Dominic's laugh was harsh, slashing across the void between them. "For rape, one must be unwilling. You will forgive me, of course, if I failed to detect any reluctance in your response."
Reminded of her wanton behavior, Brie flushed. But she kept her attention fixed on Dominic. He was moving toward her slowly, his cold, penetrating gaze boring into her.
"I could have had you," he pointed out in that same menacing tone, "a dozen times in the past few days, had I wanted to resort to force. Generally I don't care to use violence with women, but you, mademoiselle, tempt me to overlook my scruples. I vow it would be a great pleasure to teach you to curb that temper of yours. I expect I could think of a fitting punishment for a teasing wench who doesn't know her own mind—that crop across your lovely backside, for a start."
Brie retreated with faltering steps as he stalked her, while her heart beat in a wild, erratic rhythm. She raised the quirt defensively, although she knew she would never be able to catch Dominic off guard again. The implacable determination she saw in his eyes told her she wouldn't be given a second chance to escape.
Dominic was but a yard away from his frightened quarry when he paused, swearing softly under his breath. Seeing him looking over her shoulder, Brie glanced behind her. Her eyes widened when she saw the approaching horseman at the edge of the meadow. She let out her breath in relief, knowing that an audience would prevent Stanton from carrying out his threats.
Hearing her soft gasp, Dominic smiled sardonically. She thought she had escaped him, but he wasn't finished with her yet—by any means. He waited impatiently as Jacques came riding up.
The Frenchman's tone was apologetic but urgent. "Monsieur, a messenger has arrived. You are wanted in London."
Dominic's brows drew together. "Manning?" he asked, already knowing the answer. When Jacques nodded, Dominic pressed his lips together in irritation, but he turned and whistled to his stallion. The black horse came trotting up to him immediately.
Brie watched in amazement as Dominic gathered the stallion's reins and swung into the saddle. She could hardly believe that he would allow their confrontation to end like that. She was right. Dominic urged his horse nearer and looked down at her. "Forgive me, chérie, for leaving you so abruptly. But we will meet again. You can depend on it."
Even if she hadn't heard the soft threat in his tone, Brie could read the determination in his eyes and knew he wouldn't forget what had happened between them. But then neither would she forget.
She stood there, completely motionless, as Dominic turned his mount and spurred him to a gallop. The two horsemen were long out of sight before Brie relaxed her clenched fists and threw her riding whip to the ground. Giving an angry, frustrated cry, she sank to her knees in the cold snow and pressed her hands tightly over her ears.
In her mind, she could still hear the echo of Dominic's promise. He was an arrogant, insufferable devil! Yet she could still see his aristocratic face, still feel the strength in his hard body, the sensuous touch of his lips on hers. No, she wouldn't forget him. If she lived a hundred years, she would never forget him.
Chapter Four
Dominic shifted his weight slowly so as not to disturb the peacefully slumbering woman at his side. Reaching up, he drew aside the velvet hangings of the enormous four-poster bed, preferring the acrid aroma of smoke wafting from the chimney to the more overpowering scent of Denise's perfume. Her heavy scent brought to mind other nights, in wild tropical places far removed from this elegant London residence where outside a winter storm spent its fury.
Generally Dominic welcomed such diversions. Tonight, however, he found the musky scent of Denise's body sweet and cloying and oppressive. Mentally he underlined the word oppressive.
He lay back against the satin pillows and crossed his hands behind his head, a ghost of a smile curling his lip. What had he expected when he had sought Denise out this evening? A shy young maiden blooming with the innocence of spring? Denise had certainly never been that, in all the years he had known her. And he had once known her quite well. She had been his mistress, in fact, although after that affair had ended, he had rarely thought of her. The widow of the late Baron Grayson had done quite well for herself, Dominic noted with cynical amusement as his gaze wandered around the room with its gilt furnishings, velvet hangings, and thick carpets. Yes, definitely oppressive.
Silently he rose and went to the window, throwing aside the heavy draperies to expose the storm to his view. He could see snowflakes churning in the darkness, buffeted by great gusts of wind. Oddly, they mirrored his frame of mind. The restlessness that had driven him to seek Denise's companionship had not left him. If anything, it was stronger.
He stood at the window, oblivious to the seeping cold on his bare bronzed skin, his gray eyes piercing the darkness. If Manning's sources could be relied upon—and Dominic had no cause to doubt them—his greatest foe had returned to England after an absence of nearly four years. Charles Germain was out there, somewhere in the city.
Germain's reappearance had upset Manning, upset him enough to make him forgo his customary secrecy; he had sent one of his efficient bloodhounds to the country to track Dominic down. An unusual event, certainly. Manning never contacted him directly unless the matter was extremely urgent. Dominic had responded to the summons by setting out for London at once.
Although it had been late when his coach reached the outskirts of the city, he had gone directly to Lord Manning's home in Albermarle Street. He had found his portly superior in the study, busily pouring over a thick set of official-looking documents.
Manning offered him refreshments, then began without further ceremony. "My appreciation for coming so quickly, Dominic. I want your opinion on this business. You have heard, I suppose, that Charles Germain is back in the country?" When Dominic raised an eyebrow, Manning frowned and adjusted his spectacles higher on the bridge of his nose. "You may well look surprised. I was, I can assure you. I had thought him in India."
Dominic settled back in his chair, swirling the brandy in his glass. "You are certain it is Germain?"
"Quite certain. He was spotted in Folkestone last week and again here in London two days ago. But as yet I have no idea as to his purpose."
"And you want me to discover it?"
"I thought perhaps you might already have knowledge of it."
Dominic coolly returned the older man's gaze. "I am sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I would probably be the last person to whom Germain would divulge his plans. The last time we met I ordered him out of the country, you will recall."
With a sigh, Manning turned back to his desk to ruffle through some papers. He picked one up, staring at it for a long moment. "I remember. You threatened Germain with exposure as a double spy, although you had no proof."
Dominic's expression remained emotionless. "No, I had no proof. Charles liked to be sure there were never any witnesses to his dealings."
"A young French lad was involved, I believe. The boy died while in Germain's custody." Manning tapped his forefinger on the desk. "So," he mused, "Charles Germain was one of us and yet he sold information to the French."
"Yes."
"Do you not think he would do so again?"
Dominic shook his head. "It's highly unlikely. The war has been over for four years, and any information Charles might obtain would be of little value—even if he could be believed. You know better than I that once a man becomes suspect, his credibility vanishes."
Manning, in a weary gesture, removed his spectacles and carefully massaged his temples. "I must be getting old, to be jumping at shadows. Very well, Dominic, so he is not spying. Still . . ." He paused, directing a penetrating glance at his guest. "Still, he must have a reason for his return. A man like Germain does not act without purpose. I have a feeling—a feeling, mind you—that you will be involved in this business somehow. And that it will not be pleasant. Had Germain returned in a less furtive manner, we might assume he had grown bored with his exile and merely wanted to return
to his homeland. But . . ." The unspoken words, implying danger, hung suspended between the two men. Dominic, although politely attentive, remained silent.
His reaction was obviously not one Manning felt was warranted. The older man snorted. "Nerves of steel. I had forgotten. Well, perhaps you will be considerate of an old man's ravings and have a care for yourself."
Dominic's lips twisted into a wry grin, his teeth flashing white. "But of course, my lord."
"Bah," Manning said as he waved an impatient hand. "You always were one to go courting danger, as if it were a personal challenge. One of these days, Dominic . . ." He shrugged. "Ah, well. My people are trying to locate Germain. If they find him, I will send you word. Do you stay in London?"
"For a time," Dominic said, rising. "Perhaps Germain will show himself if I make myself conspicuous. I'll let you know where to reach me if I decide to leave."
"Very well. But take care."
It was past midnight when Dominic reached his own townhouse in Berkeley Square. His valet, Farley, showed no surprise when he called for a bath and evening clothes to be laid out. A short time later, Dominic was once again travelling through the streets of London, his destination, but not his intent, as specific as before. He had chosen an invitation at random from the stack set aside for his perusal—one for a ball of no particular distinction.
His arrival created quite a stir, just as he had expected. The Sixth Earl of Stanton was rarely seen at such events, but the title Dominic had inherited from his grandfather, as well as his wealth, assured his welcome.
Dominic surveyed the crowded ballroom with a cynical smile. What better way to make his presence known to Germain than to appear at a glittering social function? If, as Manning suspected, Germain was interested. But Manning's intuition was seldom wrong; it had served Dominic well a number of times in the past. Of course, he thought with a regretful sigh, the timing could have been better. Because of Germain's arrival, he would have to reformulate his plans. Instead of availing himself of Julian's hospitality, he would have to stay in London to flush Germain out of hiding. But if Charles Germain wanted to find the Earl of Stanton, then find him he would.
The ball had proved to be flatly insipid, with two exceptions, both old acquaintances. The first was his closest friend, Jason Stuart, the Marquess of Effing. Jason was in the process of taking his leave when Dominic arrived, but he delayed his departure long enough to exchange a few words and extend an invitation to dinner the following evening. The second exception was Dominic's ex-mistress, Denise, Lady Grayson.
Dominic had strolled out of the cardrooms after an hour of play and spotted her amid a court of admirers. She was hard to miss. Her blond beauty stood out like a cool candleflame, and tonight it was accentuated by a vivid, rose-colored gown. So why had he been reminded of russet tresses and flashing blue- green eyes?
As he stood watching Denise, his shoulder propped against a pillar, he had found himself unconsciously comparing the memory of Brie's slender, supple body and sweet, warm lips to the elegant vision before him. Oddly, Denise came out the loser. Her hair was far too pale, her figure too voluptuous, her mouth too artificial. She lacked a certain vitality, a freshness that the country beauty had in abundance. But then Denise was also missing the fiery temper.
Dominic had been startled out of his comparison by her approach. Denise smiled coyly, extending a slender white hand for him to kiss. "Darling, for these past five minutes and more, you have been looking at me as a wolf looks at his supper. Am I the lamb?"
Forcibly repressing the memory of his vixen, Dominic bowed over her hand. "No lamb," he said gallantly, "but certainly a delectable morsel." His lips lingeringly brushed the tips of her fingers, eliciting the response he expected: Denise shivered.
"Dominic, it has been so long," she said huskily, desire written plainly on her features, an invitation in her eyes.
He had accepted wordlessly, easily slipping into the old patterns. There had been one major advantage to their past relationship, aside from the obvious. Denise was a woman who knew how to keep silent. He had escorted her to her home, dismissing his coachman with instructions to return in the morning. Within moments of reaching her bedroom, Denise had wound her scented arms about his neck. But while his body had automatically responded to her touch, in his mind a memory had warred with the present.
Now, standing at the window, the cold attacking his bare skin, Dominic's mocking smile was for himself. An imagination run riot was unique in his experience. He had behaved like a veritable schoolboy. While making love to Denise, he had shut his eyes to the writhing creature beneath him and let a memory invade his whole being. The ripe luscious body became younger, firmer, while the blond tresses darkened to burnished auburn. The mouth he plundered so ruthlessly became Brie's, and she had responded to his kisses with a sensuousness that left him hungrily demanding more. She was a wench made for loving, with flaming hair and eyes like the ocean. A sweet fire exploded in him. . . .
Slowly the image had faded, leaving him shaken and spent. Thankfully, Denise had rolled away and gone immediately to sleep. She had not even stirred when he left her bed, seeking escape from the odor of her heavy perfume. Brie's scent had been heather and sunshine, the freshness of spring. . . .
Frowning, Dominic banished the thought. He was making the little termagant into a perfect paragon of loveliness. With a swift motion of his hand, he opened the window, inviting in a blast of snow-sweetened air.
The February weather was as capricious as a woman, Dominic thought cynically. Only a few days ago he had been caught in another storm, one far more serious. He and Jacques had been lucky to reach Julian's hunting box. Dominic had only gone there on a whim. He had been to Ireland in search of stock for his latest venture—a racing stud—but he hadn't wanted to return to London just yet. He had detoured through Leicester, even though he had doubted the change in location would be sufficient to dispel the boredom he had been feeling lately. He had been pleasantly surprised to find Brie. The challenge of pursuing her had made his visit far more enjoyable than he had expected. Too bad his sport had been interrupted by Manning's messenger.
The journey to London had seemed longer than usual. Dominic had spent the better part of it in deep speculation, with Brie at the center of his thoughts. What an enigma, a spitting vixen one moment, a warm passionate creature the next. Dominic smiled to himself as he remembered how she had fought him when he had tried to brush the snow from her hair. She had cut a ridiculous figure in her common boy's garb—but God, what a beauty! Even dressed as a common stablehand, the wench had aroused him. Herprotector, if there were one, was wise to keep his beautiful possession hidden deep in the country.
Staring out at the night without seeing, Dominic recalled her stormy eyes and the way they sparkled with tears when she had found herself his prisoner. How vulnerable she had looked, with her long fringe of lashes brushing her wet cheeks, her soft red lips quivering with dismay. How he had wanted to kiss away her tears, to soothe the fear in her eyes.
He had not meant to frighten her in the first place. He had only intended to tease her, to depress the pretentious haughtiness she had adopted with him. But when he had tasted the sweetness of her mouth and felt her lithe, slender body respond to his lovemaking with that curious mixture of innocence and desire, he had wanted her in a way he had not wanted any woman in a long while. She was refreshingly natural, like a wild creature of the forest. She seemed unbound by the conventions that made either prudes or whores of other women.
Once more Dominic found himself contemplating her station. Her cultured voice indicated that she was not a commoner, while her bearing and authoritative manner were too pronounced for a servant, even a lady's maid. But no self- respecting lady of his acquaintance would be caught dead in the faded gown Brie had worn, let alone a pair of men's breeches. Perhaps she was the by-blow of some local landowner. That would explain her proud but wild conduct. It might also explain why she had had to resort to becoming some elderl
y gentleman's mistress.
Dominic frowned. The thought of Brie belonging to another man was decidedly disturbing. But he would rectify that as soon as he returned to the country. Seducing her might prove to be a delicate task, of course. First he would have to lure her away from whichever gentleman had the pleasure of keeping her, and then he would have to tame the little wildcat. Except that it was not just a matter of taming, Dominic reminded himself. He would have to overcome her reservations as well. He wanted her willing, not flinching with apprehension. He wanted to have her warm body arching eagerly against his, to have those taut, provocative breasts burning against his chest. . . .
Dominic's eyes glinted as he imagined the enticing sensation of Brie lying naked in his arms, her silken limbs entwined with his, her pleasure matching his own. He could half feel her slender hips thrusting sweetly against his loins.
No, he had not expected to find anything quite like Brie when he had accepted Julian's invitation to the quiet countryside. Dominic slowly traced the thin red welt on his cheek where her riding crop had bitten his skin, and then he laughed softly. The willful beauty would not escape him so easily at their next meeting. She would pay for her rashness—a price of his choosing. The wildcat would learri to sheath her claws and purr at his slightest touch.
So vowing, Dominic firmly relegated the images of Brie to the far recesses of his mind and shut the window. As he turned away to dress, he spared a glance at Denise wrapped in her warm cocoon.
He regretted the impulse that had led to his renewed involvement with her. It had been a mistake, of course. Old affairs, like sleeping dogs, were best left undisturbed. Indeed, he had only taken advantage of Denise's availability in an effort to dispel a frustrated desire for a stormy-eyed temptress.
Unbidden, the vision of Brie returned and Dominic felt a swift tightening of groin muscles as his body tensed in anticipation. Brie held out her arms to him, beckoning, teasing, taunting, her glorious hair spilling down to hide her slender, womanly curves. . . .
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