And in Paris he hired Germain, Dominic thought to himself. It wasn't difficult to guess the rest of the story. "Tell me, M'sieur le Doctor," Dominic said. "What do you gain by telling me this?"
Henri Fontaine shrugged. "A clear conscience, perhaps. I wanted you to understand why Sir Charles acted as he did."
Dominic's jaw hardened. "I understand," he replied grimly. "All too well, I understand."
He stood up then and crossed the room before anyone thought to stop him from leaving. At the door, however, he turned back to survey the company, his gaze lingering on Brie even though she refused to meet his eyes.
"Ironic, is it not, doctor," Dominic said slowly, "that the pattern of our lives can be so easily altered by circumstances? And that we can be so foolish as to wish it were not so? Superbly ironic."
Chapter Eighteen
"I am perfectly all right, Julian," Brie repeated for the third time, "And will you please stop looking at me as if I had lost my reason? I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble, but it really wasn't necessary for you to come after me."
Julian dismissed her remarks with an impatient wave of his hand and continued his agitated pacing of the floor. "Damn it, Brie, it was no trouble! What kind of friend do you take me for? Do you think I could merely turn a blind eye while you gadded about the continent with a man who could ruin your reputation with a few choice words, let alone his company?"
When Brie began to protest, Julian held up his hand again. "All right, perhaps you were not gadding about, and Dominic is one of my best friends. But that still doesn't change the fact that you were unchaperoned in his company for the better part of a week. Good God, Brie! Were you lost to all sense of propriety? Surely you must see what this means?"
"Julian, calm down. And please quit scolding me. You are beginning to sound like my aunt."
Julian snorted derisively. "At least Lady Arabella knows what is required in the conduct of a lady." He paused for a moment, then said in a milder tone, "There is no hope for it. Brie. You must marry Dominic—and at once. At least that will help scotch the rumors that are flying about. My guess is that Dominic has already arrived at that conclusion."
Brie looked away. "You can see how overjoyed he is at the prospect. He has been gone the entire afternoon."
"I'm certain he meant no insult to you." When Brie didn't reply, Julian swore silently. Dominic should be the one trying to find a satisfactory solution to this mess, but he had ridden out after hearing the doctor's story and hadn't come back. Julian had been required to handle the French authorities alone. But even that hadn't been as difficult as trying to talk some sense into Brie.
"Come now," he said, adding to his argument. "It won't be so bad being married to Dom. He can be quite a pleasant fellow. He's rich and titled and not unattractive to women. I'd even lay odds that after a time, you'll be able to wind him around your finger the way you do me. I expect he'll let you continue to indulge in your passion for your horses and stables."
Brie had been keeping a tight rein on her temper, but when this comment was uttered, she looked up at him with a militant gleam in her eyes. "Thank you, Julian, for arranging my future so satisfactorily! Need I remind you, though, that I can indulge my passions quite adequately without being married to Dominic or anyone else? I have no need of his money or his titles, or for that matter, his protection. And I think you forget that he is selfish and arrogant and highhanded. . . ."
Brie paused in her denunciation of Dominic's character to dash a tear from her cheek. Seeing her, Julian couldn't be fooled by her angry protests. He eyed her pityingly. "Poor Brie. You're in love with him, aren't you?"
"I. . . . It doesn't matter."
"No?" he asked softly. "Then why are you crying?"
"I am not—" Brie took a deep breath and waited for the painful lump in her throat to diminish. "Please, Julian, just take me home. I'm tired and upset, and I can't think objectively."
"But we cannot leave until things are settled."
Brie stared down at her clasped hands. "There is nothing to settle."
"Of course there is. One would have to be a blind fool not to see that." When she said nothing, he went to sit beside her on the sofa and took her hands in his. "Brie, look at me." When she complied, Julian's breath caught in his throat. Her blue- green eyes were sparkling with tears and her mouth was quivering, looking soft and vulnerable. Julian had to restrain himself from offering the kind of comfort he still wanted to give.
"You aren't making sense, Brie," he reasoned. "If you love Dominic, there can be no reason not to marry him. And I can't believe he is completely indifferent to you. I'd say he's getting the better part of the bargain."
Trying to ignore the ache in her heart, Brie closed her eyes. How could she make Julian understand how impossible it would be for her to marry Dominic, especially now that the truth had come out? Dominic wouldn't want an alliance with her, not when their families had so nearly succeeded in destroying each other. And he wouldn't want any reminders that his father has assaulted a woman and indirectly caused her death. He would only want to forget the subsequent tragedies. But more importantly, she wouldn't be able to bear seeing the thinly veiled contempt in his eyes that would surely be present if he were forced to become her husband.
For the woman who stole Dominic's precious freedom, there would be misery indeed, and her own suffering would be magnified a hundredfold. Brie could clearly imagine what such a marriage would hold for her. While Dominic might be attracted to her now, he would resent being trapped into marriage, and it wouldn't be long before he found solace in the arms of a more desirable, more biddable female. As the years went by, he would engage a string of mistresses in assertion of his independence, perhaps even try to lose himself in an endless round of dissipation and debauchery as so many of his peers did. She herself would become more and more embittered by his infidelities, even while craving a sign of his affection.
No, the years of loneliness without him still looked rosy in comparison to the bleak future she envisioned as his wife. And the pain of being separated from Dominic now would be infinitely preferable to the inevitable anguish of loving him when her love wasn't returned.
Steadying herself, Brie opened her eyes to look at Julian. "You are a true romantic, Julian," she murmured. "You believe in fairy tales and knights in shining armor and living happily ever after. I appreciate your concern, my very dear friend, but I do not want to marry Dominic. Besides. . . . you are mistaken. I don't love him."
"Now who is speaking of fairy tales?" Abruptly releasing her hands, Julian rose and resumed his pacing. "You cannot have considered what will happen if you return to England unwed, Brie. You will be an outcast of society, a pariah! Your name will be bandied about in the clubs and by gossiping old cats who delight in spreading scandals, and even when some other sensation pushes your story in the background, you will be shunned by all the respectable, self-righteous hypocrites who set themselves up as judges. No, Brie, I can't let you ruin your life. If you won't marry Dominic, then I suppose I will have to offer for you."
"Thank you for your kindness," she said dryly. "But there is no need for you to sacrifice yourself for my sake. Oh, come now, Julian," Brie exclaimed when he stopped his pacing to scowl at her. "You know you wouldn't be happy with me as your wife. I expect your assessment of how society will view my . . . indiscretions is correct, but it makes no difference. I've never placed much value on the opinion of strangers or mere acquaintances, and I shan't start now. Of course, I hope my friends will not condemn me when I return to Greenwood and take up my life where I left off."
"Brie, why won't you understand? There will no longer be a cloak of respectability to protect you from—" Julian broke off, too angry to finish the sentence.
Brie raised an eyebrow. "From lecherous fortune hunters? Men who will consider me a female of easy virtue and therefore a pigeon ripe for plucking? Very well, if it will make you more comfortable, Julian, I will hire a bodyguard whose duty it w
ill be to keep me from falling victim to seduction." When Julian merely glared at her, Brie gave an exaggerated sigh. "You could at least laugh at my sallies, poor though they may be. You, my friend, are showing signs of becoming an extremely poor travelling companion. Perhaps I should hire my own carriage and make the return trip on my own."
Aghast at that possibility, Julian threw up his hands in defeat. "Very well, damn it! I will have the coach made ready. But don't tell me you aren't running away, because I won't believe a word of it." Turning on his heel, he marched to the door, pausing only long enough to fling over his shoulder, "I never thought to see the day when you would give up without a fight!"
He was still seething with frustration when he reached the stableyard. "Where the hell have you been?" Julian snapped when he saw Dominic dismounting. "And what did you mean by disappearing for two hours and leaving me to handle this mess? I should call you out for that, not to mention your treatment of Brie."
Handing the reins to a groom, Dominic eyed his friend quizzically. "Am I to take that as a challenge then?"
"No, of course not ! I'm no fool. You're a better shot than I." Turning, Julian shouted for his horses to be hitched to the hired conveyance.
"Going somewhere?"
"Yes, blast it! Home. Brie insists on leaving at once."
Dominic cocked his head. "It appears that you have lost an argument."
"Not one. Several. I've never been able to get the best of her, not when her mind's made up."
"Perhaps I can persuade her to stay."
"The devil you will! Why do you think we are leaving? She doesn't want to talk to you, that's why. Doesn't want anything to do with you. And don't think you can set things to rights by marrying her. She won't have you. I talked till I was hoarse, but Brie said she didn't care about her reputation or what the scandalmongers will say. She doesn't want to marry you—or me either for that matter, although I offered."
A muscle in Dominic's jaw tightened. "You might have let me do my own proposing."
"Well, you weren't here. What was I supposed to do, tie her to a chair? Brie said she would hire her own transportation if I wouldn't take her home. Besides, I assumed you would feel obliged to offer. I thought if Brie knew you would marry her, she wouldn't run off—"
"Enough," Dominic said curtly. "I think I understand. Where is she?"
"I left her in the parlor, but I expect she went to find Katherine. Miss Hewitt was lying down for a while. Dom?" Julian said when his friend turned to leave.
"Yes?"
"Don't be too hard on Brie, will you? She has been through a lot lately."
Dominic's lips compressed in a thin line. "Of course," he agreed mildly. "I promise to stop just short of wringing her neck."
By the time Dominic reached the house, his temper was smoldering. He had spent the past two hours riding aimlessly about the countryside, coming to terms with the situation and himself, not an easy task for a man who prided himself on his ability to judge human nature.
When the doctor had concluded the story, Dominic's overwhelming impulse had been to escape. He had felt a desperate need to be alone, to sort out his thoughts and feelings. All his life, he had been governed by certain convictions—convictions that had been dashed to fragments in the short space of an hour. He had neither known nor cared where he was going, but had let his mount roam at will. A cold mist swirled around him, obscuring his vision and muffling the sounds of his horse's hooves, but even though it settled damply on his hair and clothes and attacked the bare skin of his face, he was oblivious to the discomfort.
As he wandered through the fog, long forgotten memories came floating to the surface of his mind. A boy raging silently against the fates, swearing revenge for the death of the father he had idolized. A young man out on the town for the first time, standing among a cheerful crowd of Christmas revelers but feeling a wave of loneliness so strong that it became a physical ache. A fully grown man, heart hardened against any tender emotions, triumphant when a slender, russet-haired beauty bowed to the force of his will.
Forcibly brushing aside thoughts of Brie, Dominic tried to summon a mental image of his father. Nothing came. The Comte de Valdois was a stranger. His death had been the foundation upon which Dominic had built his childhood plans of revenge, but he could no longer even feel anything for the man.
But his own feelings were unimportant. Leaving them aside, Dominic made himself review the facts, one by one, coldly, objectively, starting with his father. The comte had raped an innocent gentlewoman, then remained idle while she suffered the consequences of his actions. It had been murder, of a sort.
Dominic's lips curled in self-mockery. Had he been in Sir Charles' place, had it been his wife who had died, he would have torn the comte apart with his bare hands. Instead, Sir Charles had devised an alternate plan to avenge the honor of his dead wife. While his action had not been particularly honorable, having the comte arrested was just as effective as putting a bullet through his heart. And it had been justice . . . of a sort. The comte had received his punishment, a life for a life.
The story should have ended there, with the score even. Except that Suzanne Durham had become involved. Sir Charles had suspected his daughter's growing attraction to the comte and used her name on the arrest warrant as a means to end it. The result, however, had been to drive the young woman from her home.
It was rather humbling, Dominic reflected, to admit he had wrongfully blamed Suzanne Durham all these years for his father's death. It must have taken considerable courage for her to go to Paris and attempt to influence the comte's fate. She had tried to save his life, even when she knew of the crime he had committed against her mother.
But the story had not even ended there. Dominic shook his head, hardly believing the irony even now. Had he systematically set out to destroy the Durham family, the results could not have been more devastating. Sir Charles had lost a daughter as well as a wife, and later the score had become even more unbalanced. Durham's son, Nicholas Dumonde, had died. Young Dumonde had been the victim of Germain's treachery, but Sir Charles had obviously been told differently. No doubt, Dominic thought sardonically, the matter would have come to a head sooner, had Sir Charles been able to travel then. Instead, he had suffered a paralyzing stroke, and it had been several years before he was able to seek revenge for his son's death.
Then, unbelievably, another member of the Durham family had entered the picture—Brie. By that time, however, Dominic had been unable to credit her involvement as being merely circumstantial. But not only had he mistrusted her, he had suspected Brie of betrayal. He had believed her capable of cunning and deceit, if not actually cold-blooded murder.
Dominic groaned out loud. How could he have been so blind? But he knew the answer to that. He had wanted to believe her guilty, for his own self-protection. He had been overwhelmingly attracted to her from the first, and when she had begun to penetrate his defenses, he had actually felt relief that he could arm himself with the knowledge of her treachery.
But Brie had not given up. She had stood firm in her
championship of her beliefs, and had shown a courage and determination that couldn't be broken by public ridicule or physical threats. And she had taken his side, even when her grandfather had been killed.
Remembering how badly he had treated her, Dominic groaned again. He owned her an apology, several hundred abjectly humble apologies to be exact—and not the least was for his cruel remark this morning in the inn. He had not meant to hurt her. He had only wanted to end the closeness that had recently sprung up between them, knowing he needed a clear head to face his past. Even so, he deserved to be shot for treating her so callously.
Feeling an inexplicable sense of urgency, Dominic turned his mount and spurred him into a canter. The mist had cleared somewhat, leaving the bare trees dripping with moisture, but he paid no attention to his surroundings as he rode back in the direction of the Durham estate. His thoughts were fully occupied with Brie.
What was it that Jason had said when they had parted at Dover? You must marry her. Well, that was true enough. It was the only honorable course. But his friend's conviction that he was in love was something Dominic wasn't yet willing to contemplate. He wasn't prepared to consider that he might have lost his heart to a hot-tempered, sharp-tongued vixen. It was enough that he was willing to sacrifice his freedom in order to preserve Brie's honor.
Realizing his thoughts, Dominic smiled for the first time that day. The idea of a sacrifice was distinctly humorous. It would be no hardship being married to Brie. In fact, he might find it rather enjoyable. Brie was no prim and proper miss who would treat her conjugal duties in the bedroom as obligations. She was as warm and passionate and beautiful as any mistress, and even if she possessed a hot temper and sharp tongue, she was intelligent and lively enough to keep boredom at bay. Of course, she was far too independent for a woman, Dominic reflected, but as her husband he could influence that. He would keep her in bed where there was less chance for argument. Brie was far more likely to obey him when he was plying her body with kisses.
Dominic grinned at that image, his teeth showing white against his bronzed skin. No, he had to admit that the idea of marriage didn't seem nearly so distasteful as it once had.
By the time he reached the stableyard, his plans were well formed. First he would take Brie to Paris where, with the help of the British Consulate, he would obtain a special marriage license and make her his countess. Then when they were married, he would buy her a magnificent wardrobe, befitting her station as the new Lady Stanton. She had left England with only the clothes on her back, and the outfits he had scrounged up in Dieppe would hardly suffice for a wedding trip. For the honeymoon, they would visit some of the other capitals of Europe, then perhaps rent a villa on the Mediterranean for a month or two. And when they returned to England in the fall, the scandal would have blown over.
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