Mary Putney - Petals in the Storm

"What the devil is going on here?"

It was the battle cry of an angry husband; Rafe would have recognized it anywhere. He sighed. Apparently there was going to be an untidy emotional scene of the sort he most loathed. Releasing the delightful lady in his arms, he turned to face the man who had just stormed into the drawing room.

The newcomer was about Rafe's height and of similar age, somewhere in his mid-thirties. Though he probably would have looked pleasant under other circumstances, at the moment he seemed ready to commit murder.

Lady Jocelyn Kendal cried, "David!" and stepped forward with pleasure, then stopped dead at the expression on her husband's face. Tension throbbed between hem like a drum.

The silence was broken when the newcomer said in low, furious voice, "It's obvious that my arrival is both unexpected and unwelcome. I assume this is the Duke of Candover? Or are you spreading your favors more widely?"

As Lady Jocelyn rocked with the impact of the words, Rafe said coolly, "I'm Candover. I'm afraid that you have the advantage of me, sir." Visibly wrestling with the urge to throw his wife's guest out, the other man snapped, "I am Presteyne, husband of this lady here, though not for long." His hard gaze returned to Lady Jocelyn. "My apologies for interrupting your amusements. I'll collect my belongings and never trouble you again."

Then Presteyne left with a wall-rattling slam of the door. Rafe was glad to see the back of him; though an expert in all forms of gentlemanly sport, brawling with a furious husband of military bearing was not high on Rafe's list of pleasures.

Unfortunately the scene was not yet over, for Lady Jocelyn folded onto a satin chair and began to weep. Rafe regarded her with exasperation. He preferred to conduct his affairs lightly, with mutual pleasure and no recriminations, and would never have touched Lady Jocelyn if she hadn't told him that her marriage was in name only. Clearly the lady had lied. He remarked, "Your husband doesn't seem to share your belief that the marriage is one of convenience."

She lifted her head and regarded Rafe blankly, as if she had forgotten that he was there.

Irritated, he asked, "What kind of game are you playing? Your husband doesn't seem the sort of man to be manipulated with jealousy. He may leave you, or he may wring your neck, but he won't play that kind of lover's game."

"I wasn't playing a game," she said unevenly. "I was trying to discover what was in my heart. Only now do I know how I feel about David, when it is too late."

Rafe's irritation faded in the face of her youth and vulnerability. He had once been equally young and confused, and the sight of her misery was a vivid reminder of how disastrous love could be. "I'm beginning to suspect that under your highly polished surface beats a romantic heart," he said dryly. "If that's true, go after your husband and throw your charming self at his feet with abject apologies. You should be able to bring him around, at least this once. A man will forgive the woman he loves a great deal. Just don't let him find you in anyone else's arms. I doubt he would forgive you a second time."

Her eyes widened. Then, in a voice on the edge of hysterical laughter, she said, "Your sang-froid is legendary, but even so, the reports do you less than justice. If the devil himself walked in, I think you would ask him if he played whist."

"Never play whist with the devil, my dear. He cheats." Rafe lifted her icy hand and gave it a light farewell kiss. "Should your husband resist your blandishments, feel free to let me know if you want a pleasant, uncomplicated affair." He released her hand. "You'll never get more than that from me, you know. Many years ago I gave my heart away to someone who dropped and broke it, so I have none left."

It was a good exit line, yet as he looked into the girl's lovely face, he found himself saying, "You remind me of a woman I once knew, but not enough. Never enough."

Then he turned and walked away, out of the house and down the steps into the civilized confines of Upper Brook Street. His curricle was waiting, so he swung up and took the reins.

The part of him that laughed at his own vanities found mocking amusement in how well "The Duke" had carried off the scene. The Duke was Rafe's private lame for the public image he had spent a dozen years rafting and polishing. As The Duke, he was the perfect, imperturbable English gentleman, and no one played the role better than Rafe.

Everyone needed a hobby.

Yet as he turned the corner into Park Lane, he was uneasily aware that he had shown a little more of himself than was comfortable. Fortunately Jocelyn was unlikely to spread the story, and Rafe certainly wouldn't.

He pulled the curricle up in front of his Berkeley Square house, gloomily thinking that he would have to start looking for a mistress again. In the weeks since he had ended his last affair, he had been unable to find a woman who caught his fancy. In fact, he had begun to wonder if he should give up on the compliant matrons of his own class and hire a courtesan. It would be simpler to keep a professional mistress, but such females were usually greedy and uneducated, and not infrequently diseased. The prospect did not enthrall him.

That was why he had been pleased when lovely Jocelyn Kendal had delicately informed him that she had entered into a marriage of convenience, and was interested in diversion. He had always admired her, but had kept his distance because it was strictly against his code to tamper with innocents. During the weeks he had been in the country he had thought about her with mild anticipation, and as soon as he returned to London he had called on her. Alas, in the interval since the lady had issued her discreet invitation, she seemed to have become an adoring, if confused, wife. Rafe must look elsewhere.

In an effort to relieve his depression, he congratulated himself on a narrow escape from what could have been a sticky affair. He should have known better than to become involved with such a bantling-brained romantic. In truth, he had known better, but she was really quite refreshing, the most appealing woman he had met in years. She was rather like…

He cut the thought off sharply. The main purpose of his early return to London was not dalliance, but a message from his friend Lucien, who wanted to discuss a business matter. The fact that the Earl of Strathmore's business was spying meant that his little projects were usually quite interesting.

Rafe's rank gave him access to the highest levels of society wherever he went, and over the years that fact had made him a useful part of his friend's far-flung intelligence network. Rafe's specialty was acting as a courier when official channels were not sufficiently private, but he had also conducted several discreet investigations among the rich and powerful.

As Rafe drove the curricle into his stable yard, he hoped that Lucien had something damned distracting this time.

Lucien Fairchild watched with amusement as the Duke of Candover made his way across the crowded drawing room. Tall, dark, and commanding, Rafe so exactly fitted the part of an aristocrat that he might have been an actor rather than the genuine article.

Since he was also theatrically handsome, it wasn't surprising that the gaze of every female in the room followed him. Idly Lucien wondered who would be next in the long line of glittering ladies who had shared Rafe's bed. Even Lucien, whose business was information, had trouble keeping track.

By Lucien's count, Rafe had used his famous icy glare to intimidate three encroaching nobodies as he crossed the room. Yet when the duke finally reached Lucien, his cool social smile warmed. "It's good to see you, Luce. I was sorry that you couldn't get away to Bourne Castle this summer."

"I was sorry, too, but Whitehall has been a madhouse." Lucien glanced across the room and gave an unobtrusive signal to another man, then continued, 'Let's find a quieter place to catch up on the news." He led Rafe from the drawing room to a study at the back of the house.

They both took seats, and Rafe accepted a cigar from his host. "I assume that you have some devious ask for me."

"You assume correctly." Lucien used a taper to light Rafe's cigar, then his own. "Do you fancy a trip to Paris?"

"Sounds perfect." Rafe puffed his cigar until it was burning evenly. "I've been feeling bored lately."

"This shouldn't be boring-the journey concerns a lady who is being a bit troublesome."

"Even better." Rafe drew in a deep draft of smoke, then let it trickle slowly from the side of his mouth. "Am I to kill her or kiss her?"

Lucien frowned. "Certainly not the former. As to the latter"-he shrugged-"I leave that to you."

The door opened and a dark man entered. Rafe rose and offered his hand. "Nicholas! I didn't know you were in London."

"Clare and I arrived just last night." After shaking hands, the Earl of Aberdare dropped casually into a chair.