Mary Putney: Petals in the Storm

What disturbed Rafe was the way she had reminded him of Margot-beautiful, betraying Margot, dead these last dozen years. There was little physical resemblance, but both women had had a bright, laughing spirit that was irresistible. Whenever he had been with Jocelyn, he had found himself remembering Margot. She had moved him as no other woman ever had-and since he could never be that young again, no other woman ever would.

As he sipped his brandy, he tried to think objectively about Margot Ashton, but it was impossible to be rational about his first love. First and last, actually; the experience had cured him forever of romantic illusions. But at the time, the illusion had seemed very real.

Margot was not the most beautiful woman he had ever known, and certainly not the wealthiest or best-born. But she had had warmth and charm in lavish abundance, and she had sparkled with matchless vitality.

Bittersweet images flooded his mind. The first time he saw her; the first hesitant, miraculous kiss; lengthy sessions over a chessboard, when the formal moves had masked a deeper, more passionate game; the interview with a gently amused Colonel Ashton when Rafe haltingly had asked for her hand.

Most vivid of all was a morning when they had met in Hyde Park for a dawn ride. A light rain had been falling as he trotted through the quiet Mayfair streets, but the sky cleared as he entered the park. Ahead of him, arching through the dawn-bright air, had been an intensely colored rainbow. As he admired it, Margot had emerged from the mist at the foot of the rainbow, riding a silvery gray mare like a fairy queen from legend.

She had laughed and held out her hand to him, a living treasure at rainbow's end. Even then he had known that the magical image was a mere trick of weather and light, but it had seemed like the deepest reality he would ever know.

A fortnight later the affair ended, and so did his illusions.

His deepest regret came from the knowledge that it was his own jealousy and anger that had ended their engagement. If he had possessed at twenty-one the cool composure he developed later-if he had been able to accept her deceitfulness-he could have had her friendship for all these years.

For when all was said and done, her companionship was what he missed most. He knew that time had enhanced his memories, for no woman could possibly be is desirable as recollection painted her. But he had never stopped missing the way Margot had shared his laughter, or the impact of her changeable eyes meeting us across a room with such intimacy that he would forget that the rest of the world existed.

His reverie ended when the stem of the goblet in his and snapped, cutting his fingers and splashing brandy cross his lap. Scowling at the mess, he stood up. He'd had no idea the stems were so fragile. The butler would sulk for days when he discovered that the set of crystal goblets was now two short.

Rafe rose and headed upstairs to his bedchamber. A little self-indulgent melancholy was poetic, but he was beginning a hard journey early the next morning. It was time to bury thoughts of youthful foolishness and get some rest.

"NO!"

Though the perfume bottle whizzed by his temple with no more than two inches to spare, Robert Anderson made no attempt to dodge, knowing that Maggie had an excellent aim and no real desire to damage him. She was merely, so to speak, sending him a message. With her usual good sense, she had chosen to throw the bottle of cheap scent given to her by a purse-pinching Bavarian with poor taste.

Robin smiled at his companion. Her magnificent bosom was heaving and her eyes flashed sparks; gray ones today, because of the silvery robe she wore. "Why don't you want to meet this duke that Lord Strathmore is sending? You should be flattered that the Foreign Office is taking such an interest in you."

A spate of Italian profanity was his answer. He tilted his blond head to one side and listened critically. When her outburst was over, he said, "Very creative, Maggie, love, but it isn't like you to slip out of character. Surely Magda, Countess Janos, should swear in Magyar?"

"I know more profanity in Italian," she said loftily. 'And you know perfectly well that I never slip out of character with anyone but you." Her look of aristocratic dignity gave way to an impish chuckle. "Don't think you can change the subject, which is the Most Noble, the Duke of Candover."

"So it is." Robin studied his companion thoughtfully. They had known each other for a long time, and though the relationship was no longer an intimate one, they were still the best of friends. It was unlike her to be temperamental, even when she had been acting the part of a volatile Hungarian noblewoman for two years. "What do you have against the duke?"

Maggie sat down at her vanity table and lifted an ivory-backed brush, then began pulling it through the tawny waves of hair that fell over her shoulders. Scowling into the mirror, she said, "The man's a prig."

"Does that mean he didn't adequately appreciate your charms?" Robin said with interest. "Strange- Candover has the reputation of being quite the lady's man. I can't believe that he would ignore a tasty morsel like you."

"I am nobody's tasty morsel, Robin! Rakes are the biggest prigs of all. Pious hypocrites, in my experience." She tugged viciously at a knot in her hair. "Don't try to pick a new fight until we've finished with the current one. I refuse to have anything to do with the Duke of Candover, just as I refuse to continue spying. That part of my life is over, and no one-not you, not the duke, not Lord Strathmore-can change my mind. As soon as I take care of a few matters of business, I will be leaving Paris."

Robin came to stand behind her. Taking the brush from her hand, he began pulling it gently through her thick, dark gold hair. It was odd how they still shared some of the intimacy of husband and wife, though they had never married. He had always enjoyed brushing her hair, and the faint sandalwood scent took him back to the years when they had been impassioned young lovers, challenging the world with few thoughts for the future.

Maggie was looking stonily into the mirror. Her eyes were now a cold gray, not sparkling as they had been earlier. After several minutes of brushing, she began to relax.

"Did Candover do something dreadful?" he asked quietly. "If it would upset you to see him, I won't mention it again."

She chose her words carefully, knowing that Robin was uncomfortably adept at detecting hidden meanings. "Though he was rather despicable, it was a long time ago and it wouldn't bother me to see him. I simply don't want another man nagging me to keep doing what I don't want to do."

Robin's gaze met hers in the mirror. "Then why not meet him once to tell him that? If you want to wreak a bit of vengeance for past injuries, a fitting punishment would be to look your seductive best. You can drive him mad with longing while you turn down his request."

"I'm not sure that would work," she said dryly. "We parted on rather poor terms."

"That makes no difference-he's probably been thinking lustful thoughts of you ever since. Half the diplomats in Europe have let state secrets fall from their lips while struggling for one of your smiles." Robin grinned. "Wear that green ball gown, heave an alluring sigh as you refuse his request, then glide gracefully from the room. I guarantee it will cut up his peace for at least the next month."

She regarded her reflection thoughtfully. While she had a great deal of whatever it was that drove men mad, she was not convinced that Candover would succumb to her charms. Still, anger and lust were closely elated, and Rafael Whitbourne had been very angry indeed at their last meeting____________________

A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. Then she drew back her head and laughed. "Very well, Robin, you win. I'll meet with your ridiculous duke. I owe him a few nights of ruined sleep. But I guarantee he won't change my mind."