Velvet Embrace

Throwing off the blanket, she went to the hearth and tossed another log on the fire, then scurried back to the chaise longue and buried herself under the blanket. Tucking her bare feet beneath her, she returned to the hair-raising story.

It was only a short while before she caught herself shivering again. Feeling ridiculous for scaring herself, she closed the book with a snap. She had to go to bed before she started imagining herself in a haunted dungeon with groaning ghosts and ghouls!

She blew out the reading lamp—a mistake, she realized at once. The dancing firelight sent shadows skittering across the room, making the stuffed heads on the walls come alive. Brie watched them warily, feeling a shuddery tremor race up her spine.

She was still trying to summon the courage to brave the shadows and the icy bedsheets when, without any warning, the door to her bedroom burst open. It slammed back on its hinges with a ferocious crack, nearly startling Brie out of her wits. She gave a cry that was half shriek, half choked gasp as she leapt to her feet and whirled to face the menace, her blanket and book tumbling forgotten to the floor.

She stood there quaking, her heart pounding violently in her throat. A man, a stranger, filled the doorway, looking as darkly ominous as the devil himself. He had obviously been out in the snowstorm, for the curly brim of his beaver hat was ringed with white, while the capes of his greatcoat glistened with frozen crystals. His eyes were what captured her attention, though. Narrowed beneath slashing black brows, they glittered like shards of ice, unnerving Brie with their piercing intensity. Yet even as she stared, his gaze changed subtly, becoming coolly speculative.

His eyes swept over her slowly, taking in every detail of her disheveled appearance. "So this is what Julian finds so appealing about the place," he said in a biting drawl.

His voice was pleasantly masculine, even if it did hold more than a hint of mockery. And it was a human voice. Which meant it was no specter who had invaded her bedchamber. Brie's knees went weak with relief. She groped for the little table beside the chaise longue, leaning against it for support as she let out her breath in a rush. "God's teeth, but you frightened me!" she accused, glaring at him. Her heart was still beating furiously, and she put a hand to her throat, drawing in deep gulps of air as she tried to calm her racing pulse.

The stranger made no reply, but stepped forward into the light, giving Brie the opportunity to see his features more clearly. Dark, sardonic, masculine, was her initial impression. Terribly masculine. He was a striking man. Too dark to be handsome in the classical sense, but certainly arresting. She could tell now that his eyes were gray, a chilly, penetrating gray. They were surveying her quite intently. In fact, he was subjecting her to a thorough—and thoroughly insulting— inspection.

Feeling color steal into her cheeks, Brie stiffened. She knew she must present a sight, with her feet bare and her unbound auburn hair flowing loosely down her back. She felt completely vulnerable, dressed in nothing but Julian's robe—and that was being stripped away by the stranger's insolent gaze. Brie's chin came up as she gave him a reproving frown.

Her quelling look didn't faze him. His blatant perusal continued to glide along her slender body, making every inch of her skin feel as if it were burning. A tremor ran up her spine when the stranger's gaze lingered on the swell of her heaving breasts, and Brie flushed with embarrassment. Snatching up the blanket, she wrapped it around her shoulders. "Don't you believe in knocking?" she asked irritably, still feeling foolish for reacting the way she had. He had startled her badly, but there had been no reason to shriek, for heaven's sake! And she had sworn, too. Definitely not the behavior of a well-bred lady.

The stranger slowly raised his gaze to her face. His gray eyes studied her a moment longer, then his mouth twisted sardonically. "I did knock," he observed in a dry tone, "but no one responded. I had to pry open a window in the kitchen."

"You broke into the house?"

"It wouldn't have been necessary, had someone answered the door. Why the devil didn't you?"

He sounded impatient, as if he were in an extremely ill humor. Brie was unused to strangers taking that particular tone with her, however, and she didn't care for it at all. "Obviously I didn't hear," she retorted. "Not that I would have allowed you to come in. I don't know who you are."

"I'm Stanton," he replied curtly, as if that explained anything. He strode into the room, peeling off his gloves as he went. Brie took a nervous step backward, but the stranger didn't seem to notice. He tossed the leather gloves on the table, along with his hat, and went to stand before the hearth. Blowing on his chilled fingers, he held them out to the fire.

Brie eyed him with amazement. He had burst into her bedroom, and now, without permission, was making himself at home. "Stanton, who?" she asked perversely.

He flashed her a sharp glance. "I beg your pardon," he said, his voice again holding that faint hint of mockery. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. I am Dominic Serrault, Lord Stanton. Sixth Earl of Stanton, to be precise."

Brie gave a start. She had heard of Lord Stanton before. In fact she had heard some very unsavory rumors in London connected with him. Something about a duel and a man being killed. Brie had no idea how much of it was truth, but she could easily believe the man standing before her was someone to be wary of. He looked dangerous with his heavy, slashing black brows and waving ebony hair. His cheeks were faintly flushed with cold, but beneath the color, his skin was darkly bronzed. The faint shadow of a rising beard made him appear even darker. He probably had a temper as black as his looks, Brie concluded. She began to feel intensely uneasy, being here alone with him.

He had caught the flicker of recognition in her eyes, though. Watching the changing expressions on her lovely face, he wondered at its cause. But perhaps Julian had mentioned his name, Dominic mused. Pointedly, he raised an eyebrow. "And you are . . . ?" he prompted.

"Brie—" she started to reply, then thought better of it and clamped her lips together. It would be foolish to give him her name to bandy about in the London clubs. He had only to mention that he had found her here alone and she would have a scandal on her hands in an instant. It wasn't merely her own reputation Brie was concerned about, but that of her training stables. It had taken her years to earn the trust of her clients, for so many of them considered it beneath their dignity to work with a woman. She couldn't jeopardize all she had strived for. And she would have to be careful not to mention the name of her home. If Lord Stanton knew anything at all about horses, he would have heard of Greenwood. She would have to get rid of him at once, before he had a chance to ask any embarrassing questions.

He was waiting for her response. "Brie?" he repeated quizzically. "Just . . . Brie?" When she nodded, he regarded her silently for another moment. Then, almost indifferently, he turned back to the fire.

His presumptuousness astonished Brie, yet she couldn't help studying him as he stood warming his hands. He was tall and broad-shouldered, although she suspected his heavy greatcoat added breadth to his frame. His aristocratic features were unmistakably stamped with cynicism, but they were finely carved. He had a high forehead and a narrow, straight nose with slightly flaring nostrils. His chiseled lips were wide but a little on the thin side, and his firm chin had a slight cleft in the center. In profile, his high cheekbones were quite pronounced. He was quite attractive, Brie decided, if one liked dark, sardonic-looking men.

"Where is everyone, anyway?" he asked, interrupting her thoughts. "The lad in the stables told me the caretakers live here."

Brie hesitated. She preferred not to admit the only other people in the house were old and ill. "Mattie and Homer are . . . occupied at the moment, but perhaps I can help you."

Dominic's gaze swung back to Brie, and his eyes narrowed as he again caught himself staring at the vivid picture she made. The dancing firelight turned her silken hair to shimmering flame, while the sapphire brocade of the robe she wore brought out the blue in her eyes. Seeing that the blanket had slipped off her shoulders, giving him a tantalizing view of creamy skin, Dominic felt a tightening in his loins. He wondered who she could be. Such delicate beauty didn't belong to a serving maid, nor did her educated speech.

"You can't possibly be a servant," he said flatly.

Brie's long lashes came down, veiling her thoughts. "I am a friend of Julian's," was all she dared reply.

"A close friend?"

"You might say that."

Her answer was unsatisfactory, but Dominic didn't press the issue. He would eventually find out what he wanted to know— specifically, what her relationship was to Denviile. The obvious conclusion was that she was Julian's mistress. Dominic was conscious of a distinct twinge of envy. "Is there no one else about?" he said, forcing his thoughts back to the problem at hand.