by Brenda Joyce
“I know you won’t speak of it, but I am glad you are a patriot, Dominic,” she said softly. “I am glad you stayed in France.” She did not finish her thoughts, which relieved him, as he would never speak openly about his activities with her.
“I am worried about you. You aren’t happy.”
“I am happy that you are home!” she cried. “But how can I be happy when my country is being destroyed, piece by piece, day by day, week by week? It sickens me.” Tears filled her eyes.
“There are rebellions everywhere,” he said, “in Lyon, in Toulon, in Marseilles—”
She cut him off. “I know. Maybe this will end well, after all.”
He glanced away.
“You don’t have to pretend,” she said softly. “I am trying to be optimistic, but I do not feel optimistic. Not at all. Have you been back to the flat? Is anything left?”
“Nothing remains,” he said firmly, without emotion. “But the chateau is intact. The vineyards are doing well.”
“Intact,” she echoed. “They will rape our home, Dominic.”
He took her hand. She had been born in the chateau. “Maybe not. La Vendée is strong right now.”
She faced him, a strange expression on her face, her grasp on his hand tightening. “Dominic. You haven’t heard, have you?”
“Heard what?” He had not a clue as to what she was referring to.
“I have news—good news.” She wet her lips, then smiled. The smile reached her eyes. “Nadine is alive.”
“I AM SO GLAD you are taking this holiday,” Amelia said with a soft smile, seated on her bed across from Julianne’s.
Julianne paused in the act of folding another gown, before placing it in her valise, which lay open on the bed. “I am excited,” she admitted with a small but genuine smile. “It’s been an entire year since I was in town.”
“And I am excited for you,” Amelia said.
Julianne smiled. She had always loved London, even if it was a city of great contradictions. She loved the crowds, the noise, the bustle; she even loved the traffic. She loved the libraries and museums and, mostly, she loved the clubs.
While every class of society abounded in the city, from the poorest of the poor to the wealthiest of peers, London was a magnet for intellectuals. The city was filled with poets, writers and artists, philosophers and professors—and radicals. On any given day, she could find an assembly of like-minded men and women, arguing for the improvement of society, for the liberation of the common man. Debates would be waged over the Corn Laws and free trade; over the minimum wage and the conditions of labor. Pamphlets were to be found on every street corner espousing universal suffrage, decrying conditions in the mills and mines, protesting the war against France, supporting the reform of boroughs. On one block, she would walk by mansion after stately mansion, staring after women in their silk gowns and diamonds, the noblemen in their velvet coats frothing French lace cuff and collars, yet on the next street, the unwashed and the homeless would crowd tight doorways in abject misery, while their children grabbed her skirts, begging for a penny.
London was the most exciting place she had ever been.
“How fortunate it is that Tom is off to that meeting of his in Edinburgh, so you can travel to London with him,” Amelia said.
Julianne thought that it was very fortunate that the London convention she was attending was a week prior to the convention in Edinburgh. Amelia did not know that was the reason Julianne was going to London. But Julianne thought her sister would have encouraged her to go even if she had known the truth. Amelia remained that concerned about her.
It had been a week since Paget had been exposed as a liar and a spy and had left for town. Julianne thought that it had been the most difficult week of her life. She had had to face the fact that her heart was broken. She had been in love. She had been lied to and even, in a way, jilted. The pain was bone deep.
She would always be angry with Paget for his deception. She had begun to feel terribly used and abused.
But the facts were the facts and she could not change them. What she could do was fight her memories of the affair and get on with her life. She was not going to let that bastard inflict any more damage than he had already done.
But sometimes, she would awaken in the middle of the night, aching for Charles—missing him impossibly. And in those moments, she had to repeatedly remind herself that the man she loved didn’t exist.
She desperately needed to get away. Traveling with Tom would be very enjoyable. They would spend the entire two- or three-day journey discussing war and politics. There was nothing better than that! With Tom—and while attending the convention—she would not be as likely to allow her mind to drift into painful memories of Charles, or hateful memories of Paget.
“It’s also fortunate that Lucas has room in his flat for you,” Amelia said. “But I am surprised you don’t want to go to Edinburgh with Tom.”
Julianne laid her folded dress in her valise. “He asked me, Amelia, but we cannot afford such a trip. It is double the cost of going to London!”
“Do you want to go?” Amelia asked softly.
Julianne straightened. Tom had invited her to join him at Thomas Hardy’s convention again. He had bluntly told her he would pay for her expenses, including her hotel room. He had reminded her that he could afford it, and it would be his pleasure. Julianne had refused.
A month ago, she would have been thrilled to accept his offer—and have the opportunity to meet Thomas Hardy—but she would have considered acceptance of such an invitation highly improper.
But nothing was as improper as her affair with Paget. She had to admit to herself that she didn’t want to go to Edinburgh now. She had lost interest in that assembly. She wanted to go to London....
And that was frightening. Even though she would never forgive that damned Tory for what he had done, she knew he might still be in London now. Dominic Paget was still on her mind.
Julianne smiled grimly at Amelia and sat on her bed, across from her sister. “I know what you are thinking. You are intending to cut back on your expenses so I can go to Edinburgh.”
“I want you to be happy,” Amelia said, reaching for her hand.
Julianne was dismayed. “I am not as distraught as I was,” she began.
Amelia interrupted. “Misery is written all over your face most of the time.”
Her heart was broken. She had loved Charles so much. But she would not do as Amelia was suggesting. “You spend nothing on yourself. You are the most self-sacrificing person I know! I won’t have you cutting back even further, so I can go attend radical debates in Edinburgh! Besides—” she smiled “—you dislike my politics and you do not want to encourage me.”
Amelia became teary. “Right now, if your politics would brighten your eyes, I would very much encourage you! I feel like writing Bedford and setting him straight.”
Julianne stiffened, horrified. “Don’t you dare even think such a thing.”
“Why not? He is a cad. He owed us both, and this is how we were repaid—with your seduction. If you are with child, I am telling Lucas.”
Julianne stood up. “I am certain I am not with child!”
Amelia stood, as well. “He ruined you, Julianne. You are young and beautiful, and Lucas could make you a wonderful match, if only you let him!”
She felt herself flush. “You know how I feel about matrimony.” She thought of Paget and how his green gaze smoldered. Had he felt anything for her? “But you deserve a good husband and children, Amelia—we both know you adore children. You would be a wonderful mother!”
“We are talking about you!” Amelia cried.
“Yes, we are—because you are always selfless. So let’s talk about you.” Julianne sat down hard on her bed. “You should be the one going to London. You are the one who is always caring for Momma, who cares for us all, really. You cook and clean, and I run off to my meetings—or wind up lost in a book.”
“No one would allow y
ou to cook, as you burn everything,” Amelia said. “And you clean as much as I do.”
Julianne did try to keep up with her chores; once in a while, though, she would become so engrossed in a debate or a journal that she would forget. She had been entirely wrapped up in Paget while he was convalescing, and then in their affair. And now she had been consumed with her hurt and misery. She was rushing off to London—but it was Amelia who deserved the holiday.
She asked softly, “Was this how you felt when St. Just failed to come back to the parish?”
Amelia paled. Then, she spoke briskly. “Yes, my heart was broken, but I was a fool, Julianne. You were too young to remember, but everyone warned me about him and I did not listen. After all, he was a wealthy nobleman when we met, and we are impoverished gentry. When his brother died, I should have realized that it was over, that he would turn to a debutante as blue blooded and privileged as he. You were not a fool, as I was. You were taken advantage of. You were lied to and deceived deliberately—unconscientiously.”
“You should go to London in my place.”
Amelia shook her head. “I am staying here and taking care of Momma. I have nothing to do in London, Julianne, but you do. I want Lucas to take you to teas, to stroll with you in the park, to introduce you to handsome gentlemen. I want him to take you to supper parties, where you will be asked to dance—where you will be flirted with.”
“What?” Julianne gasped, shocked.
“You are young and beautiful!” Amelia cried. “Life must not pass you by!”
“Lucas doesn’t run in such circles!” But Julianne was aghast, for wasn’t life passing her sister by?
“He does when he wants to. Our uncle Sebastian can open any door for us.”
Julianne hugged herself. “I barely recall him. I haven’t seen him in years.”
“He and Lucas are on good terms.”
“Are you suggesting that I go to London so Lucas can find a suitor for me?”
“Why not?”
Julianne cried out. “I don’t want to marry—”
Amelia cut her off. “And what if you met someone who turned your head the way Paget did? What if you had a suitor who could arouse your interest as Paget did?”
Julianne simply stared, her heart thundering. She would have done anything for Paget—had he asked her to marry, before his exposure, she would have said yes.
“I thought so,” Amelia said, sounding satisfied.
Julianne wet her lips. “Amelia. I will never feel that way about someone else. You need a suitor—not I.”
“You will meet someone else. I am resigned to spinsterhood. Someone must take care of Momma and this house.”
“You have been caring for this family for a decade, at least. When you should have been a carefree child, you were this family’s matriarch.”
“Momma fell ill when we were children. She hardly did so deliberately. And even if I decided to look for a suitor, no one will have me, in case you haven’t noticed. I am too serious and too plain.”
“You aren’t plain,” Julianne said. “However, I agree, you are so serious, overly so. I don’t know, Amelia. I feel horrible about going to London now.”
“I want you to go.” Amelia came over and hugged her, hard. “I am insisting that you go! And if you want to go to Edinburgh—”
“No!” Julianne cut her off. “I don’t want to encourage Tom,” she said, and it was a part of the truth.
Amelia studied her very carefully. And Julianne had the notion that Amelia knew why she was so eager to go to London—and it had nothing to do with the Convention in Favor of the Universal Rights of Man.
“MY LORD, THE DOWAGER COUNTESS asked me to tell you that she will be a few more minutes. Can I bring you anything while you await Lady Paget?”
Dominic shook his head, pacing impatiently in the front hall. He was wearing black velvet that day, chosen by his valet with his approval, with very pale breeches, white stockings and black patent shoes with silver buckles. “No, thank you.”
Gerard left. Dominic stared after him. Nadine had arrived in town last night, and he was about to call on her.
Nadine was alive.
He had had an entire week to come to grips with the news that Nadine was alive. It was a goddamned miracle. He was still in some shock. But he was overjoyed
She hadn’t been trampled to death by that mob, as Catherine had erroneously concluded. But she had been badly hurt in the riot, and rescued by a kindly Parisian family. It had taken her months to heal. Apparently there had been some temporary memory loss. By the time she was completely cognizant of her situation, her family had already fled France. She had then struggled to get word to her father, now in Britain. Once she had done so, the Comte D’Archand had brought Warlock into the loop. He had sent his people to extract her. She had arrived in London in the spring, but the Comte had already taken up a residence in Cornwall and they had immediately retired to the country.
While he was recovering at Greystone Manor, Nadine had been somewhere in that part of the country. While he had been in Julianne’s arms, his fiancée had been very much alive.
Of course there was guilt. Reminding himself that he hadn’t known that Nadine was alive did not alleviate it.
But now what? His affair with Julianne was over, even if it did not feel over. Even if he wished he could speak with her again, and perhaps convince her that he wasn’t completely rotten and conscienceless. As for Nadine, two years had passed since their engagement, and he was a very changed man.
He stared grimly out of a tall window in the tower room, but he didn’t see the gardens outside or his waiting coach. He had known Nadine ever since he could remember. Catherine had brought him to France every summer, from the time he was a toddler. They had practically grown up together—her family had been frequent visitors in London. They had played together, done their reading together, ridden their ponies together and played hide-and-seek and tag in the vineyards with their friends and cousins. He would always love her.
He thought of the passion he had shared with Julianne. His body stirred instantly. He still wanted her—of that there was no doubt—in a way that was almost maddening. He had held and kissed Nadine after their engagement, but he couldn’t recall ever being blinded with desire for her.
Maybe when he came face-to-face with Nadine again, those terrible urges for Julianne would disappear. He supposed he hoped so. But it really didn’t matter.
Because two years was a very long time. And while two years couldn’t change his affection and loyalty, it had changed his commitments. He was committed to stopping the revolution in France. He was committed to preserving the French way of life. He was committed to aiding the royalists in the Loire—and throughout the rest of the country.
He had told Julianne once that she must not wait for him.
He had no choice but to tell Nadine the very same thing. She deserved far more than what he could offer her—she deserved a loving husband and an ordinary life.
“Dominic?”
He turned at the sound of his mother’s voice. He managed to smile as Catherine glided into the hall, wearing red silk, rubies and a very ornate, bejeweled wig. She was smiling as she approached him. “You are very dashing, but black?” She raised a penciled brow. “You are calling on your fiancée after two long years. This is a celebratory occasion.”
“I’m afraid Jean insisted and I chose to indulge him.”
She clasped his cheek. “Then Jean must have his way, even with Bedford, as he is a most invaluable valet.” She added, “It has been a long week, waiting for D’Archand to bring Nadine to town so you could finally have your reunion with her.” Her regard was searching.
He took her arm and they started for the door. “It has been two years. Two years is a very long time without the additional circumstances of surviving both war and revolution—for both of us. You know how I feel about Nadine. But I am experiencing some trepidation.”
Two liveried doormen leapt to
open the massive front door for them. “You have known Nadine your entire life. She loves you and you love her. The moment you see one another, I am sure all discomfort and strangeness will vanish.”
His mother adored Nadine. She would not be pleased to learn that a wife no longer fit into his plans; she would not be pleased when he returned to France. He helped Catherine up into his luxurious black coach, a six in hand.
“I am sure you are right,” he said noncommittally, climbing into the coach beside her.
Catherine grasped his forearm. “Dominic, there is something I must tell you.” She was grim.
He felt dread arise, and he waited.
“Nadine is not the same.”
DOMINIC FALTERED on the threshold of the D’Archand’s salon. As he did, Nadine, who had been seated on the sofa, slowly stood up.
And he felt warmth steal through him. Thank God she was alive.
She smiled a little at him.
He smiled back. Physically, Nadine hadn’t changed at all. She was very petite with dark hair, dark eyes and an olive complexion. She wasn’t wearing a wig, and her heavy dark hair was down. With her heart-shaped face, her full rosebud mouth, her dark eyes framed by thick black lashes and her hourglass figure, she was a strikingly beautiful woman.
Now she stared, the small smile fading. For a single moment, he saw the apprehension in her eyes as they searched his.
“Dominic!” her two younger sisters screeched, in unison.
He hadn’t noticed Veronique or Angelina, or even the Comte D’Archand. Now, he saw the rest of the family. As both girls charged across the salon toward him, Catherine stepped aside, as did the butler. He had to smile, as he was leapt unfashionably upon.
“Why have you stayed away for so long?” one of the girls cried in French.
“We have missed you so, as has Nadine,” the other cried in English.
Veronique was twelve, Angelina thirteen, but they were almost identical, as if twins. They took after D’Archand’s deceased wife, blond and amber-eyed. “I have missed you, as well,” he said, kissing each on both cheeks, in turn. “But for one moment, I almost thought I was being trampled by American savages!” He finally looked at Nadine again, still smiling.
