next birthday. And the boy was no older than Nick!

If it were up to him, every door in London would be barred against the viscount. There was little hope of that happening. Leathe had one asset hard to resist. He had more money than sat in the vaults of the Bank of England. In fact, even Gray’s considerable fortune paled into insignificance when compared to Leathe’s. And for this reason, ambitious parents would willingly overlook the viscount’s unsavory character in hopes of establishing their daughters in style. Gray snorted. If Leathe had marriage on his mind, his name wasn’t John Grayson. No. What Leathe wanted was to set the world on its heels, just for the hell of it.

On arriving at Kendal House, he removed his greatcoat and made straight for the drawing room where he knew his mother would be hosting one of her informal assemblies for a few invited guests. This was something new at Kendal House, and the idea had come from Gray. He wanted to ease Deborah’s way in society, to enlarge her group of friends and acquaintances so that
she would feel comfortable when she attended larger receptions. It also gave him a chance to look over the young men who might be suitable candidates for her hand in marriage. To his chagrin, the first person his eyes alighted on when he entered the room was Lady Helena Perrin. She was seated on a long sofa, talking animatedly to Deborah. He didn’t want Helena Perrin anywhere near Deborah.

Standing unseen, just inside the door, he took a moment or two to contemplate Deborah. Her profile was to him, giving him a glimpse of her beautiful long throat and the soft swell of her breasts. In the pale peach silk that he himself had chosen for her, she looked as pretty as a picture. She looked so right in his house, with his mother and sisters, wearing garments he had chosen to enhance her femininity.

It wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to lift the burdens from her shoulders. He wanted her to be safe and happy. She shouldn’t have to worry about money, or earn a living by looking after other people’s children. He wanted the best for her, and, by God, he was going to see that she got it.

Lady Helena looked up and caught sight of him. “Gray!” She smiled and patted the empty space beside her on the sofa.

He ignored the invitation and took a straight-backed chair from where he could face both ladies. Deborah’s expression was unclouded, and he experienced a rush of relief. As his look lingered, Deborah’s brows winged up, coolly questioning him. He smiled into her eyes, conveying his pleasure at the pains she had taken with her appearance that evening. She had not given in gracefully to this transformation. He was still in her black book, and he sensed that someone had warned her against him, probably his own mother. He didn’t mind Deborah’s cool stares or her flashes of temper for himself, in fact, he relished crossing swords with her, but he would not permit anyone else to embarrass her, especially not a discarded mistress.

Lady Helena was taking in this silent exchange. She had already noticed that Deborah Weyman was hardly
the drab little governess she had been in Paris. This vision of elegance could hold her own in any setting. It struck her forcibly, now, that she had never seen that softened expression on Gray’s face, had never seen that warm, intimate smile. She could hardly believe what her eyes were telling her.

Deborah broke the silence. “Lady Helena did not recognize me when we met this evening.”

“No, indeed,” said Helena, managing to pull herself together. “Miss Weyman’s appearance has undergone a remarkable change.”

Gray looked at Helena, and there was a warning to be read in the hardness in his eyes. “Deborah,” he said, “was convinced that she would be taken more seriously as a governess if she made herself look older.”

Helena smiled sweetly. “So she told me. But you saw through her ruse?” Gray inclined his head, and Helena laughed before continuing lightly, “Watch him, Miss Weyman. He is a born predator.” She rose gracefully. “It was a pleasure to meet you again, Miss Weyman.” She looked over at her husband, signaling that it was time to go. “Gray, would you mind waiting for me while I take my leave of your mother?”

When she and Gray were in the corridor, Helena slipped a gold bracelet from her wrist. “You bastard,” she hissed, slapping the bracelet into the hand that came up automatically to receive it. Then, ignoring the presence of two silent, startled footmen, she walked off.

Gray had just slipped the bracelet into his pocket, when Eric Perrin came out of the drawing room. “What happened to Helena?” he asked.

“She went to get her wrap.” Gray did not elaborate, and after a slight hesitation, Perrin bade him a civil good-night and began to descend the stairs. When Perrin had taken the turn in the stairs, Gray went back to his guests.

“You’re very quiet tonight, Eric.”

Eric Perrin gripped the safety strap as the coach
turned the corner into Bond Street. When the coach straightened, he looked over at his wife. “I was thinking of Miss Weyman. I saw you speaking to her earlier, and wondered what you had found to talk about.”

“Eton,” said Helena. “Quentin will be going there soon, and she wanted to know my opinion of it.”

“Why didn’t she ask Kendal? He is the boy’s guardian.”

“Yes, but Kendal doesn’t have two sons who are pupils there. I think she was anxious, but I did my best to put her mind at rest. Besides, she is the boy’s guardian too.”

“Where was Quentin, by the by? I thought, since this was an informal party, he might be allowed to join us for a few minutes.”

Helena looked curiously at him, then shrugged. “I believe he has gone into the country to be with the Hartleys’ boy. Jason and he have become almost inseparable.”

“That’s an odd business about his memory, isn’t it?”

“Miss Weyman explained it to me. Quentin and she found his father’s body. The shock did something to the boy’s mind.” She felt suddenly cold, and shrank into her wrap.

“That’s not all that’s odd!”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Weyman is the boy’s governess, but while he goes off to the country, she stays in town. What do you make of it?”

Helena did not care for what she made of it, and she spoke sharply. “She is not a paid employee. She is Lady Kendal’s guest. It’s my opinion that Gray means to marry her.”

There was a silence, then Perrin said, “I’m sorry I spoke.”

She closed her eyes and let out a breathy sigh. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I don’t like to see you hurt.”

The coach made another turn, and she opened her eyes, staring at her husband as though he were a stranger. In some respects, he was a stranger. She had
never really understood him though they had been married for ten years. She had been sold to him, quite literally, to pay off her father’s debts. She considered herself fortunate that it was he who had offered the highest price for her and not one of her father’s friends, all of them elderly, revolting roués who had a taste for young flesh. Eric was not much older than she; he was handsome, he was rich, and could have had his pick of any number of girls. Whether he regretted the bargain, she had no way of knowing. They were not in the habit of confiding in each other. On balance, she thought the bargain suited him very well. For what it was worth, his children had blue blood in their veins. She was highly connected and used those connections to advance her husband’s career. She presided over boring dinner parties with charm and grace. She never complained about his infidelities, never reproached him for neglecting her. There was nothing to reproach. He was openhanded, never begrudging her a new gown or whatever took her fancy. And he turned a blind eye to her own string of lovers. She wondered if he was happy with his new mistress in their lovers’ nest in Kensington.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

She breathed out slowly. “I don’t want to be alone. Don’t leave me tonight, Eric.”

His eyes seemed to burn brightly in that dimly lit coach. “Do you want me, Helena, or will any man do?”

She sensed his arousal and laughed tauntingly. “Any man will do, as long as he is as handsome and as virile as you.”

He made a small sound that she could not interpret, then he was reaching for her.

After the Perrins’ departure, Gray felt more comfortable in his role as host. He exchanged a few words with Lord Denning, who had arrived late, and was sulking over finding Deborah monopolized by Philip Standish. Having exhausted the subject of Denning’s new bay, Gray appraised the other gentlemen in the room. He
approved of Hay and Banks, the young men who formed part of Meg’s court. Their credentials were impeccable; they came from good stock; they conducted themselves like gentlemen; and though he was aware that each dabbled in the petticoat line, he did not hold that against them. They were men. Besides, no plaster saint would ever hold Meg. That reminded him of Viscount Leathe, and he went to join his mother at the tea table.

She smiled when he sat down beside her. “I think,” she said, “that Deborah and Mr. Standish are quite taken with each other. They met in Paris, did you know? At some picnic or other.”

Gray followed her look. Deborah and Philip were cozily ensconced on the sofa, and Philip was laughing at something she had said. Gray frowned. “Philip and Deborah? I hardly think so.”

“Mmm,” said his mother with a complacent twinkle in her eye. “Why won’t they suit?”

He gave her the obvious explanation. “Philip is as poor as a church mouse. It would be a foolish match for them both.”

She sighed dramatically. “I fear you are right, yet again.”

“Yet again?” asked Gray absently. Deborah had turned one of Philip’s hands over and she appeared to be reading his palm, much to that gentlemen’s embarrassment.

The countess began to tick off names on the fingers of one hand. “Mr. Daniels, you said, was too old for her; Mr. Markham was too young; Lord Tweedsdale, and I can hardly credit this, would never offer marriage but only the position of mistress. Now who else was there? Oh yes, Crossley’s heir was too spoiled, and Denning only wants a nurse for his motherless children. But Gray, these are all gentlemen that you particularly told me to cultivate because they are so suitable. I wish you would tell me what has made you change your mind. At this rate, we shall never get Deborah married off.”