A Dangerous Man by Connie Brockway

point out that Her Grace’s maid will doubtless take exception to your performing her duties?”
    “It’s for her headache. A tisane. I learned it from our ranch cook.”
    He hesitated a second before replying. “That was thoughtful of you. Here, allow me,” he said, rising from his seat. “That kettle looks heavy.”
    His fingers—long, elegant, fashioned for an artist’s hands—closed over hers. Even though she anticipated it this time, her response still shook her. Sensual awareness rippled through her, making her hand tremble, sloshing burning tea on her fingers.
    “Damn!” She hissed with pain.
    He strode to the sink and grabbed the bucket of peeled carrots that stood in ice water. He returned with it and swung it up onto the table. Catching hold of her wrist, he plunged her hand into the cool water, holding it there.
    “Damn, damn, damn my clumsiness,” she said.
    “Your language,” he said.
    “What of it?” she asked crossly, angry she’d been so clumsy, angry his masculinity had caused her to be clumsy, angry his tone was so coldly disapproving. “It hurts, damn it.”
    “You are no lady, Miss Coltrane.”
    “And you are no gentleman , Perth!”
    “I guess that makes us both imposters,” he said, releasing her hand and indifferently offering her a dry towel.
    “Not both of us,” she said, plucking the towel from his extended hand. “I am not pretending to be a lady.”
    His eyes narrowed between the thick fringe of bronze lashes. “And I”—he leaned closer to her. She could see the slight flare of his diamond shaped nostrils, like a panther scenting for fear in its prey—“I do not pretend to be a gentle man. You’d be wise to remember that.”
    She stared at him, knowing she should be frightened. There was a gleam deep in the glacial eyes and his words were delivered in a low, even tone, all the more frightening for its lack of inflection.
    “Don’t play games with me, Mercy,” he said.“Don’t whisper a word about our past association. The ramifications would be … unpleasant. For everyone. But most especially for you. That is why I followed you here. To remind you of your promise. You are no lady, but you needn’t be a lady to be wise.”
    Before she could frame a response, he disappeared through the green baize door.
    Shaken, she dabbed at the wet edge of her sleeve, undraping a carrot peel that had coiled around her wrist.
    He was right. She was no lady.
    Oh, she had manufactured a nice veneer. But deep inside, as soon as she was alone, restlessness pricked her, frustration nipped at her.
    As hard as she’d tried, as much as she’d wanted to, she’d never succeeded in becoming the lady her mother had yearned for her to be. The knowledge that she’d disappointed her sweet mother ached like an unhealed bruise, always there, touching every unfeminine pleasure she indulged in with the taint of guilt.
    She had tried. She had tried to find pleasure in trotting a horse along a prescribed halter path; she wanted to gallop across an untracked field of waist-high grass. She had tried to be an undemanding font of tranquillity; she liked laughter too well. She had tried to develop her hand at water-color artistry but she was too impatient; the bright colors she used always ended up running together.
    It was an appropriate metaphor for her. All her bright colors collided with one another. And whenshe tried to blend them together, they dulled and disappointed. Neither delicate nor vibrant, just muddled.
    She stood up. She could not change what she was—the years had taught her that—but she could keep her promise and, after finding Will, heal the breach between her father and brother. Particularly since she was responsible for that breach.
    She bit down on her lip. Mother had been so proud of Will; his polish, his sophistication. But Father … their father had no use for his bright, witty, urbane son. Except for their devotion to the same woman, they had nothing in common. So,