Velvet Embrace

"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."

Brie was growing extremely uncomfortable with the conversation. She took a nervous step backwards. "I'll tell Homer you were too busy to see him," she suggested, groping for the door handle at her back.

"Just a moment, Brie."

She stiffened at his command, but halted obediently, waiting. She remembered quite well what had happened that morning when she had tried to leave without his permission.

He watched her reflection as he scraped the last of the lather from his face. "Jacques is an expert at ferreting out information," he remarked in a cool voice, "but all he could learn was that your surname is Carringdon, that everyone calls you 'Miss Brie', and that you live in a big house not far from here."

Brie's eyes widened. She hadn't expected to keep her identity a secret from Stanton forever, but she was amazed at how quickly he had found her out, especially since the Dawsons had tried to protect her with their silence. His presumptuousness piqued her, though. The nerve of the man, sending his coachman to interrogate the servants about her! "People here don't care for strangers asking questions," she said, bridling. "Especially foreign strangers."

Dominic ignored her gibe. "I once knew a Sir William Carringdon. Are you by any chance related?"

"Very distantly." That wasn't quite a lie, Brie thought defiantly. Her father had been buried in the village churchyard for the past four years now, and if her reply stretched the truth, it was only because she resented Stanton's probing.

He seemed willing to drop the point, however. Wiping his face with the towel, Dominic turned to face her. His gaze swept down her slender body, studying her measuringly, lingering on the soft swell of her breasts. "Julian has a good eye," he said, using a different tack, "but I thought his taste generally ran to more voluptuous females."

"I am not Julian's mistress!" Brie snapped, before realizing she would have been better off not admitting it. Being one of Julian's light-skirts would have at least offered her some measure of protection from Stanton's advances. Now it looked as if she would have to find some other way of putting him off. He was walking toward her, his gray eyes holding a glint that clearly warned her to flee. She couldn't move, though. Her limbs refused to obey.

Dominic halted before her, gazing down at her face. "Then perhaps you are open to suggestion," he murmured speculatively.

Brie stared up at him, unable to speak. His nearness was doing strange things to her pulse again. Not only could she feel the warmth of his body, but the scent of his shaving soap was filling her senses, making her giddy. Her gaze fastened on his mouth as he slowly, slowly bent his head.

His kiss was not what Brie had imagined it would be like. She had expected his lips to be hard and demanding, like the man. Instead, they were cool and firm and incredibly gentle. She felt his tongue trace her lips slowly, as if he were memorizing the taste of her. Then unhurriedly, he delved into her mouth.

If he had tried to force her, Brie would have bolted. But his kiss was curious and exploring. Brie was conscious of a single, overwhelming sensation—she was melting. Her limbs were turning to warm, liquid heat. She parted her lips for him helplessly, opening to him as his tongue probed her mouth, not even realizing when her hands crept up to his shoulders.

It was a long moment before Dominic drew away, his eyes dark and unreadable as they skimmed her face. Brie gazed back at him, mesmerized. And then his mouth came down on hers again.

His lips were no longer cool this time. They were hot and fierce and passionate. And when his arms came around her possessively, pulling her full against his hard length, she was robbed of breath. For a moment Brie even responded to him,' pressing against him, clinging. But then the sharp wave of desire racing through her body alarmed her with its intensity. Moreover, a sudden memory of the physical violence she had once suffered at a man's hands made her panic.

Tearing her mouth away, she pushed frantically against Dominic's muscular chest. "No, please!" she cried, trying to get away and finding it impossible; the door was at her back, leaving nowhere to run.

Dominic was surprised by her sudden reversal. When he felt her struggling, though, he loosened his hold and tilted his head back to study her. "What is it, chérie?" he murmured soothingly, stroking her cheek.

Hearing the gentleness in his voice, the panic that had gripped her subsided and Brie came to her senses. "I . . . I can't," she said, biting her lip.

She felt his warm breath caress her temple before his lips followed, tenderly brushing the sensitive spot. "Why can't you?" he asked in a voice thick with passion. "Are you married? Can I expect to find myself challenged by a jealous husband?"

Brie closed her eyes, feeling her heart pound. "No, but I . . . I am . . ."

His eyebrow lifted inquiringly. "Under some gentleman's protection?"