by Brenda Joyce
Dominic smiled savagely and slammed his fist into the man’s nose. Blood spurted. “Who sent you? Tell me, or I will take a club to your knees.”
François spit in his face again.
Dominic dragged him to his feet, his eyes ablaze with fury. “Get me a club, Eddie. Iron will do.”
Julianne inhaled. “Dominic.”
He turned to look at her. “Go into the house, Julianne. You, too, Mother.”
Julianne didn’t move. Her ears rang. She felt faint. In fact, she felt as if she had stepped outside herself, and was about to observe a terrible scene. “I know who sent him. It was Marcel.”
Dominic released François and stared incredulously at her.
“What did she say?” Catherine cried as Eddie and one of the footmen seized François.
Julianne stared in dread at Dominic as he stared back at her, his expression stark. He stepped over to her and spoke. His voice was calm. “Marcel is the Jacobin who wrote to you and Treyton.”
She wet her lips. “Yes.”
“And why do you think Marcel sent this assassin?”
She trembled. “Because I told Tom just after you left Greystone Manor who you were—and he told Marcel.”
Dominic did not move.
“Oh my God, I was right,” Catherine whispered in horror.
He said slowly, his gaze unwavering upon her, “That was well over a month ago.”
“Yes,” Julianne said. She had to tell him the rest, but she was paralyzed.
“She has met with a man twice this week, in the park!” Catherine cried.
Now Julianne knew why the coachman had been told to drive her, and wait for her. He had been spying on her.
Dominic never glanced at his mother. “Who did you meet in the park?”
The tears came swiftly then. “Marcel.”
His eyes widened.
“He threatened Amelia and my mother. He meant it! I had no choice, Dominic. Please try to understand!” But even as she begged him, she knew her pleas would fall on deaf ears.
His face had hardened, but a look of anguish and revulsion was in his eyes. “What did you do?” He never raised or changed his tone.
“I went through the locked drawer in your desk.”
He slowly nodded. “And you gave Marcel my notes, my map, the letter?”
“No.” She wet her lips. “I memorized the map and the letter and conveyed the contents to him.”
He shook with emotion.
“I love you,” Julianne cried desperately, “but I had no choice!”
“Where is Marcel now?”
“I don’t know—he contacts me,” she exclaimed.
A terrible silence fell.
Dominic stared at the lawn beneath his feet, as if thinking. Julianne watched him and could not breathe. Then he looked up and said, “Mother, send for Warlock.” He turned. “Eddie, bind François, put him in the library and have him guarded. Arm yourself.” Then he looked at Julianne.
She cringed.
“You are no longer welcome here.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
JULIANNE FOLLOWED DOMINIC, his mother and the servants into the house, trailing behind them in a state of shock. It was over, she somehow thought. A doorman closed the front door behind her, she halted. Now what? She did not have a clue as to what to do or where to go.
Catherine hurried away, obviously intending to summon Warlock. Eddie and the footman were dragging François down the corridor, toward the library. Dominic never broke stride, and he vanished into the grand salon, closing both doors behind him. He hadn’t looked back, and Julianne was left standing alone in the tower room.
She realized she was shaking like a leaf. She felt as if she had ceased to exist for everyone in the house.
She stared at the closed doors of the salon. That morning, she had been in Dominic’s arms. Now, she was afraid to attempt to speak with him.
How would she manage to live without him?
But hadn’t she known that this was the price that she would pay for her treachery?
She closed her eyes tightly, recalling his impassive expression a moment ago. He had to be hurt now—he had to be enraged.
And it was entirely her fault that he had almost been murdered. She almost despised herself.
She fought for courage and walked over to the salon, and opened one door.
He was standing by the sideboard, a drink in hand. His tone remained impossibly emotionless. “I would not come in, if I were you.”
“I had to protect them,” she said.
He turned his back to her, drinking from his glass.
Julianne shut the door and fled up the stairs to her room. There, she collapsed on the bed, weeping. She knew how disciplined he was. Once his mind was made up, it could not be changed. He had cut her out of his heart and his life, she was certain.
She did not know for how long she cried, but eventually she lay still and stared up at the mauve-and-white ceiling. She had never felt as drained.
So many memories whirled, and in all of them, she was with Dom, and he was as in love with her as she was with him.
Helplessly—hopelessly—she indulged herself in them.
A knock sounded on her door.
Julianne sat up, and was disappointed when Nancy walked into the room. “I do not wish to be disturbed,” she said hoarsely.
The little maid was grim. “I am sorry, mademoiselle, but I have been told to help you pack your things. His lordship has a coach waiting.” But she handed her a handkerchief.
Julianne trembled. He was sending her away that very night. Of course he was. Her shattered heart broke all over again.
Nancy shrugged helplessly, and then she whispered, “What could you have done, to make him send you away? He was so in love with you, mademoiselle!”
She hugged herself. “I betrayed him, Nancy.”
The maid’s eyes widened.
Julianne sat on the edge of the bed, trying to think, when she was dazed and exhausted and grief stricken. He had a coach waiting. She did not have the strength, the will or the courage to attempt to stay in his house, if he was intent on tossing her out. And why would she stay? It was over now. She suddenly wondered if her brothers were at Cavendish Square. She would tell them everything! She so needed Lucas or Jack, so she could cry on their strong shoulders.
She felt as if she were in a nightmare. That morning, he had loved her; now, he despised her and wanted her gone.
“We should start packing,” Julianne said, the decision to leave made. But the moment she stood up, the floor shifted and the walls turned and she knew she was so exhausted she was about to faint. Nancy cried out and caught her, helping her back onto the bed.
“Have you told him you are with child? He will forgive you your betrayal, mademoiselle. I have no doubt—he loves you and he has no heir!”
Julianne took a deep breath. She was not deluded, as Nancy was. She did not think Dominic would ever forgive her, child or not. And she would never use their child to get him back. She hadn’t even thought about what to do in regard to this child. She didn’t have the strength to do so now. “Please, don’t say anything. Not yet. I am feeling better now. After a sip of tea, I can help you pack.”
“You should tell him about the child,” Nancy said, appearing stubborn. “He will forgive you in time, mademoiselle, for he loves you.”
Julianne did not believe her—and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Hope now felt like a dangerous emotion, one she could not afford. But hadn’t their entire affair been like a fairy tale? Two lovers torn apart by both politics and war. He a prince, she a dreary country girl....
Had she been a fool to believe in that love?
“I don’t think he will ever love me again.” She sent Nancy a quelling look; she did not wish to argue now. Julianne and Nancy began to pack up her things. As they did, Julianne felt the web of despair and despondency stealing over her. She felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into its sticky mire. She finally pa
used, staring at the items on her bed. It was over. She was leaving. But every garment she owned had been given to her by Dominic. Each item had a dozen memories. And that was all she would have now. But did she even have the right to take any of her things?
Another knock sounded on her door. In the act of woodenly folding a chemise, Julianne froze. She had no doubt that Catherine had come to berate and disparage her for her treachery.
Nancy looked questioningly at her.
Julianne knew she could not take any more conflict now. “Send her away,” she began tersely.
But the door opened, revealing Dominic. Warlock stood slightly behind him.
Her heart leapt. Hope arose. “Dom?”
His expression hard, he walked inside. As if coldly assessing the state of their activities, he looked at the bags and garments on the bed. Then he looked at her. “You will not be leaving here tonight, after all.” Revulsion was reflected in his eyes.
Julianne felt her knees buckle. He hated her.
And Dominic did not move; Warlock rushed to catch her. “Are you ill?”
“I am sick with heartache,” she said, but she was looking at Dom.
His hard stare never wavered. His expression of distaste did not change. He dismissed Nancy, who fled the room. Dominic also closed the door, alarming Julianne.
“You could have come to me, Julianne. I want Marcel,” Warlock said, encouraging her to sit on the bed.
“I would have done so—if I knew who he was and where you could find him. But he is too clever. He contacts me. Not the other way around,” she said harshly. “He has threatened Momma and Amelia, Sebastian! Please, send for them, so we can keep them safe!”
“Absolutely not. If I send for them, he will know you have been uncovered.”
She cried out in disbelief. “You would sacrifice your own sister to your own ends?”
He smiled. “Hardly, Julianne. I will send one of my men to Cornwall tonight as your new houseboy. He is an expert marksman and has often served me as a bodyguard. He will protect Amelia and Elizabeth.”
Relief caused her tears to rise. Her mother and Amelia would be safe. Then she looked at Dominic.
He was staring. He glanced away.
He couldn’t even make eye contact with her now, she thought, stricken. He hated her that much. Nancy was so wrong—he would never forgive her. “What about Tom?”
“I said it before and I will repeat myself. If you help me, I will help Tom.” Warlock smiled pleasantly, as if they were discussing the races. “We need Marcel. When will he contact you again?”
She started. “I don’t know. He now wants me to spy on Lucas.”
“That must be because he assumed I would be dead tonight.” Dominic was harsh.
Oh God, he was right, Julianne thought. Marcel had received the information he needed—which meant he could get rid of Dom. She was as responsible for this assassin’s attempt on his life as Marcel, she thought in horror.
Warlock studied her. “You will stay here. You and Paget will continue on as if nothing has happened. We cannot allow Marcel to think you have been compromised.”
She was confused—surely she had misheard. She looked at Dominic. “What is he saying?”
“He is saying that we will pretend we are happy lovers, still,” Dominic said tersely. “You will return to my rooms. You will sleep there. In public, in front of the servants, we will smile at one another with affection.” He suddenly reached into his breast pocket and threw an object onto the bed, beside her hip. It was a small royal blue, velvet jeweler’s box. “You will even wear that, because I bought it for you this afternoon. We will play this game perfectly.”
She did not touch the box. She could not be more devastated.
“He is correct, Julianne. You must play the part of lovers perfectly. Marcel must not suspect that we will have you lead him to us.” Warlock raised a brow. “You look absolutely devastated. You are going to have to engage in theatrics.”
And total comprehension began. She wasn’t being thrown out of Bedford House. Not yet, anyway. But only because the men intended to locate and arrest Marcel. And now, she must pretend that all was well with Dominic—when he despised her.
She trembled. She hated Marcel. She wanted him thrown in the Tower and hanged. “Of course I will help,” she said, looking back and forth between Sebastian and Dominic. “And what happens when you have found Marcel?”
Warlock did not answer; Dominic did.
“We will give up all pretense,” Dominic said coldly, “and you can go back to where you belong.”
JULIANNE SLOWLY CAME out of the dressing room in Dominic’s suite, clad in a rose-colored nightgown and a small white cap, her hair in a braid. She had never been more uncertain, or in as much despair. Dominic despised her and she did not blame him. But how was she going to share his rooms now?
And when she went out, even if just downstairs, how was she going to pretend that nothing terrible had happened?
She could not stop trembling. Nancy had brought her a supper tray, but she hadn’t been able to eat or drink anything. Instead, she kept reliving François’s assassination attempt, and Dominic’s reaction to her confession.
It was difficult enough withstanding his cold anger, and she was so afraid of him now. Not that he would ever hurt her, but she was afraid to receive another scathing, revolted look. Just then, she wanted to curl up in her own bed, and be left alone with her misery.
At least Momma and Amelia were safe now, from that Jacobin monster.
She wondered if she should climb into bed, pull up the covers and pretend to be asleep when he returned. Her stomach lurched with sickening force. Would they really share his bed? Should she take a blanket and retire to the sofa? Could she really survive in these circumstances? How long would it be before Marcel contacted her and she was sent posthaste from Bedford House?
She flinched when she heard the sitting-room door open and close. Slowly, as rigid as a block of ice and as chilled, she turned. Dominic entered the room, his jacket over one arm. He did not appear to even notice her standing by the bookcase as he walked past her. Not looking at her, he strode across the salon and into the bedchamber. There, she heard him undressing.
It was as if she were invisible to him now.
She sank onto an ottoman. What should she do—wait for him to fall asleep and then decide upon a chair in which to collapse? But he always went to bed late, just as he was always up early. She was exhausted—she doubted she could outwait him.
She slowly stood and walked toward the bedroom. She saw him within and she inhaled. He was stark naked, broad shouldered and narrow hipped, his buttocks high and hard, his back to her. He reached for a crimson caftan and shrugged it on.
Her heart thundered. She knew every inch of his body even better than she did her own.
How could this be happening?
He turned to face her, his expression hard.
She had been in his arms that morning, she thought, caressing every inch of him, just as he had touched every hidden part of her body. Unbelievably, she warmed.
“Don’t even think it,” he warned. “I wouldn’t touch you if I were a dying man and this were my last night on this earth.”
She shuddered. “What do you want me to do?”
His gaze raked over her. He turned and yanked the topmost blanket from the bed and strode toward her, shoving it at her. She quickly caught it, only to find a pillow being hurled her way. She couldn’t catch that and it fell to the floor. Stunned by his outburst, she backed up.
Flushed, he said, “I don’t care what you do. Sleep on the sofa, the chair or the floor, for all I care.”
She fought herself and did not cry out, for his words caused more pain to stab through her.
Then he whirled past her, striding into the sitting room. Julianne hugged the blanket in acute agony to her chest. She watched him go to the bookcase, take down the volume of poetry and remove the key within. She whimpered.
He ignored her, moving to his desk and sitting down there. He unlocked the drawer, took out the letter he had been composing to Henri and began slashing out the sentences already there. Then he tore the parchment into a dozen pieces and tossed them aside. His expression was one of rage.
Julianne did not move. Silently, she cried.
He opened another drawer, took up a fresh page of vellum and dipped his quill in the inkwell. He thought for a moment, then began to write furiously.
Blinking rapidly but unable to stop the tears, Julianne picked up the pillow on the floor. She walked over to the sofa, feeling old—no, ancient. She wasn’t going to survive this pretense, she thought in anguish. The sooner Marcel was caught, the better.
The quill loudly scratching, he continued to scribble furiously upon the vellum.
Julianne lay down on the sofa, curling up under the covers, facing away from him.
THREE DAYS LATER, Julianne clung to the safety strap in Lady Paget’s curricle as it traveled up Oxford Street. It was a beautiful September afternoon, with the summer still lingering, and quite a few carriages were present. Several noblewomen were also strolling arm in arm in all their tony finery, gazing into various shop windows.
Marcel had contacted her that morning, requesting a 3:00 p.m. rendezvous. Julianne had never wanted anything to be over as she wanted her charade at Bedford House to end. Pretending to be Dominic’s happy lover was beyond agony; she could not sleep or eat and she was constantly fighting nausea and dizziness.
But mostly, she was in terrible pain. When he held her hand, or lifted it to his lips, or smiled at her—all for the sake of whatever caller or servant was present—she was ready to burst into tears. But she would remind herself that she hated Marcel and that she would do anything to help capture him. Somehow, she would smile back at Dominic.
The evenings spent behind closed doors were the worst. He ignored her now, his anger unceasing. Clearly, for him, she had ceased to exist.
She had never felt more alone, especially as her brothers were out of town and did not have a clue as to what she was going through. She began to write Amelia, but knowing she would be going home soon and unable to even begin to express herself, she had torn up the parchment and thrown the letter away.
