Velvet Embrace

"All these years," he said gently. "Why did you never tell me about him?"

"Would you have believed me?"

Dominic's lips curved ruefully. "Probably not. I've only lately come to realize that I have an extremely stubborn propensity to believe what I wish about people, even when the truth is staring me in the face. Rather arrogant of me, isn't it, to think that my judgment is infallible?"

Again she reached out to touch his cheek, and her gray eyes were shining with tears. "Please, Dominic, don't say such things. I deserved to lose your love. Your rejection was entirely understandable, although it broke my heart to see you turn from me."

He returned her gaze steadily. "You did not deserve my contempt all these years. I am truly sorry, maman."

Lady Harriet was clearly startled to hear Dominic address her as he had when he was a child, but she was also clearly pleased. She flushed and shook her head. "Even so, I will always regret that I couldn't find the courage to defy Philippe and take you with me when I left him. Things might have been so different between us, had I not been such a coward."

"I suspect 'coward' is rather too strong a word."

"Perhaps. But how did you come to learn the truth?"

She listened quietly as Dominic told her about Sir Charles Durham and the events leading to his death, all the while keeping her eyes trained on the Axminster carpet. Dominic spared her many of the details, only touching briefly on his shooting of Sir Charles and his later, nearly fatal duel with Germain.

When he finished speaking, Lady Harriet looked away, gazing blindly at the Adam fireplace. "It . . . it is difficult for me to think about your father, even now. I'm afraid the comte was . . . not a good man."

Dominic could see how pale her face had become and how hard she was biting her lower lip. "No," he agreed. "He was not a good man."

Lady Harriet lifted her eyes to her son's. "I regret that you discovered it, Dominic."

"I only regret that I didn't discover it sooner," he returned grimly. "If I had, I might have realized why you so often avoided me when I was a child, why you kept to your rooms for days at a time. Your absences were not because you lacked affection for me, were they? They were due to my father's depravity."

She nodded, bowing her head to hide her tears. "I had always been told it was a woman's duty to submit to her husband, but no one ever explained to me exactly what that entailed. I was so naive I didn't recognize Philippe's . . . perversions for what they were. We had been married several years before he began to find even those . . . less than satisfying. Philippe began to beat me. Generally, I could hide the bruises, for he was careful with my face. It would not have done for his countess to appear bearing scars for all the world to see. After a time, I even became grateful for the beatings. They were nothing com

pared with what he preferred doing . . . in other ways."

It was well that Lady Harriet was avoiding Dominic's eyes, for the fury in the gray depths would have frightened her. She went on in a low voice, needing to explain to him why she had left her husband and young son. "That spring Philippe allowed me to visit my father. I didn't want to leave you behind, but I knew I could never force myself to go back to Philippe. I could no longer bear the . . . the degrading life he forced me to live." Her voice broke then, and she buried her face in her hands.

Seeing his mother's anguish, Dominic thought it best to change the subject, but his fists were clenched and he had difficulty keeping his tone level. "You did not seem surprised to hear about Lisette Durham. Did you know before today what had happened?"

Lady Harriet took a shuddering breath. "I did not know of her death, but I did know what Philippe had done to her. You see, Philippe was furious with me for leaving him. He wrote to me, first threatening me, then you, Dominic. But I knew him well. He would never have harmed a hair on your head. He preferred women . . . weak and fearful women. It added to his feeling of power. It was August when I received his last letter saying he no longer wanted me to return. He had found someone else whose screams excited him more than mine."

She was silent for a time, and when Dominic silently offered her a linen handkerchief, she accepted it with a tearful smile. When she had dried her eyes, Lady Harriet reached out and grasped Dominic's hand, holding it to her cheek. "I have few tears left, but it is a relief to share them with someone. I have never told a soul what I have just told you, Dominic, not even James. For a while after Philippe died, I kept the letters he wrote me—as a sort of protection at first. Then later, I thought perhaps to show them to you. I burned them, though, when I wed again."

"Well," Dominic said softly, "there may have been many misunderstandings between us in the past, but now they are over."

"Yes. I only hope that . . . that we might become friends."

Hearing her wistful tone, Dominic gave her a tender smile, the kind that never failed to win female hearts. "Nothing would please me more, maman. But if you have no objection," he said, rising and dusting his knees with his hand, "I will begin our friendship from a more comfortable position. I always suspected that humbling myself would be painful, but I never realized just how hard it could be on the knees."

For the first time since his arrival, his mother smiled. Gazing down at her, Dominic found himself wishing to know her better. For years, Lady Harriet had been the stranger who had brought him into the world and then deserted him, but he could see now what a void her absence had left in his life. And it had actually come as something of a shock to find himself warming so readily to the woman he had always despised.

His meeting with her had not gone at all as he had expected. She had greeted him without rancor, and except for shedding a few tears, she hadn't allowed him to feel any guilt over their past relationship. She had accepted him at once, without question, sweeping away the years of neglect and antagonism like so many cobwebs, in a manner that had allowed them both to maintain their self-respect.

Something of his thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for his mother reached out to clasp his hand. "Do not pity me, my love," she implored. "Knowing I have you for a son has more than made up for Philippe's sins. And since I married James, I've realized that a normal relationship between a man and a woman can be full of love and companionship and trust."

A soft, private smile curved Dominic's lips. "Indeed, it can," he replied. "Which reminds me—I'd like you to meet my wife."

"Your . . . wife?"

Dominic grinned at his mother. "We were married two days ago by special license. We're on our wedding trip, in fact, but Brie insisted we come to Hampshire before we leave for France. She's anxious to meet you."

"She is here? Dominic, never tell me you left your poor bride to wait outside!"

"Brie thought it best that I speak to you alone. And she isn't 'my poor bride'—but you'll soon see for yourself. I'll bring her to you. She's waiting in the carriage."