Velvet Embrace (8 page)

It was a measure of Brie's innocence that she didn't guess what was being planned for her. She was aware that Dominic fascinated her, though. His nearness affected her strangely as she washed and peeled and chopped vegetables. Far too often she caught herself stealing a glance at him as he prepared breakfast.

He seemed almost a different man now from the one who had frightened her that morning with his cold anger, for there was a hint of gentleness beneath the cynicism that hadn't been present before. He was wearing the same dark green coat he had worn the previous night, although he no longer had on a
neckcloth
. His white cambric shirt was open at the neck, revealing a strong, brown throat. That, and the fact that his black hair was a little tousled, lent him an informality that was rather appealing, Brie thought. Even the stubble on his jaw didn't detract from his rakish good looks.
A fallen angel, indeed.
That suggestion of lost sweetness made a woman ache
to take him in her arms and hold him. Not that she would ever do such a thing. But he fascinated her, all the same.

Brie found herself trying to guess his age. Something over thirty, she decided, wondering how
had he
spent those years. His deft movements suggested that at least he knew what he was doing with a skillet—and soon the appetizing aroma of bacon frying confirmed it.

The delicious smells made Brie realize how hungry she was, but she was content to wait. The kitchen radiated an intimate atmosphere that was cozy, warm, and welcoming. Brie smiled to herself, realizing she was actually enjoying working silently beside Stanton. How could anyone
enjoy
cutting up carrots?

Their intimacy was soon interrupted. First Ezra Dawson, the second youngest Dawson grandson, delivered a basket of eggs from the hen house. Then a moment later, the kitchen door swung open to admit a short, dark, heavy-set man.

He entered quietly without knocking, and his sudden appearance startled Brie, making her jump. His reaction to her was even stronger. When he saw her, he stopped dead in his tracks and stared at her as if confronting a ghost.

Brie stared back—although she hardly noted his black eyes or his olive complexion or the fact that he was dressed in rough, workman's clothes. Her gaze was fixed on the body of the young deer he had slung over his shoulders. Seeing that it was little more than a fawn, Brie was dismayed. With the heavy snow the animal must have come close to the house in search of food, and then this brute had killed it.

The man recollected himself first. Tearing his gaze from Brie, he nodded to Dominic who was watching them both curiously. Then he carried the deer to the corner behind the door and let the stiff carcass tumble to the floor. "Now we will have roast venison," he said, straightening.

His accent was heavy, French by the sound of it, but Brie wasn't concerned with his manner of speech. His callousness had made her furious. She was half inclined to bring charges against him for poaching on Julian's land. "How could you?" she demanded of the brawny Frenchman. "That helpless animal was unable to defend itself."

Bewildered, he looked to his employer. Dominic's expression remained bland, but there was an unmistakable glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Jacques, this is Brie," he remarked in a dry tone.

Jacques eyed Brie warily. She was holding a paring knife in her hand, and at the moment, looked angry enough to use it. When she hesitated, he touched his cap respectfully to her.

Dominic found himself struggling to repress a smile as he watched the two of them square off like fighting gamecocks. Brie was beautiful when she flew into a passion; her eyes turned a smoky, smoldering green, while her cheeks flushed with vibrant color. But Jacques' expression was comical. The man looked shocked to find himself facing such a lovely spitfire. Dominic could sympathize, for he knew what it felt like to be on the receiving end of the beauty's
vixenish
temper. Fortunately, Brie hadn't had a knife when she had raged at him earlier that morning. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be missing some vital parts now if she had.

Deciding that he had better rescue his coachman, Dominic inclined his head toward the door. "You'll find the
Dawsons
on the third floor," he told Jacques.
"First room on the right."

The Frenchman looked relieved. He edged his way past Brie carefully, never taking his eyes off her until he reached the door to the hall. Then he slipped through quickly, leaving Dominic to face her alone. Dominic raised one eyebrow and waited expectantly for the explosion.

It didn't come. Brie was fuming, to be sure; she thought it incredulous that Stanton had dismissed his servant before she had a chance to speak to him about killing game on Julian's property. But she had also learned it was wiser not to challenge Dominic directly. She gave him one long, fulminating glare, then angrily turned her back to him and stabbed a potato.

There was a pregnant silence—a silence Brie found herself wishing would end. She could feel Dominic's intent gaze between her shoulder blades. She was about to take him to task for staring when he finally spoke. "The doe froze to death, Brie," he said gently.

"What?" she muttered
irritably,
not interested in anything he had to say.

"Jacques didn't kill the doe. She died last night from exposure after getting a leg caught in a crevice. That was how Patrick hurt himself—trying to carry the carcass across a patch of ice. I decided afterward to make use of the meat rather than leave it for the scavengers."

Brie felt a rush of mortification start at her ears and slowly burn a path downward to her toes. How could she have acted so idiotically? She had jumped to an erroneous conclusion again, had made a spectacle of herself in front of Stanton for the second time that morning. Remembering her outburst, she was almost afraid to look at him. There would be a mocking gleam in his eyes, she was sure. He probably thought her a dim-witted rustic—certainly she had behaved like one.

She was not a coward, though. She turned to face Dominic, squaring her shoulders as if she were bracing herself to accept a particularly obnoxious dose of medicine. "I am sorry, my lord," she said stiffly. "I mistook the situation. Of course I will apologize to your servant at once."

Her expression was such an odd mixture of humility and belligerence that Dominic felt a curious tug at his heart. For once the mocking edge was missing from his voice when he spoke. "I doubt that Jacques requires an apology," he replied, "but it might be wise to let him know you didn't mean to carve out his liver. He's somewhat sensitive about such things."

"Yes . . . well . . . ," Brie stammered. The look Dominic was giving her made her knees feel weak. Flustered, she glanced over at the deer. "I felt sorry for it."

Dominic's lips twisted in a wry grin. "Somehow I got that impression. If I ever find any animals or little children in need of defense, I will have complete confidence in recommending you as their champion."

For a moment, Brie wondered if he was mocking her again, but she could detect only a strange tenderness in his tone. And since her heart had suddenly started doing odd little flip-flops in her chest, she was glad to turn her attention back to the carrots.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur. Dominic took charge of the household with the ease of a field commander, giving orders and organizing everyone, including Brie, into a surprisingly efficient staff. His own servants—a groom and two footmen who were part of his entourage—were assigned to the stables and general kitchen duty, while the younger
Dawsons
were left with their regular chores. Brie made no protest at any of Dominic's commands, even though she was a bit annoyed by his assumption of authority, for she could see he was more capable than she in dealing with such an emergency.

She was kept busy the entire time. When she finished the vegetables, she carried a breakfast tray upstairs to the
Dawsons
and discovered that her help was needed after all. She found Homer and Jacques involved in a heated discussion, arguing over how best to care for Mattie. The burly coachman was waving his hands in the air and swearing in volatile French, while Homer was brandishing a candlestick and stubbornly declaring that no God-forsaken Frog was going to touch his wife, sick or not. Jacques, it seemed, had recommended a mustard plaster for Mattie's chest but hadn't quite managed to convince Homer that his intentions were purely professional. When Brie solved the problem by offering her help, Jacques gave her a look that clearly said she might be more intelligent than he had first assumed.

Brie stayed with Mattie most of the morning, but she did find an opportunity to visit Patrick and allay her fears about his injury. She had no time to dwell on her own situation, though, or worry that she was risking her reputation by remaining in the same house with a man like Stanton. But she was no longer concerned that he would ruin her good name merely in order to have a topic of discussion at his club. He was not the frivolous dandy she
had called
him earlier, nor was he the sort of man to go bragging to his friends about his conquests. All the same, she didn't mean to volunteer any information about her identity. It really was none of his concern, after all.

Her first reminder of the real danger Dominic represented came that afternoon. Brie had gone in search of him because Homer wanted to speak to him about the Frenchman.
When she couldn't find Stanton anywhere else in the house, Brie made her way up to his bedroom and knocked tentatively on the door.
She was bidden entrance at once, but the sight that greeted her when she stepped into the room brought her up short. He was shaving.

Dominic stood before a mirror, razor in hand, a towel draped around his neck. His white linen shirt was casually opened to the waist, while a lather of soap covered his chin and one cheek.

Brie stared at him in fascination. She had never seen a man shave before, not even her father, and she found herself wondering if it hurt to scrape a sharp blade across his face,
then
wondering if the dark, curling hair on his bronzed chest felt as soft and springy as it looked.

When she simply stood there, silently gaping at him, Dominic raised an eyebrow. "Do come in. And shut the door, unless you mean for me to catch my death from the cold air you're letting in."

Realizing where her thoughts had been leading, Brie flushed and did as she was told. She was violating propriety with a vengeance by being in a man's bedroom with the door closed, but it really was freezing in the hall. She was shivering already—although she suspected her ailment had more to do with the way his gray eyes were roaming over her than with the temperature of the house. "Homer would like you to come and check on Mattie," Brie said a trifle breathlessly. "She seems to be getting better, but he wants your opinion."

Turning back to the washstand, Dominic casually resumed his shaving. "You would do better to call Jacques. He is the expert, not I."

"I know, but Homer has more faith in your judgment. Your coachman is French, you see."

Dominic eyed Brie in the mirror. "What does that have to say to anything?"

"Homer doesn't care for Frenchmen. He actively dislikes them."

That seemed to amuse Dominic, for his mouth twisted in a grin. "I doubt that I would be much of an improvement then since I'm half
French
myself."

His admission surprised Brie. Most people of French heritage were far shorter than he. Her own mother, for one, had stood just over five feet tall. Stanton had to be at least six feet. But then he might have gotten his height from the English side of his family.

"Homer really doesn't mean anything by it," Brie said, feeling a need to defend the old man. "It's just that he lost several members of his family in the war. His only son died fighting the French in Spain and two of his grandsons were killed at Waterloo."

"Ah, that explains it, then," Dominic said cryptically. When Brie gave him a puzzled glance, he returned her gaze in the mirror. "That explains why Jacques has had so much trouble getting information about you. All of the
Dawsons
have been as closemouthed as Napoleon's secret police.
Even Patrick, whom I would have expected to be grateful to Jacques for sewing up his leg."

"Why should your coachman want to know about me?" Brie asked warily.

Dominic ran a thumb over his chin, testing for smoothness.
"Probably because I asked him to see what he could find out.
I don't care much for mysteries. And you,
chérie
, are a very big mystery."