"Thank you for your kindness," she said dryly. "But there is no need for you to sacrifice yourself for my sake. Oh, come now, Julian," Brie exclaimed when he stopped his pacing to scowl at her. "You know you wouldn't be happy with me as your wife. I expect your assessment of how society will view my . . . indiscretions is correct, but it makes no difference. I've never placed much value on the opinion of strangers or mere acquaintances, and I shan't start now. Of course, I hope my friends will not condemn me when I return to Greenwood and take up my life where I left off."
"Brie, why won't you understand? There will no longer be a cloak of respectability to protect you from—" Julian broke off, too angry to finish the sentence.
Brie raised an eyebrow. "From lecherous fortune hunters? Men who will consider me a female of easy virtue and therefore a pigeon ripe for plucking? Very well, if it will make you more comfortable, Julian, I will hire a bodyguard whose duty it w
ill be to keep me from falling victim to seduction." When Julian merely glared at her, Brie gave an exaggerated sigh. "You could at least laugh at my sallies, poor though they may be. You, my friend, are showing signs of becoming an extremely poor travelling companion. Perhaps I should hire my own carriage and make the return trip on my own."
Aghast at that possibility, Julian threw up his hands in defeat. "Very well, damn it! I will have the coach made ready. But don't tell me you aren't running away, because I won't believe a word of it." Turning on his heel, he marched to the door, pausing only long enough to fling over his shoulder, "I never thought to see the day when you would give up without a fight!"
He was still seething with frustration when he reached the stableyard. "Where the hell have you been?" Julian snapped when he saw Dominic dismounting. "And what did you mean by disappearing for two hours and leaving me to handle this mess? I should call you out for that, not to mention your treatment of Brie."
Handing the reins to a groom, Dominic eyed his friend quizzically. "Am I to take that as a challenge then?"
"No, of course not ! I'm no fool. You're a better shot than I." Turning, Julian shouted for his horses to be hitched to the hired conveyance.
"Going somewhere?"
"Yes, blast it! Home. Brie insists on leaving at once."
Dominic cocked his head. "It appears that you have lost an argument."
"Not one. Several. I've never been able to get the best of her, not when her mind's made up."
"Perhaps I can persuade her to stay."
"The devil you will! Why do you think we are leaving? She doesn't want to talk to you, that's why. Doesn't want anything to do with you. And don't think you can set things to rights by marrying her. She won't have you. I talked till I was hoarse, but Brie said she didn't care about her reputation or what the scandalmongers will say. She doesn't want to marry you—or me either for that matter, although I offered."
A muscle in Dominic's jaw tightened. "You might have let me do my own proposing."
"Well, you weren't here. What was I supposed to do, tie her to a chair? Brie said she would hire her own transportation if I wouldn't take her home. Besides, I assumed you would feel obliged to offer. I thought if Brie knew you would marry her, she wouldn't run off—"
"Enough," Dominic said curtly. "I think I understand. Where is she?"
"I left her in the parlor, but I expect she went to find Katherine. Miss Hewitt was lying down for a while. Dom?" Julian said when his friend turned to leave.
"Yes?"
"Don't be too hard on Brie, will you? She has been through a lot lately."
Dominic's lips compressed in a thin line. "Of course," he agreed mildly. "I promise to stop just short of wringing her neck."
By the time Dominic reached the house, his temper was smoldering. He had spent the past two hours riding aimlessly about the countryside, coming to terms with the situation and himself, not an easy task for a man who prided himself on his ability to judge human nature.
When the doctor had concluded the story, Dominic's overwhelming impulse had been to escape. He had felt a desperate need to be alone, to sort out his thoughts and feelings. All his life, he had been governed by certain convictions—convictions that had been dashed to fragments in the short space of an hour. He had neither known nor cared where he was going, but had let his mount roam at will. A cold mist swirled around him, obscuring his vision and muffling the sounds of his horse's hooves, but even though it settled damply on his hair and clothes and attacked the bare skin of his face, he was oblivious to the discomfort.
As he wandered through the fog, long forgotten memories came floating to the surface of his mind. A boy raging silently against the fates, swearing revenge for the death of the father he had idolized. A young man out on the town for the first time, standing among a cheerful crowd of Christmas revelers but feeling a wave of loneliness so strong that it became a physical ache. A fully grown man, heart hardened against any tender emotions, triumphant when a slender, russet-haired beauty bowed to the force of his will.
Forcibly brushing aside thoughts of Brie, Dominic tried to summon a mental image of his father. Nothing came. The Comte de Valdois was a stranger. His death had been the foundation upon which Dominic had built his childhood plans of revenge, but he could no longer even feel anything for the man.
But his own feelings were unimportant. Leaving them aside, Dominic made himself review the facts, one by one, coldly, objectively, starting with his father. The comte had raped an innocent gentlewoman, then remained idle while she suffered the consequences of his actions. It had been murder, of a sort.
Dominic's lips curled in self-mockery. Had he been in Sir Charles' place, had it been his wife who had died, he would have torn the comte apart with his bare hands. Instead, Sir Charles had devised an alternate plan to avenge the honor of his dead wife. While his action had not been particularly honorable, having the comte arrested was just as effective as putting a bullet through his heart. And it had been justice . . . of a sort. The comte had received his punishment, a life for a life.
The story should have ended there, with the score even. Except that Suzanne Durham had become involved. Sir Charles had suspected his daughter's growing attraction to the comte and used her name on the arrest warrant as a means to end it. The result, however, had been to drive the young woman from her home.
It was rather humbling, Dominic reflected, to admit he had wrongfully blamed Suzanne Durham all these years for his father's death. It must have taken considerable courage for her to go to Paris and attempt to influence the comte's fate. She had tried to save his life, even when she knew of the crime he had committed against her mother.
But the story had not even ended there. Dominic shook his head, hardly believing the irony even now. Had he systematically set out to destroy the Durham family, the results could not have been more devastating. Sir Charles had lost a daughter as well as a wife, and later the score had become even more unbalanced. Durham's son, Nicholas Dumonde, had died. Young Dumonde had been the victim of Germain's treachery, but Sir Charles had obviously been told differently. No doubt, Dominic thought sardonically, the matter would have come to a head sooner, had Sir Charles been able to travel then. Instead, he had suffered a paralyzing stroke, and it had been several years before he was able to seek revenge for his son's death.