by Laurel McKee
But he looked well enough. His arm was still bandaged in clean white linen, and the cloth wasn’t spotted with blood. His eyes were closed, his hair falling in damp waves over his brow. She gently brushed it back, and he caught her hand in his to kiss her palm. Sophia felt a sudden wave of unwanted tenderness wash over her. Tenderness—for Dominic St. Claire of all people! Her head was spinning, as if the reality of what had happened could hardly sink in. She had never felt quite that way before. The heat of sex and need was all tangled up with the past, and she didn’t know what would happen next.
She didn’t even know what she wanted to happen now. She was so close to getting back with her family. There was only this one unreal moment, here alone with him.
She laid her hand gently against the side of Dominic’s cheek. In the dying candlelight she could hardly see his bruises now, but she knew they were still there, and her heart ached at the pain he had suffered. He had said some of them weren’t inflicted by his attackers, but from an organized prize fight in some cheap gin palace. It even sounded like a regular event for him. There was so very much she didn’t know about him.
Sophia traced the hard line of his roughened jaw and the softness of his sensual lips. He was so very handsome; why would he do such things to himself? What drove him to seek out such pain? Was it his lost love? Did he do it to drown memories of her?
Her touch drifted over his closed eyelids, and she felt his breath drift softly over her skin. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he drew her down to the bed beside him.
“Sophia,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice distant as if he was drifting into sleep. “What is it that you do to me?”
She shook her head. What did they do to each other? He made her crazy, made her forget everything else when she was with him. She had gone down the winding path of mad infatuation before. And even though she knew Dominic was not really much like Jack, he did have a wild streak to him that led him to fighting and gaming. A wild streak that would only encourage her own. She couldn’t fall for someone like that again.
But she couldn’t make sense of any of it, not now with sleep and the languorous pleasure of sexual satisfaction weighing down on her. Not here in Dominic’s arms, where she felt so warm, so deceptively secure. Sophia rested her head on the pillow next to his and closed her eyes. She would let herself sleep here, just for a moment. And in the morning, when things were bright and clear again, she would talk to Dominic and try to decipher what it was about him that had such a hold on her.
But Sophia slept deeply and dreamlessly, and when she woke, the sun was already splashing through her window. Its bright rays illuminated the tangle of ropes and bandages on the bedside table, the twisted cord of sheets over the bed. She heard the stirring of the house outside her door, the clatter of the maid walking down the corridor with her coal bucket, and the traffic from the street below.
Sophia rubbed at her itchy eyes, and for an instant she was disoriented. Was she still half-caught in sleep, or was this really the day beginning? She rolled over on the bed, and as her aching body gave a twinge, she suddenly remembered everything. Dominic, his injuries—their lovemaking.
She sat straight up on the bed and looked around frantically, only to find that she was alone. Dominic was gone. Only those ropes and bandages told her she had not imagined the whole thing.
And now she was alone. Sophia pushed away a sharp pang of disappointment. She shouldn’t be hurt that Dominic was gone. This was merely what happened when the illusions of the night were burned away by the daylight.
Yet she did feel disappointed. And worried. How had he even made it home in his condition? The ungrateful wretch.
“Men,” she muttered. She swung her aching legs off the bed and looked around for her chemise.
She found it on a chair, neatly folded. On top of it was a slip of paper, covered with bold, slashing black handwriting. Sophia’s cynical disappointment was suddenly cut by a flash of ridiculous hope, and she reached for the note.
“Sophia,” it read. “A thousand thanks for your kind nursing last night. I’m sorry I have to leave so early, but I have rehearsal, and you are sleeping so peacefully. Please let me show my gratitude by taking you to supper tonight at the Café de Paris—if you can bear to be seen with such a battered fool. Dominic St. Claire.”
Sophia smiled as she carefully refolded the note. She knew she should refuse. Last night had shown her just how weak she was when it came to Dominic. Yet an elegant supper out with him, in public at the Cafe de Paris…
How dangerous could that be?
No matter how many times Dominic tried to read the scene in front of him, the words simply wouldn’t come together. He couldn’t concentrate at all on his work.
This new play was meant to open at the Majestic Theater as soon as they returned to London, but every quiet moment when he should be working was filled with thoughts of Sophia. Thoughts of her black hair spilling over her bare white shoulders, filling his hands. The taste of her skin under his lips, the smell of the curve of her neck. The way her body felt against his in the darkness. Sophia, Sophia.
“Damn it all!” Dominic threw down his pencil and slumped back in his chair. He could hear the sounds of the rehearsal echoing from the stage, through the warren of walkways and corridors to his small office, but no one had dared approach him there yet.
He ran his hands through his already disheveled hair and resisted the urge to hit the wall. Destroying the office would solve nothing. After last night he was done with fighting.
Dominic buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. Making love to Sophia again had seemed like a hot, feverish dream. Here amid the grubby, colorful, familiar world of the theater, he was almost sure it hadn’t happened. As if his potent craving for her and the pain of his injuries had caused an illusion. A vivid, glorious dream. He had thought about her for too long, ever since that night at the Devil’s Fancy, and their frantic coupling at the picnic had only made him want her even more.
Behind his closed eyes he saw her again. She had lain on her side away from him, with her hair spread over the pillows and wrapped around his arm, as if she would hold him to her. Her bare skin was pale and perfect in the rosy sunrise light, and all he had wanted was to touch her again. To wrap his arms around her and know she was real.
That feeling of tenderness—toward Sophia, a Huntington—had shocked him to his very core. All his life he had been told that the Huntingtons had ruined the St. Claires, had stolen their rightful place in Society and cast them out to the underworld margins. That his first duty was always to his family, always to remember. And now he was literally in bed with a Huntington, and what was worse, he wanted only to stay there.
His life was good as it was. He had his work, his family. He had rebuilt after Jane died, had come to terms with the knowledge that he was better off alone. That he was too hardened, too marred, for a lady to ever understand him.
But when he looked down at Sophia asleep next to him, when he saw her beautiful face and the soft smile on her lips, he wanted to stay with her. So he had left, gathered his clothes and crept out of her room, afraid that if he stayed until she woke, if she looked at him with those deep violet eyes, he would never leave. Yet once he made it to the front door, something deep inside him, some spark of chivalry he had thought long dead, made him go back and leave her a note asking her to supper.
He hadn’t yet heard from her. Perhaps she had more sense than he did and was resolved to stay away from him. They should stay away from each other.
Once he had been able to see her as only a Huntington, albeit one of their more scandalous family members among the more stiff-necked dukes and ladies. She had seemed ripe for trifling with, a small revenge against her family. A weapon against them.
But after last night, he feared he saw her as far more than a beautiful, rebellious girl he could use. Her sad words about her short-lived marriage, her laughing dismissal of her troubles, the quickly hidden tears—they had all g
iven him a glimpse of her inner heart he almost wished he hadn’t seen.
He saw the person who didn’t want to be hurt again, who refused to trust—and he recognized that, because he hid just such emotions in himself.
Emotions were of no use to anyone. They only caused trouble, caused pain. It was better to push them away and hide them until they vanished, leaving only toughened scar tissue behind. He had long known that, and Sophia was learning it. And that was why it was better not see each other.
If only he could quit thinking about her…
He was shaken out of his brooding by the sound of light footsteps hurrying along the corridor outside. The office door flew open, and his sister Isabel rushed in amid a flurry of lace ruffles, feathers, and red-gold curls. Her cheeks were pink from the bright day outside, and her green eyes sparkled. They had thought about sending her back to London with James, but she had a leading role in two plays here and no reliable understudy, so she had stayed.
Dominic had felt uneasy at her staying after what happened to James, but he was glad she was there now. His spirits revived at the sight of her, as they always did. Isabel was the family’s baby, their pride, their bright spirit.
“Issy,” he said as he pushed back from the desk and stood up. “What a nice surprise. I thought you weren’t scheduled to rehearse until later this afternoon.”
“I’ve come to tear you and Brendan away from your never-ending work. You haven’t had time to enjoy Paris at all,” Isabel said happily. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, and the feathers on her bonnet tickled his chin. “Good heavens, but you do look a fright today, Dominic! Whatever were you doing last night?”
“Issy…” Dominic began sternly. But he was saved from making up some elaborate lie to explain his bruises when Isabel stepped back and laughed.
“Never mind,” she said. “I am quite sure I don’t want to know. But I think it’s terribly unfair you all get to have adventures when I am stuck at the hotel embroidering with Mrs. Smythe.”
“Mrs. Smythe is meant to be your companion while you’re here, since Mama couldn’t come,” Dominic said. “She came very highly recommended.”
“Recommended as what? A jailer at Newgate?” Isabel protested. “I am in Paris! I want to have some fun, just a little bit, before we go home. So I need your help.” She gently touched the lapel of his waistcoat, a coaxing smile on her face.
Dominic laughed and wrapped his arm around her shoulders to hug her. “I always have time to help you. As long as what you want isn’t too scandalous.”
“Of course it isn’t. I leave the scandal to my brothers, as you all seem so good at it. I only want you to take me shopping before rehearsal this afternoon. I need to find gifts for Mama and Lily.”
“And perhaps a hat or two for yourself?”
Isabel laughed. “Of course. I want all my friends to be wild with envy over my new French couture when we get home.”
“I suppose a shopping trip is in order then,” Dominic said. He wasn’t getting any work done anyway. Perhaps Isabel’s company would distract him.
Isabel clapped her hands. “And tea while we’re out? Somewhere nice? Without Mrs. Smythe?”
“Very well, tea also. Perhaps Brendan will join us.”
“Only for tea. He’s such an impatient bear when it comes to shopping. Oh, I almost forgot! The concierge gave me this to give to you. It was delivered a little while ago.” Isabel reached into her beaded reticule and took out a letter to hand to him.
Dominic took it from her slowly, almost as if it could come alive and bite him. Only his name was written across the front in a small, neat, anonymous script, but it smelled faintly of Sophia’s perfume.
He tore it open and quickly read the words printed there. “Thank you for your invitation. I will meet you at the Café de Paris on the Boulevard Italiens at nine, if that is convenient for you. Sophia Westman.”
Dominic laughed ruefully. So Sophia didn’t have any sense when it came to seeing him again. And it seemed they had both gone mad, because he knew he would definitely be there to see her at nine.
Luckily he was not performing that night, but Isabel was. And Brendan would have to be at the theater to keep an eye on her, so both of them would be far away from the Boulevard Italiens.
“Who is it from?” Isabel asked, trying to peek at the note.
Dominic refolded it and stuffed it quickly into a desk drawer. “None of your business, Issy.”
Isabel laughed and spun away to peer out the grimy office window. “One of your amours, then. I hope she’s very pretty.” Suddenly a frown flickered over her face. “How very strange.”
“Strange?” Dominic said, pausing as she shrugged into his coat.
“Yes. That same man was standing out there when I came in.”
Dominic peered over Isabel’s shoulder to the street below. It was the usual Parisian daytime tangle of horses and carriages, servants hurrying on errands, well-dressed couples, and yapping dogs on leads. But amid all the color and movement was one dark spot of stillness. A man leaned against the railing of the wrought-iron park fence across the street.
He was a tall, portly figure swathed in a brown tweed coat, with a cap pulled low over his brow. A rolled-up newspaper was tucked under his arm, but he made no move to read it. He seemed to be watching the crowds as they flowed around him.
And watching the theater.
Dominic’s hand instinctively curled into a tight fist, and he slid Isabel away from the window. There was no law against just standing on the pavement, of course, but after what had happened to him last night and Lord Hammond’s strange threats, he was wary of any odd behavior.
“Do you know who he is?” Isabel asked.
“I’ve never seen him before,” Dominic answered, still studying the man. He was very still, as if he was carved from stone, but Dominic somehow sensed he was indeed watching the theater. Dominic’s instincts hummed on alert.
“Maybe he’s a spy from another theater,” Isabel said. She sounded far too excited at the prospect of thespian espionage. “He’s going to break in tonight after everyone leaves and steal our scripts for the next show. And then…”
“Issy!” Dominic interrupted. He had to laugh, despite his suspicion of the man lurking outside. “You’re much too bloodthirsty, you know.”
Isabel pouted. “What do you expect? I’m an actress. I need excitement. And judging by your very colorful bruises, Dominic, I am not the only one. Is he still there?”
Dominic glanced back out the window. The man was indeed still there, chatting with a maidservant. The girl pointed at the stage door, and the man nodded.
“Yes,” Dominic said grimly. “Wait here for a minute, Issy. I’ll be right back.”
Isabel caught his arm as he turned away. “Are you going to confront him? Oh, let me come, too!”
“Certainly not. You’ll stay here and wait for Brendan. And I’m hardly going to confront anyone. I’m merely going to see if the man requires directions.”
“I always miss out on the fun.” Isabel frowned, but she did plop herself down on a chair by the desk and crossed her arms as if settling in to wait. “At least I can see from the window if there’s a fight.”
“There won’t be a fight,” Dominic said. Not another one. Not on a public street right outside the theater in broad daylight.
He made his way out of the theater and onto the busy street. It was a beautiful day, sunny and warm, and everyone was hurrying past on their errands. Except for the man leaning against the park fence, the newspaper under his arm. Dominic saw his gaze flicker toward him as he stalked closer.
Dominic leaned against the fence next to the man and folded his arms across his chest. “You have some errand at that theater?” he said casually, as if he was merely making idle conversation.
“Non,” the man said briefly, but Dominic could hear the man’s flat English accent. He looked burly and muscular under his cheap tweed jacket, like many of the boxers Dominic fac
ed in the ring.
“Just enjoying the day?”
“Something like that. You have a problem with that?”
Dominic suddenly swung around to face the man, not backing down. “Just as long as you don’t enjoy yourself in the vicinity of my sister or any of my family.”
“I don’t know what you mean, monsieur,” the man said sullenly. But Dominic saw the tick of the muscle in his jaw.
“I have seen you before,” Dominic said quietly. “And you have the look of a hired man about you. But I warn you, hired or not—I will take down anyone who hurts my family. Just so we are clear.”
Dominic started to turn away, but out of the corner of his eye he saw a sudden movement. The man’s beefy fist started to swing up, but Dominic spun around on the balls of his feet and caught him with an uppercut to the jaw that sent him reeling back into the fence. A passing lady shrieked.
“I mean what I say,” Dominic said. “Tell your master that as well.”
Then he strode back into the hotel, leaving the hired thug bleeding and cursing behind him.
Chapter Seventeen
Sophia climbed the marble front steps of the Café de Paris and stepped through the etched glass doors, feeling unaccountably nervous as she left the rain-swept streets behind. The sunny day had suddenly turned wet late in the afternoon, and she had briefly had the wild thought to use the weather as an excuse to beg off this supper engagement.
Which was utterly ridiculous. She had been attending social occasions since she was a child, had met and talked with any number of people, had learned to deal with any awkwardness. Why would she worry about going out now?
Because she was meeting with Dominic, of course. The man she had made love with, twice, in a rush of hot, thoughtless need. Dominic, whom she had been so intimate with, as intimate as two people could be, yet who stayed so unknown to her. She wished she could read him better, as she could her opponents at cards.