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  PRAISE FOR CONNIE BROCKWAY

  AND HER PREVIOUS ROMANCES

  PROMISE ME HEAVEN

  “[Connie Brockway’s] beautiful and touching novel is so enthralling that the audience will not be able to put it down for even a nanosecond. Promise Me Heaven is so polished and complex that readers will disbelieve that this is the author’s first work.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Graced with a marvelous, tortured hero and a spirited heroine, Promise Me Heaven is a book that delivers on all its promises.”

  —Romantic Times

  ANYTHING FOR LOVE

  “Connie Brockway has written a fun-filled romp. The lovers will find a way into your heart.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Anything for Love is a book to savor … Connie Brockway is definitely an author who belongs on your ‘must have’ list.”

  —A Little Romance

  “With her second novel, Connie Brockway has shown that she’s definitely one of the up-and-coming superstars of the romance genre.”

  —Affaire de Coeur

  “Vivid characters, wild romantic trysts, and the comical antics of the mountain men will glue you to the pages until the end. A truly unique historical romance.”

  —Rendezvous

  HE TOOK ADVANTAGE

  Slowly, he lifted his hands and bracketed the sides of her face, his thumbs resting near her parted lips, his forefingers grazing the downy hair at her temples.

  Stop. Now, before you scare her. But he could not.

  Her eyes widened. The gold-ash irises glinted in the firelight. Her lashes fluttered, sweeping feathered silkiness against his fingertips. He moved closer, oblique and cautious, his breath shallow, trying not to alarm her, thief that he was.

  It was so easy.

  She tilted her head and he stooped over her and kissed her. His lips touched a silken brow, each lid, the corner of her soft, trembling mouth. She sighed—sweet, sweet sound, delicious and erotic. He found her mouth, aware in some appalled recess of his consciousness that his restraint had vanished but unable to call himself back from the edge of the passion engulfing him.

  She was here and while he could hold her, devour her with hand and mouth and breath, she held back the night, her sweet body offered a sanctuary. His heart raced and his thoughts spun blackly.

  She started to speak and he closed her mouth with his. He would not let her say no. He dipped and caught her behind the knees, swinging her up into his arms.… She whimpered and lust careened through him. She clung to him, overpowered by his insistence, her ardor, his passion.

  He strode with her to the great, dark-curtained bed and laid her upon the dark, shimmering counterpane and followed her down.…

  Published by

  Dell Publishing

  a division of

  Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc.

  1540 Broadway

  New York, New York 10036

  Copyright © 1996 by Connie Brockway

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The trademark Dell® is registered in the U.S. Patent and

  Trademark Office.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-76831-5

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  v3.1

  To Don and Betina.

  If even a shadow of their real life love affair is

  reflected in one of my books, I’ll know I’ve

  succeeded in writing a Romance.

  A DANGEROUS MAN is a very special book to me and I owe a huge debt to those who inspired (and sometimes bullied) me into giving this manuscript the best I have to offer. I would like to thank my agent, Damaris Rowland, for her ardent and skillful championship of my work, Laura Cifelli at Dell for putting me on her “wish list,” my editor Marjorie Braman for her enthusiasm and insightful suggestions, and Sally Mitchell at Temple University for always so graciously making herself available to answer questions about Victoriana. Finally I would like to thank Susan Kay Law for critiquing at any hour of any given day, Susan Sizemore for plotting on the spur of the moment, and Christina Dodd for saying, “This is going to be great!”—and repeating it anytime I asked her to.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Texas Panhandle, 1872

  “Real tough, huh?” the outlaw sneered.

  “Yeah. Sure.” The “Duke” tried to keep his gun aimed at the man’s head, but it was hard. The kid kept thrashing around in the outlaw’s obscene parody of an embrace. He gritted his teeth, the palm cupping the butt of his pistol making fractional adjustments as the outlaw’s head appeared and disappeared behind the kid’s.

  “You don’t look so damn tough now, Duke,” the man snarled.

  “Whatever you say,” he answered in a soft, distracted voice.

  Behind the dirty forearm covering her mouth, the kid’s green eyes stared at him. Tears ran freely from them. But unless he missed his guess, they were tears of frustration and anger, not panic.

  The kid had guts. He’d give her that.

  “Yeah!” the outlaw crowed. “You just remember that, Duke. Whatever I say! Me! I got the upper hand here and you better not forget it.”

  With a huge sense of inner relief that he never allowed his face to mirror, the Duke saw that the kid was wearing out. Just a few seconds without her twisting around, that’s all he needed.

  “I won’t. Just let her go.”

  “What the hell do you think I am? Stupid?” the outlaw asked, punctuating his anger by savagely jerking the kid’s head next to his. She moaned.

  “No. Course not.”

  “That’s right. That’s right, you limey piece of shit! You’re the stupid one! You! Gonna be hard gettin’ your boss to fork over all that blood money he owes you when you have to tell him that his little girl got snatched, ain’t it?” he said, staggering back toward the door. He hauled the kid’s meager weight up on his hip, using her as a shield. She felt the movement, knew what it meant, and started twisting in his arms with renewed fervor.

  “Fuck.” Duke spat the word dispassionately. A few steps more and they were gone and the kid could just kiss good-bye to life—if she’d even want to live it after what this man would do to her.

  “Yeah.” An ugly smile creased the man’s filthy face. “My plan exactly.”

  “You aren’t going to get away,” Duke said softly, trying to fake the man into making a mistake. That was the thing with these tough guys, they always wanted to talk. Right now, talk was the only thing Duke had going for him.

  “The hell I’m not. I got me a nice little insurance policy here. Your employer’s only baby girl. Found her choking on
one of Daddy’s imported cee-gars. Ain’t she sweet?” He laughed as the kid squirmed again, kicking back with her feet. He nuzzled his head into the crook of her neck, keeping his eyes fixed on Duke’s gun. “Well, maybe she ain’t so sweet. But she’s gonna keep you from following me, now, ain’t she?”

  He pulled her with him, working his way back toward the door. “Drop the iron, Duke.” A few steps and they’d be gone.

  Drop the gun and they were both dead. He knew it and this man knew it. “No.”

  The ugly humor fled from the outlaw’s face. “I said drop it.”

  “And I said, no.”

  There was only one thing to do. Get rid of the shield. It was a risk, but one he’d have to take.

  Without a flicker of emotion crossing his face, Duke fired.

  The impact sent the kid careening back into the outlaw, knocking them both into the closed door. With a groan the kid fainted, her sudden deadweight dragging her out of the outlaw’s hold and onto the floor. Incredulous, the outlaw stared at the blood blossoming from the kid’s shoulder.

  “You shot her!” he said wonderingly. “You really are one evil son of a bit—”

  “Yeah,” Duke said, and took the head shot.

  Chapter 1

  Berkshire County, 1878

  “Begad, it’s good to see you again, Perth!” A tall, lanky young man hailed Hart Moreland, Earl of Perth, and bounded down the steps of the Actons’ magnificent country house. A bit breathless, he gained Perth’s side.

  Hart nodded in response to the greeting of his brother-in-law, Richard Whitcombe, Viscount Claredon. He pulled off his soft kid gloves and looked over the commotion in the yard. Though the Actons’ country house lay just west of London by a short hour’s ride, the luggage that was piling up on the drive suggested it lay at the ends of the earth.

  The other houseguests were arriving. Landaus and hansoms deposited their elegantly bejeweled, beribboned, and beruffled occupants on the magnificent sweeping steps leading to the house’s imposing pink granite facade. He recognized none of the guests. Not that he would. In spite of his titled position he’d had little experience with English society.

  “Fanny will be beyond pleased when she sees you’ve arrived,” Richard continued. “We haven’t seen you since our wedding nearly a year ago. And I know Beryl and Henley will be delighted, when they get here. As will Annabelle. All three of your sisters believe the sun rises and falls on you.”

  “Good of them,” Hart cut in. “Where is Beryl?”

  “Apparently Henley had to remain in town for some sort of political meeting.”

  “Annabelle is with them?” Hart asked severely.

  “Of course,” Richard assured him. “Beryl keeps the baby of the family well guarded, you may rest assured. Too well guarded, if you ask me. The child is as timid as a barn cat.”

  “Richard,” Hart said coolly, “I am sure your colloquialisms mean no disrespect, but I would just as soon you refrain from comparing Annabelle to a cat, barn or otherwise.”

  The friendliness faltered on Richard’s homely mien. Perhaps, Hart thought, he was being too hard on the young viscount. Certainly his rebuke would not make Richard—who’d always seemed nervous in his company—any more at ease. But if the next few weeks were to go as he’d planned, it was imperative that Annabelle be seen in only the most gracious and laudatory light: a light designed specifically so that the Duke of Acton would see in her a young woman magnificently tailored to bear the title Duchess.

  “Of course, Perth. Didn’t mean to offend,” Richard said, chewing his lip and unhappily casting about for another topic of conversation. It wasn’t necessary. Perth was quite comfortable with silence.

  “Heard you’d arrived back in London but, must say, didn’t expect to find you here. Must say, didn’t expect to find myself here, truth be told. Rather exalted company for a country gent like myself. Can’t think why Fan and I have been included. And you! Didn’t think you went in for these country-house-party affairs.”

  “I don’t,” Hart said shortly. “Beryl wrote me in Paris, asking me to come. Apparently Acton is pressing his suit for Annabelle. Beryl expects this house party has been arranged to announce their engagement.”

  “Really?” Richard said, beaming happily. “Well, jolly good for old Annabelle.”

  Hart ignored Richard’s enthusiasm. “I find it hard to believe that His Grace would act without first speaking to me as head of the family.” The narrowing of Hart’s eyes made clear how he viewed this oversight.

  Richard shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “Well, Perth, it is common knowledge that you had a rather extensive investigation of Acton done before you even allowed him through the door to see Annabelle. You did the same to me. ’Spect you did it to old Henley too. Your approval has been assumed. And Acton is quite one of society’s most eligible bachelors—with the notable exception of yourself.”

  “Does Annabelle like Acton?” he asked, ignoring Richard’s arch comment.

  “Why—why yes, I think so,” Richard said, considering the question. “I believe she likes him very well. Didn’t see much of society myself this season, but when Fan and I were in town, Annabelle seemed quite happy in Acton’s company.”

  Hart nodded, somewhat mollified, and began mounting the stairs. His brother-in-law fell in step beside him.

  “Where is your wife?” Hart asked suddenly.

  “Oh, Fanny will be down directly she hears you’re arrived. She is not feeling all she might. She’s taking a rest before dinner.”

  “Not feeling well?” Hart stopped and turned a chill, inquiring look on Richard. The viscount hitched his shoulders uncomfortably, like a puppy that has been scolded and isn’t sure why. Richard’s awe inspired a feeling of exasperation in Hart. It turned to surprise when the younger man blushed.

  “I might as well tell you,” Richard said. “Though Fanny wanted to do so herself. Fanny is increasing.”

  “Increasing.”

  “She … This Easter she will present me with an heir.” Richard lifted his chin high, his pride apparent.

  A flicker of deep pleasure pierced Hart. A child. His own sister’s baby. Envy cloaked in anguish suddenly welled up within him. He extinguished it, rid himself of the unworthy emotion as he extinguished everything he did not want to feel. “Congratulations,” he said sincerely.

  “Thank you. We are—we are so damned pleased!”

  Hart nearly smiled at Richard’s excitement. But Hart was not given to smiles, so instead he offered Richard his hand, which the younger man grasped in his huge paws and pumped enthusiastically. Once more they climbed the flight of stairs.

  Thus far Hart was pleased with both of his sisters’ spouses. Richard was not only heir to a considerable estate, but more importantly, he was an earnest young man, committed to his family home, his farms, and his poultry business. He might not be sophisticated, but he had a kind nature and wished above all things for a household filled with children. Qualities that made him the perfect partner for hearth-loving Fanny.

  Henley Wrexhall, Beryl’s husband, had no title behind his name, but he was an up-and-coming young member of Parliament, having taken his seat for the second time in the House of Commons. Clever and astute, his zeal tempered by a practical nature, he was a highly commendable mate for Hart’s eldest sister, Beryl, whose ambition and social graces would best find expression as a politician’s spouse.

  That left only Annabelle, his youngest sister. Finding Annabelle a mate had taken a bit more judicious scrutiny. Annabelle had no obvious requirements in a husband.

  She was modest and sweet and charming but her enthusiasms were a mystery to Hart, as were her aspirations. She was ten years his junior, and except for infrequent visits, he’d missed most of her growing up. He did not know Annabelle as well as he did his other two sisters. It was well that she liked Acton. If she fancied herself in love with him, all the better. Better still, he thought sternly, if Acton fancied himself in love with her.


  Passing through the massive double doors at the top of the steps, Hart entered the house. The hall was crowded with guests; ladies clutching jewelry cases were frowning at their maidservants; gentleman milled about as they gave instructions to the army of valets regarding various heaps of luggage.

  “How large a party is it?” Hart asked Richard.

  “Quite a gathering. Upwards of thirty, I believe. Baron Coffey is here with his sons. A few relatives of Acton’s. Some old ex-major, the Dowager’s brother. Name of Sotbey, I believe. The Marchants are due to arrive. A few others.” Richard shrugged.

  “I see.”

  “I brought one of my lads, er, footmen, along to offer you his services as valet during your stay here, Perth,” Richard said shyly.

  Hart forced back a surge of annoyance. Richard could not know how the kindly gesture taunted Hart as a reminder of his own weaknesses. A valet to witness his lapses of control? NEVER. “Thank you, but I’ll do quite well on my own. As I always have.”

  “Oh. Of course,” Richard said uncomfortably. “I’m afraid it will be some time before they have the room arrangements straightened out. The Dowager Duchess is in the reception hall. She’s had a buffet set out for those arriving. If you would care to join me?” Richard indicated the direction.

  Hart nodded but took a moment to casually study the various adornments in the entry, from the gleaming—though now dirt flecked—black-and-white marble parquet flooring to the Beauvais tapestries suspended above the landing of the massive double staircase. A well-tended house. No telltale stains on the clean white walls betrayed the sale of some pricey picture. Ornate silver candelabras and Sèvres bowls brimming with chrysanthemums crowded gleaming ebony tables.

  Very good, he thought, allowing Richard to proceed him into the drawing room, Acton knows how to keep his wealth.

  “Is Acton here?” he asked. “I wish to meet him.”

  “You’ve not met him?” Richard asked, surprised.