“You really do not have to do this, miss.” Larena sat on a carved stone bench pressed against the back wall, holding small pouches of herb seeds on her lap. “ ’Tis the scullery maid’s job.”
A horse neighed from over the brick wall that barricaded them from the stables and carriage houses beyond.
“I know ’tis not proper, Larena, but I want to teach William how to plant seeds and inform him of the importance of herbs.” Dominique stopped to catch her breath, realizing she had not worked outdoors in quite a while—not since she had helped her mother tend to their garden in Portsmouth.
“When do I get to help you, Miss Dawson?” William’s bright blue eyes sped to hers as he crouched beside the square patch of dirt.
Dominique gazed at the sundial littered with leaves, then up at the sun, now nearly halfway across the sky, and wondered why on the one day she had decided to work outside, the ever-present veil of fog had gone on holiday. Wiping the perspiration off her forehead with her sleeve, she resumed her task.
“You see, William, the soil must first be prepared by loosening and sifting it before we plant the seeds. That is what you are going to do.” She gave him a look of proud excitement. “The most important part.”
William grinned, his chubby cheeks dimpling as he inched closer to the raised garden.
“Do not fall in the mud, William,” Larena warned, “or Mrs. Hensworth will turn me into a goose for dinner.”
“A goose?” William giggled, and Dominique could not help but smile.
She had decided to teach William as much as she could about life, literature, music, and the love of God before she left him—as much as any six-year-old could absorb, that is.
Left him.
Sorrow burned in her throat. She glanced down at the boy as he dipped a finger in the dirt a few feet away and examined the globs that clung to his skin, then looked up at her with that mischievous grin that reminded her so much of his father. She knew without a doubt that she would leave a large part of her heart behind with William.
And with the admiral.
Chop. Chop. Chop. She slashed at the soil, wishing with each forceful blow that she was slicing into herself. For two days she had wallowed in self-loathing over what she had been forced to say to the admiral that night at the Drury. After Mr. Atherton had escorted her home, she had collapsed into bed and wept until morning, wept not just for the frightening meeting with the Frenchman, not just for Lord Markham’s terrifying assault—the thought of which still sent her trembling—but for the look on the admiral’s face when she had told him she preferred Mr. Atherton to accompany her home.
She could not dispel the vision from her mind. His smile had instantly fled from his lips, his strong cheeks had sunk inward, and his jaw had hardened into a tight mass of twitching muscles. For a second, she thought she saw pain burn within his eyes before he erected the familiar cold shield and agreed to her request without a trace of emotion in his voice.
At that moment, her heart had crumbled into a million pieces, and she was not sure it would ever come back together again.
She had remained in bed the entire next day, excusing herself with complaints of a headache, but truth be told, she had hoped to avoid an encounter with the admiral. Now that it was Monday, she could rest assured that he would be gone most of the day at the Admiralty—and for the remainder of the week, for that matter. Only the evenings would present some difficulty, but Dominique felt confident she could find enough reasons to excuse herself from attending dinner and keep to her room as much as possible. Surely the admiral would not protest after she had spurned his affections so vehemently.
It was not just for him that she hoped to avoid any contact. Truthfully, she did not think she could handle gazing into those brown eyes, not only because of the pain she had caused that might still be lingering there, but because she did not think she would be able to resist him if he opened himself up to her again. She could no longer deny that her affections for the admiral had blossomed and were nigh to a point where they began to smother her reason. And her reason must remain intact—for Marcel’s sake.
In less than a week, she would see her brother again, and they could begin their life anew. In the meantime, she must avoid the admiral at all costs, for if fear of her predicament did not kill her, if shame at her betrayal did not, then surely her broken heart would.
She slashed the soil again and again. Father, why have You put me here—to break everyone’s heart, including my own? Why am I so weak, so useless?
“I believe you have killed it, Miss Dawson.” Larena snickered behind her.
Dominique shook the morbid thoughts from her head and stared down at the mutilated soil. “Well, yes. Indeed. It does appear so.”
William chuckled. “Is it my turn now?”
“Absolutely.” Dominique smiled.
The boy gazed up at her, but his eyes suddenly shifted above her head and brightened. “ ’Tis Father!” He waved his plump little hand with exuberance.
Dominique dared to glance over her shoulder. Up above them, behind the french doors of the morning room, stood the admiral, looking quite dashing in his blue navy coat. He did not wave, nor did he smile. Dominique’s heart lurched in her chest nonetheless.
She darted her gaze forward. What was he doing home? Warmth flamed up her neck and onto her face, both at his intense perusal and at the memory of being in his arms the last time she had seen him.
“Why, miss. You don’t look well.” Larena giggled. “ ’Tis some grand effect the man has on you, I would say.”
“Sacre bleu, Larena. ’Tis the heat is all.”
William’s gaze shifted between Larena and Dominique. “Do you like my father, Miss Dawson?”
Dominique froze, unsure of how to answer the young boy’s bold question, then decided on the truth. “Of course I do, William. I like him very much.”
Chase took a puff of his cheroot and exhaled the sweet, pungent smoke in a cloud that obscured his view. He waved it aside, not wanting to lose for a moment the vision of Miss Dawson and his son below.
“What are you staring at?” Katharine lifted her skirts and stormed to the window.
“Of all the…Mercy me, will you look at her? Why, she is a filthy mess. Upon my word, that is no way for a lady to behave. Do not say I did not warn you, Chase.”
“Personally, I find it quite charming. A woman unafraid to get her hands dirty. Very refreshing, indeed.”
“You cannot be serious.” Katharine snorted. “Not after all that she has done.”
“Do remind me, sister—just what, pray tell, has she done?” Chase cocked a brow in her direction but quickly returned his gaze to the garden below. He watched as Miss Dawson knelt on the stone pathway and took William’s hand in hers, then gently helped him poke a hole in the dirt and drop a seed therein. The boy’s wide smile and beaming admiration as he looked at Miss Dawson sent a flurry of emotions through Chase: adoration, appreciation, and a deeply embedded pain. He rubbed his heart as if he could ease away his agony, but to no avail. He had a feeling the pain of her rejection would never subside and would indeed linger within his chest year after year right alongside the pain of Melody’s death. He turned toward his sister. “I have not seen a shred of your supposed evidence against Miss Dawson.”
Katharine pursed her lips and swished across the room. “I assure you my man did see her enter that tavern late one night, Chase. That alone should suffice to prove she cannot be trusted. And there is another deception I have discovered. This whole affaire d’amour with Mr. Atherton was a ruse to make you jealous.”
Chase froze. He snuffed out his cigar on a tray and faced her. “Indeed?” Nigh impossible. If she had no affections toward Percy, then why had she insisted on his accompaniment home the other night? Especially when it had been Chase who had swooped in to her rescue, when it had been in Chase’s arms she had sought comfort and protection, and especially when he had been sure, at least for the briefest of moments, that she re
turned the affections that burned so ardently within him.
Egad, he had been about to declare his love for her when she opened her lips and spoke only of Percy. What a fool he had been. He had vowed that night never to open his heart to another, yet here he stood, watching the cause of his suffering from the window of his own house like a lovesick puppy.
“However did you discover this mad plot?” He shielded the emotion from his eyes—a skill he had become quite proficient at—and tried to sound nonchalant.
“I questioned Mr. Atherton on the night of the play. The silly fop could never keep a secret, especially not after a few glasses of brandy.” Katharine gave Chase a sweet smile and alighted upon the arch-backed sofa like an angel. More like a wolf in angel’s clothing.
Chase longed to believe it had been Miss Dawson’s idea to make him jealous, but he knew better. She was far too honorable and innocent to concoct such a scheme. And for what reason? “Then it was Percy’s idea?”
Katharine patted her cinnamon hair and straightened her back. “I suppose, yes, but that does not excuse her involvement in the deception. Of course, you know she means to trap you into marriage.”
Chase chuckled. Of that he could be sure his sister was grossly mistaken. “Odd. Yet she spurns my every advance.”
Katharine’s fiery gaze snapped to Chase as if he had slapped her cheek. “Advance? Please do not tell me you are interested in that French charlatan.” Her eyes widened, and she shot to the edge of her seat. “Did you say she spurns you? How dare she slight such a worthy prospect as yourself? I cannot believe it!”
Chase laughed. “I know not whether I am to be outraged at my intentions or at her disregard of them. Besides, where I place my affections is none of your business, dear sister.”
“Affect—oh my.” Katharine stood and laid the back of her hand over her forehead as if she were coming down with a fever. “It is my business when I see you making a monumental mistake. Would that someone had warned me about Lord barton before I had agreed to marry him.”
“Would you have listened?” Chase rubbed his chin as he remembered expressing some reservations about the engagement to a very stubborn and lovesick sister.
Katharine looked down and fingered the vinaigrette hanging about her neck as if she needed to open it and breathe the sweet contents to keep from fainting. She lifted her gaze, her pink lips curving slightly. “But you have much better sense than I do, Chase. You always have.”
“Then there is no need to concern yourself, is there? Come now.” Chase touched her arm and gestured for her to sit while he took a seat beside her. “Do not overset yourself. It matters not what my intentions are toward Miss Dawson. I assure you she does not return them.” He winced as the verbal declaration pained him once again like a knife in an open wound.
Katharine’s brown eyes studied him as if seeing him for the first time. “You are different, Chase. Not quite yourself.”
“Really. How so?”
“More compassionate, more kind.”
“So I am normally a brute?” He grinned.
“I did not mean—”
“ ’Tis quite all right. I know I can be harsh at times.” Frankly, he had felt like a crusty old seadog the past few years: peevish, cantankerous, and unpleasant. And he had not really cared to be anything different. What had changed him? He glanced toward the window but was too far from it to see Miss Dawson. From the minute he had met her, something had begun to soften within him—and it had never stopped. Even in light of her rejection.
Katharine touched his arm, drawing his attention back to her. “Now perhaps you will give Lady Irene another chance?”
Chase raised his brow at his sister’s persistence. “Surely you are not serious? Why do you keep insisting on this match?”
“Because despite Lady Irene’s faults, she will always be loyal to you.” She glanced down. “And our family cannot take another scandal, another disgrace.” She withdrew a handkerchief as if she were about to cry but only crumpled it in her hands. “I do not want to see you suffer as I did. You have already suffered enough.” Katharine lifted her glassy eyes to Chase. “For these past three years since Melody’s death, Lady Irene has waited for you, has turned down worthy suitor after worthy suitor in the hopes of securing your interest. Surely you can see she would make a trustworthy wife.”
Chase took her hand in his. “Perhaps trustworthiness is not the only quality I desire.” He shrugged. “Besides, after what I saw at the Drury Lane and have heard about town since, Lady Irene and Lord Wichshur have formed quite an attachment. Is this the loyalty of which you speak?” He huffed. “I would say her loyalty extends only as far as the suitor’s purse and social position.”
Katharine snapped her hand from his and rose, sauntering toward the fireplace.
“It is only temporary.” Her shoulders seemed to sag with her mood. “Lady Irene grew tired of your constant rejections. She is hurt; that is all. I am quite sure she is just trying to make you jeal— to get your attention.”
“By your own admission, then, am I to suppose that a scheme to make me jealous is acceptable when preformed by Lady Irene but not by Miss Dawson?”
“Oh, Chase, you know what I mean.” Katharine waved a hand through the air, and Chase thought for a moment that she was crying.
“No, I cannot say that I do.”
Katharine swiveled around, her eyes a stormy brew. “And what of this Lord Markham business?”
“Business? is that what you call it?” Blood surged through Chase. How could his sister not understand the horror of what had happened? “The man assaulted Miss Dawson.”
“Do you honestly believe her innocent in the matter?”
“Yes, I do.” Rage began to strangle his voice, and he cleared it in an effort to calm himself. “And you may inform his lordship, should you cross his path, that he is no longer welcome at the Randal home. He is fortunate that I do not call him out to the grass before breakfast.”
“A duel? surely you do not mean that.” Katharine took a step toward Chase, alarm burning in her eyes. “A duel over that woman?”
“She is more deserving of the honor than most.” Chase took a deep breath. “Lord Markham attacked Miss Dawson, unsolicited and unprovoked. And that is the end of it.”
“She has your brain in a fuddle. She could only betray you. Why can you not see it?”
Chase rubbed the burning scar on his right cheek and closed his eyes. Could Dominique betray him? He could never believe it. “If that concludes your list of her wrongdoings, I suggest you close the subject until you can provide evidence to the contrary.”
When Chase opened his eyes, Sebastian’s lanky frame appeared in the doorway. “Mr. Atherton to see you, Admiral.”
“Show him to the drawing room. We shall be there presently.” Chase clamped his jaw. He had no desire to see Percy today, but a sudden thought gripped him. “And, Sebastian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have Miss Dawson join us, as well.”
Dominique bit her lip as she made her way to the drawing room, brushing out the folds of her skirt. At first angry that the admiral had called her away from her gardening, she now felt nothing but fear crawling up her back, pinching every nerve along the way. Surely he could see she was unkempt and in no condition for socializing. Why had he insisted on interrupting her at that moment? What could he possibly want? Whatever it was, it was most assuredly not going to be pleasant. She imagined him angry and bitter and anxious to inflict some punishment on her for her slight of his affections.
She tucked a wayward curl behind her ear and hoped she appeared somewhat presentable. Larena had assisted her in donning a clean gown and washing the mud from her face and hands, but at Sebastian’s constant bickering that she not keep the admiral waiting, she had hurried through her toilette and surely had not done a proper job.
Voices drifted from the room as she reached for the door handle, making her all the more nervous because she recognized them. Her
moist palms slid on the latch, but finally she lifted it and made her entrance. The admiral’s eyes locked upon hers immediately, drawing her gaze to him. He stood next to the fireplace, one arm leaning casually over the mantel, his booted feet crossed at the ankles, his mahogany hair tucked behind his ears in a slight curl. A curve graced his usually stern jaw.
Though she tried to pull her gaze from his eyes, she found she could not, not because of any anger or sternness, but because of the warmth and affection she found within their brown depths. Where she had expected fury or at the very least pain, she saw only regard and admiration. She shook her head to dislodge the hold his eyes had upon her and surveyed the room. Mrs. Barton sat draped in peevishness on the flowered ottoman, and Mr. Atherton stood by the window, drink in hand, shifting his mischievous eyes between her and the admiral, a catlike grin upon his lips.
“Miss Dawson, thank you for coming.” The admiral approached and took her hand in his, laying a gentle kiss upon it. It was only then, with the feel of his warm lips upon her skin, that she realized she had forgotten to don her gloves. Her heart sped, causing her breath to quicken and her chest to rise and fall in such rapid movements she was sure everyone would notice. Yanking her hand from his, she took a step back.
“How may I be of service, Admiral?”
The admiral smiled with a look that said he’d noticed her reaction to him and it pleased him.
Mrs. Barton coughed.
“Please have a seat, will you not?” Admiral Randal gestured toward a chair.
Dominique lowered herself into it but kept to the edge, back straight and hands folded in her lap. She eyed the open door. The Admiral came and stood beside her, a protective gesture that made her heart leap. Why was he being so kind? she could deal with his anger, could deal with his rudeness, even his cruelty, but she could not handle his compassion.
Falcon and the Sparrow Page 23