Velvet Embrace (14 page)

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.