Petals in the Storm by Mary Jo Putney Page A

them."
    "I'm sorry," she said apologetically. "It comes from being in Paris , you know. People are so much more demonstrative here. I'm afraid it is contagious."
    "Is
that
your excuse?" her husband asked nastily.
    Rafe felt the tension as the two glared at each other. Knowing that he absolutely must escape before they started a public scene of the sort he most detested, he made the barest of farewells, then slid away into the crowd. This time he made sure that no one could catch his eye.
    Outside in the warm night air, he gave a sigh of relief. Since it was still early, he decided to dismiss his carriage and walk back to his hotel. It would be interesting to see what Napoleon had done to the city. More important, he needed time to get his disordered thoughts under control.
    First Margot—it was still hard to think of her as Maggie—whose very presence was a disruption and a reminder of things best forgotten. And as if that wasn't enough, the Northwoods. The evening might have been designed by the devil in a farcical mood.
    But it was hard to be amused by a farce that made him feel as if he had been kicked in the stomach. As he walked unseeing toward the Tuileries, events came back to him with the clarity of yesterday rather than thirteen years before.
    He had loved Margot Ashton with uncritical adoration, awed and humble that a girl who could have her choice of London 's most eligible men had chosen him. They had behaved discreetly in public since their engagement had been unannounced, but he had spent every possible moment with her. She had seemed as happy in his company as he was in hers.
    Then had come that fatal bachelor party in June. He could remember the name of every young man in the group that night, could recall with excruciating accuracy how Oliver Northwood had drunkenly described relieving a girl of her unwanted virginity in the garden during a ball some days earlier. Rafe had scarcely paid attention, until the end, when Northwood had let slip the girl's name: Margot Ashton.
    Most of the young men were admirers of Margot, and after a stunned moment, one of them had shushed Northwood, saying that it was ungentlemanly to speak so of a young lady. But the damage had already been done.
    No one present knew of the engagement, so they thought nothing of it when Rafe excused himself a few minutes later. The green tinge of his face was attributed to the quantity of claret he had drunk, and he was forgotten as soon as he left the room.
    Outside, Rafe had made it no farther than the street when he fell to his knees and began retching. Feeling as if his very guts would spew out, he thought of Margot's body under that drunken sot, her full lips kissing his, her long legs entwined ...
    The vision had burned on his brain with nauseating clarity. He had no idea how long it was before someone said, "You all right, lad? I'll call a chair for you." The Samaritan helped him to his feet, but Rafe had refused further aid, heading blindly down the street as if he could outrun his imagination.
    He had spent the rest of the night walking the streets of London , heedless of his direction. More than once lurkers in the shadows considered the richness of his attire, balanced it against the expression on his face, and decided to let him continue unmolested on his journey. The young gentleman might be worth a pretty penny, but his dead gray eyes threatened disaster to any thief foolish enough to try to collect it.
    Inevitably, he had ended up at Margot's house early the next morning, just before she left for her dawn ride. They had not planned to meet, but he had joined her unannounced before.
    She had greeted him with delight despite his disheveled evening attire. An emerald-colored veil had floated over her wheat gold hair as she danced across the salon for a welcoming kiss, her changeable eyes green in the early morning, her laughing face brimming with life.
    Rafe had pulled violently away, unable to bear her touch. Then he told her what