Mary Putney: Petals in the Storm

Their gazes locked-two angry, passionate people determined to give nothing away. Rafe was the first to regain his control, probably because he needed her more than she needed him.

Shrugging off the insult, he said, "No doubt you are right-I never claimed to have an admirable character. To return to business, do you think Lucien is right to be concerned? He is going mostly on guesswork." His long fingers toyed with the stem of his goblet. "Of course, Luce is a brilliant guesser. You're closer to the situation. What's your opinion?"

Glad to leave the charged emotions that kept surfacing, Maggie said, "I've heard nothing in particular, but there has been a surprising silence from the radicals. It isn't like them to give up as long as there are still young men left to die for their revolutionary ideals."

Curious about another point, she continued, "You use Lord Strathmore's first name. You know him well?"

"Very. You used to tease me about being part of a group nicknamed the Fallen Angels. Luce was another member. Since I was a little older than my friends, I finished at Oxford and went to London a year earlier. Luce and the others were still at university when you had your London Season."

Maggie had only met Lord Strathmore twice during the years she had worked with him, but he had left a strong impression. It was strange to learn that he was a close friend of Rafe's. The world was indeed a small place. "As I recall, the four of you acquired the nickname because of some unholy combination of angelic looks and diabolical deeds."

She had hoped to disconcert Rafe, but he only smiled slightly. "Both the looks and the deeds were exaggerated."

Her hand tightened around the handle of her fan. The deeds might have been an exaggeration, but not the looks. Rafe had been glorious at twenty-one; now maturity had added power to his tall frame, character to his face, and authority to his presence,. Though she recalled that his dark coloring had come from an Italian grandmother, she had forgotten how dramatic a contrast his clear gray eyes made.

She wished she were immune to his attractions, but she wasn't. What made it worse was that she was no longer an innocent girl; she was a woman, and she knew something of passion. And of longing…

Thank God she wouldn't need to see Rafe again; he was having a terrible effect on her concentration. Getting to her feet, she said, "I'll start investigating immediately. If I hear anything important, I'll notify my contact in the British delegation. Now if you'll excuse me, there are some people I must talk to."

He stood also, his expression wary. "There is one more thing: Lucien wants you to work with me on this, not with the delegation."

"What!" Maggie exclaimed. "Why the devil should I waste time dealing with an amateur? If there is a conspiracy afoot, time is critical. At the risk of insulting your grace's consequence, you would only get in the way."

Rafe's lips tightened, but he kept his voice level. "Lucien suspects that someone in the British delegation is either careless or treacherous, and this matter is too important to take chances. He wants you to report to me. We've set up a temporary courier service between here and London to keep him informed. If events warrant it, I'll go directly to Castlereagh or Wellington."

"How nice to know that Strathmore trusts them," she said with heavy sarcasm. "However, I prefer to work in my own way."

"I am not in a position to compel you," Rafe said gently, "but for the sake of the task at hand, do you think you could manage to choke down your repugnance and work with me? It won't be for very long."

Maggie glared at him, suppressing the desire to pour the rest of her wine over his head to see if that would disturb his impenetrable calm. Unfortunately, there was no compelling reason not to work with him except for her personal distaste, and like it or not, she was under a heavy obligation to him. Through slightly gritted teeth, she said, "Very well, I will let you know whatever I find."

After she set down her wineglass and opened the door to leave, he said, "Let me give you my direction."

She smiled at him wickedly. "No need. I already know where you are staying, the names of your groom and valet, and the number of pieces of luggage you brought." Having finally managed to produce a surprised look on the Duke of Candover's face, she added sweetly, "Remember, information is my business."

Maggie felt rather pleased as she left. At least she had gotten the last word for tonight.

A pity it wouldn't be the last word with him forever.

After Maggie swept from the room, Rafe released a long, exhausted breath. For years he had cherished romantic memories of the girl he had loved and lost, with occasional speculations about what might have been. It was jarring to have that nostalgia shattered by the very real presence of the former beloved, now alive, impudent, and dismayingly competent.

He finished his wine, then set the glass on the sideboard. For all the haunting flashes of Margot Ashton, this woman was a stranger, hardened and unpredictable in ways he would never understand. The girl he had loved no longer existed, and he wasn't at all sure he liked this Maggie with her cool, polished surface and her prickliness. She acted as if he had been the one to betray her so many years ago, not vice versa.

He sighed and stood up. Most truths had more than one aspect; perhaps her memories of the incident were different from his. It didn't matter now. It takes youth to risk the appalling dangers of total love, and Rafe knew that he was no longer capable of that.

But he had been wrong on one point; he had thought no woman could be as desirable as his memories of Margot. As it turned out, she was even more alluring than he remembered. It had been difficult to keep his hands to himself even when she was spitting insults.

As he stepped into the corridor to return to the ball, he reminded himself that he was not in Paris to romance her, reminisce with her, or to make childish taunts, no matter how great the provocation. What mattered was the conference, and the lives of the men who were trying to build a lasting peace.

Before proceeding to her next rendezvous, Maggie stepped into a dark side passage for a moment to regroup her forces. Leaning against the wall and closing her eyes, she mentally went through the profanity that she knew fluently in five languages.

Damn Robin for talking her into meeting the Duke of Candover, damn Rafe Whitbourne both for his impenetrable coolness, and for that shattering kiss that proved that Margot was not as dead as Maggie had thought. Most of all, she damned herself for the faint, irrepressible anticipation she felt at the thought of seeing him again.

She reminded herself furiously that a kiss meant nothing to him. He must have participated in hundreds over the years. Probably not hundreds but thousands .

Which was why he was so very good at kissing…

The thought revived her fury. She was all the way down to Slovakian curses before she could laugh at herself and resume her journey. Her destination was another assignation room, a near-twin of the one she had just left. She entered without knocking and found Robin sprawled on the sofa with a glass of wine in his hand, for all the world like a lover eagerly awaiting a lady. Which was, after all, more or less the truth.

He started to rise, but she waved him back. "No need to get up." She moved his feet from the sofa so she could sit down next to him, wanting the comfort of his familiar presence.

As he interpreted her expression, the look of fatuous vacuity he cultivated changed to amused intelligence. "Dare I ask how your confrontation with the duke came out?"

She sighed. "You and he win. I'll be staying through the end of the peace conference, no matter how long it takes."