Two Sinful Secrets

by Laurel McKee

  Then she turned—and froze when their eyes met and she saw him watching her. The smile on her rosebud lips faded, and her already fair cheeks turned pale. And Dominic saw that it really was his mystery woman. Even though she had once worn a mask, he could see that the shape of her face, the delicate nose and slightly pointed chin, were the same.

  “She is beautiful,” he heard his brother James say. “They say she is a widowed Englishwoman who has fallen out with her family and came to work here with Madame Martine. That she wasn’t married long and is heartbroken, looking for a new start. But I couldn’t discover anything else.”

  “You seem to have discovered a great deal about her,” Dominic said.

  James grinned. “I was talking with Madame Martine just now. The woman is rather stingy with information about her friend, but I did find out a few tidbits to add to what we had at dinner the other night.”

  “Who is she?” Dominic didn’t take his gaze off the woman. She had turned away to talk to someone else, but he could see the way she held her shoulders rigid, the strain in her pretty smile. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, but then her gaze quickly slid away. She was certainly not indifferent to him.

  Dominic felt his blood heat as he looked at her, felt himself coming to life again. It had been so long since he felt that way.

  “Her name is Mrs. Westman, an Englishwoman,” James said. “Other than what I told you, I don’t know much, but I intend to find out.”

  Mrs. Westman. Dominic studied her as he wondered what sort of man Mr. Westman had been to win such a prize. Had she been married when she was at the Devil’s Fancy? Her kiss had tasted innocent, as if she hadn’t been aware of such a spark of passion before. But now it seemed she was a widow, a woman of mystery in Paris. Like James, he intended to find out everything there was to know about the lovely Mrs. Westman.

  “Believe me, James, you can’t handle a woman like that,” he muttered, and moved into the thick of the crowd, ignoring his brother’s protests. He kept Mrs. Westman in his sight as he reached for a glass of wine from a footman’s tray.

  She had disappeared into the bright crowd. He moved through the twisting warren of elegantly cozy rooms, searching for a glimpse of her black gown amid the pastel crinolines of the other women. He finally saw the ebony gleam of her hair in the ballroom at the end of the winding hallways. An orchestra played a waltz as couples swirled around a polished parquet floor, looking like a brilliant summer bouquet under the muted glow of the gaslights behind their frosted glass screens.

  Mrs. Westman stood near the wall, examining the gathering with a small smile on her face. She gestured to two footmen as if to send them on errands and straightened a painting in its frame. Dominic studied the graceful, elegant line of her white arm, her smooth shoulders.

  Yes, he did want her. Like he had never wanted anything before, and he was a man of stubborn single-mindedness. He would have her this time.

  Dominic stalked around the edge of the dance floor, keeping her in his sights. She had the strangest, most intriguing quality about her, a delicate, watchful air, as if she would take flight and vanish at any moment. She had done that before.

  Dominic wouldn’t let her go again.

  From the Diary of Mary St. Claire Huntington

  Our new home is not entirely what I expected.

  I was so excited to leave the Court. The clothes and music there were wonderful, as were the theaters and balls after all the years of gray nothingness under Cromwell. But I want only my husband’s love. I cannot take lovers, as everyone seems required to do around the king, nor could I bear seeing my John laugh with other women. I have never been a jealous woman before. What has become of me?

  I thought all would be well once we came here to the country. We would be alone. We would find each other again. But still John sits by the fire and drinks so late at night, and I do not know what to say to him. Why can I not make him happy? Why can I not be happy, as I thought I would be?

  Chapter Five

  Sophia was so busy making certain everyone was having a good time that she didn’t see Dominic St. Claire when he first entered the crowded ballroom. Which was most disconcerting, because she had been so acutely aware of him all evening.

  Did he know it had been her that long-ago night at the Devil’s Fancy? She was almost certain he did from the way he looked at her, so dark and intent, as if he was searching his memory for her. It made her feel as she never had before, nervous and acutely aware, almost afraid, but excited at the same time. As if she couldn’t breathe wondering what might happen next, as if she was reading the story of someone else, like Mary Huntington.

  She had no time to desire a man right now, especially a man like Dominic St. Claire. He would never be easily dismissed, as Jack had been. The fact that their one kiss still haunted her showed her that all too well. She had work to do now. She had to figure out how to get back into her family’s good graces. She couldn’t be distracted by Dominic.

  She pasted her brightest, most sociable smile on her lips again and stood on her tiptoes to study the ballroom. That was when she saw him again. He stood just inside the doorway, studying the room. The dancers swirled between them, a cloud of silk and tulle, obscuring her view of him until they parted again and she saw that he had suddenly vanished. Startled, she spun around and tried to find where he had gone. She had that urge to run again, to hide from him and his intense green eyes, but she was caught between the wall and the dance floor.

  And the potted palms lined up along the walls offered meager shelter. She suddenly wished Camille had decorated with chinoiserie screens instead. They might be a bit unfashionable, but they were always useful when one wanted to hide in plain sight.

  Sophia spun around and took a step toward the orchestra, only to freeze when Dominic appeared in front of her.

  His smile widened, white teeth flashing like those of a pirate in a romantic novel just before he ravished the hapless heroine. To her surprise, she saw he had a dimple set in his smooth-shaven cheek, which would have made any other man seem younger, sweeter—harmless. But it just made him seem more like an alluring, seductive predator than ever.

  Sophia had been the prey too many times in her life, at the mercy of men since the day she was born. She was done with being helpless, even if a part of her wanted very much to be caught by Dominic.

  “Mrs. Westman, I presume,” he said. He spoke quietly, politely, but the deep, slightly rough timbre of his actor’s voice seemed to echo above the music and laughter of the party. “What a superb job you and Madame Martine have done with this establishment. You seem to have a great success on your hands.”

  Sophia made herself hold her smile in place, not turn and run. There had to be a reason he was here in Paris, here at La Reine d’Argent, and she wanted to know what that was. “I am afraid you have the advantage of me, monsieur,” she said. “You know my name, but I have failed to find out yours.”

  One of his golden brows arched and there was flash deep in his extraordinary eyes. Sophia knew that he could see she was lying, that he had the instincts of a gambler, but she would fall to the floor in a faint before she would let him see all she was really thinking. And she never fainted.

  She definitely wouldn’t let him know how much she wanted to press her lips to that enticing dimple…

  “How very rude of me,” Dominic said. He swept her a low bow. “Allow me to introduce myself, since I have no friends here to do the honors at the moment. I am Dominic St. Claire. I met Madame Martine at the Café Anglais, and she kindly invited my brothers and me to her soiree tonight.”

  “Ah, yes. The actor from London.”

  “Acting is one of my professions, yes. We are embarking on a guest booking at the Theatre Nationale this week. Do you enjoy the theater?”

  “I used to, but I haven’t been to London in a long time and I rarely have the opportunity to indulge in the pastime.”

  “Then you must come to our opening night performance
. You and Madame Martine, of course, if you can be spared from your duties here.” Dominic’s sharp gaze studied the crowded ballroom. “You and your friend have done an extraordinary job in a short time.”

  “You are a habitué of gambling clubs, monsieur?” Sophia said. She couldn’t help teasing him a bit. Even when she knew better, her flirtatious nature insisted on surfacing. Especially when he looked down at her that way.

  Dominic laughed, a wonderful, rich, dark sound that made Sophia’s heart feel strangely lighter. “Another of my professions is part-owner of just such a place in London. Perhaps you know it, Mrs. Westman? The Devil’s Fancy in Mayfair.”

  Sophia laughed. “I told you, monsieur—I have not been to London in a long time. I am sadly behind on all the gossip of what is au courant there.”

  “I would be happy to tell you all I know. At the Café Anglais after the theater, perhaps?”

  Oh, Sophia was tempted. A quiet supper, laughter over champagne, a kiss in the shadows—she could envision it all, and she wanted to give in. To fall into those eyes and never escape. It would be far too easy. But she knew she could not, not with him. She knew that many, many unfortunate ladies must have felt just the same way she did now. “I have no time for fun anymore, I fear,” she said. Those words were much too true. Life with Jack had been nothing but fun at first, and look where that had brought her. She had to be respectable now, or try to be anyway.

  “Oh, come now, Mrs. Westman, everyone has time for fun,” he said with another of those enticing grins. “Dance with me now and I will show you.”

  Sophia glanced at the dance floor. The last song had ended, and she hadn’t even noticed because she’d been so occupied with Dominic. The orchestra was tuning up for the next set as the couples moved into place for a waltz.

  “I can’t dance tonight,” she said wistfully as she watched them. She used to love to dance so much. “I have so much to do…”

  “Too much to oversee. Believe me, I perfectly understand. But the proprietors of a club set the tone for a place. Patrons like to see them enjoying themselves. It makes them relax, as if they were at a party with trusted friends. And that in turn makes them play deeper and longer at the card tables.” He gave her a roguish wink. “And that is always desirable, isn’t it?”

  Sophia had to laugh. She had no doubt that he charmed his patrons at the Devil’s Fancy into losing a great deal of money indeed. They probably even enjoyed doing it, as she once had. “Yes, most desirable.”

  “Then one dance. Come, Mrs. Westman. What can it hurt?” His eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. “Unless there’s something you fear? I would not have thought you a timid lady.”

  Oh, surely he could not be daring her. She had never dealt well with dares. They always brought out that wild, reckless side of her, a side that was never buried deep enough anyway.

  She studied his broad shoulders beneath the cut of his fine coat, and she wondered how it would feel to touch them again. To feel his arms around her as they spun around the floor. She hadn’t danced in so long, and she was quite sure Dominic would be a fine dancer.

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was being timid, which wasn’t like her. What could one dance hurt?

  “Very well,” she said with a toss of her head. “One dance, that is all. Because I want to hear about your club.”

  Dominic laughed again, and it made Sophia smile against her will. Oh, yes, she thought—this man could surely charm the moon from the sky. But she was done with charming men.

  “Very well, Mrs. Westman, one dance only,” he said as he offered her his arm. “For now. But I warn you, I am still holding out for that supper.”

  Sophia slid her arm into the crook of his elbow, the lace of her glove sliding over the fine wool of his sleeve. She kept her touch light and polite, but she couldn’t help but feel his heat through the expensive cloth. His muscles were lean and hard, tense under her touch, and she thought whimsically that he surely didn’t spend all his time sitting at a card table.

  He led her onto the dance floor and into a place amid the other couples. Sophia smiled at them, looking to make sure they were all having a good time, but they all seemed to blur together and vanish when Dominic put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to his tall, lean body. It felt as if a spark flashed through her when his hand curled around her.

  She looked up at him as she took his hand and heard the music swell around them in a familiar rhythm. A half-smile lingered on his lips and he watched her closely, but she couldn’t read his expression.

  And it just made him all the more intriguing, damn him.

  They swung into the first steps of the dance, and Sophia found she instinctively remembered the patterns of the waltz she had once loved so much. Dominic led her smoothly into a swaying turn, and he was just as fine a dancer as she thought he would be. He knew just how to move, to lead her so lightly she scarcely knew where she was going until she was there. His hold on her was polite, but she felt very close to him, their bodies moving together in perfect, instinctive concert.

  He spun her around a corner so fast her skirts wrapped around his legs and the other couples turned in a bright blur. She laughed with pleasure and heard him laugh with her. They settled back into the turns and patterns of the dance.

  “I haven’t waltzed in ages,” Sophia said, breathless.

  “Really? You dance as if you did it every day,” Dominic answered with one of his half-smiles. His fingers caressed her waist as they turned, the merest brushing touch, yet she seemed to feel it to her very core.

  “Only because you are a good partner,” she murmured.

  Dominic laughed. “A compliment, Mrs. Westman? I am astonished—and flattered.”

  “I am quite sure you hear such things from every lady you dance with.”

  “Not every lady.” His smile slowly faded. “And none that are quite like you. I’m surprised our paths haven’t crossed before.”

  Ah, but their paths had crossed before, and she had the sense he knew it, too, that he played with her in some way. But she just smiled and kept dancing. “I’ve been living abroad. I haven’t been back to England in many months. But you did know my name.”

  “It’s only polite to know one’s hostess,” Dominic said. “And only wise to know one’s business rivals, even when they’re in a different city.”

  “I’m not your rival, Mr. St. Claire; I am only an employee here. I’m a simple widow who has to make her way in the world now.”

  “One thing I am quite sure of, Mrs. Westman—you are not a simple anything. I’d like to know more about you. I wish you would let me take you to that supper, so I could hear your story.”

  And Sophia wished she could go to supper, more than she could ever let him see. But she had to be careful now. She remembered Mary’s journal, her sad tale of what happened when a St. Claire met a Huntington. “I have no story. At least nothing that would interest a man like you, Mr. St. Claire.”

  “Ah, but you have no idea what might interest me, Mrs. Westman. I want to let you know that as well.” The music rose to a crescendo, and Dominic whirled her to a stop at the edge of the floor. But he didn’t let her go. “I do enjoy a mystery.”

  Sophia shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not at all mysterious.”

  He smiled but didn’t answer, just offered her his arm again and led her from the floor. Sophia felt as if she should say something, some light, careless comment that showed him she really wasn’t different, wasn’t mysterious. Yet for once she couldn’t find any words. She just wanted to be away from him and how he made her feel.

  “Dominic, you devil! Of course you would be monopolizing the most beautiful woman in the room,” a man said.

  Sophia turned, still holding on to Dominic’s arm, to find a tall, lanky young man smiling at them. He looked a bit like Dominic might in a warped, wavery old mirror: taller, thinner, with an untidy sweep of lighter brown hair falling over his brow. He wore expensive, f
ashionable, black-and-white evening dress, but unlike Dominic’s casual, careless elegance, the clothes hung on him somewhat awkwardly. But he had those same bright green eyes.

  He had to be related to Dominic in some way. And she didn’t need another St. Claire in her life, no matter how open and friendly his smile was.

  “James, you know our hostess, of course,” Dominic said. “Mrs. Westman, may I present my younger brother, James St. Claire? He is also an admirer of yours.”

  A faint flush spread across James’s high cheekbones as Sophia slid her hand from Dominic’s arm and held it out to him. “I do hope you’re enjoying your stay in Paris, Mr. St. Claire?”

  “Enormously, Mrs. Westman! It’s a beautiful city.”

  “I would love to hear more about what you’ve seen while you’ve been here,” Sophia said. “I’ve been so busy myself I’ve only had time for a bit of whirlwind sightseeing.”

  “Would you care to dance, then?” James said eagerly. “We could talk there.”

  Sophia laughed. “If we could hear each other above the music. But yes, I would love to dance with you, Mr. St. Claire.”

  James led her onto the dance floor just as the opening notes to a lively mazurka sounded. He was not as skillful a dancer as his brother, but in his arms she felt none of the heady confusion she had with Dominic. She could just enjoy the music and the easy, pleasant conversation.

  They chatted about the sights of Paris, the churches and museums, the people. As he twirled her around in a turn, a thought struck Sophia.

  “You know, I think we might share an ancestor,” she said, thinking this would be an amusing conversational tidbit.

  “I don’t see how we could,” James said with a laugh. “I would surely have remembered you from a family gathering.”

  “Well, it’s not a close connection. It was about two hundred years ago, and I don’t think she had any children. But before I was Mrs. Westman, I was Lady Sophia Huntington, and a woman named Mary St. Claire married a Huntington in the Restoration era. It’s quite a fascinating tale. I have her diary, though I haven’t read it all yet.”