Chapter Eleven
“For goodness sake, Dom, you look as though you’ve seen a ghost. Is that any way to greet your oldest friend?”
Lord Julian Pierce, Earl of Westbrook, stood in the entrance hall of Rovewood with rain dripping from his greatcoat, mud splashed across his boots, and a grin that might have charmed the hinges off the doors.
He was broad-shouldered, fair-haired, and possessed of that effortless, infuriating handsomeness that made other men feel at once diminished.
Dominic—who had neither invited nor expected him, and was entirely unprepared—stared down from the head of the staircase and felt the familiar mixture of affection and irritation Julian had inspired since their schooldays at Eton.
“Julian.” He descended with deliberate composure. “What are you doing here?”
“Rescuing you from yourself, as ever.” Julian shrugged out of his coat and handed it off with the easy assumption of a man accustomed to being accommodated—and rarely disappointed.
“I’ve been in York on business and thought I might ride over and see whether the old glacier yet stood.
It appears it does. You look appalling, by the way. ”
“Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. When did you last eat? Or sleep? Or venture beyond this mausoleum?” Julian clapped him on the shoulder—a gesture of easy familiarity Dominic could no longer initiate, but could still, just, endure without flinching. “I’ve written to you for months, Dom. Not a word in reply.”
“I have been occupied.”
“With what? Brooding? Drinking? Holding conversations with the ancestors?” Julian’s tone remained light, but his eyes were keen. “I was concerned. I am permitted concern. It is part of the arrangement.”
Something shifted in Dominic’s chest—not quite warmth, but nearer to it than anything Julian had stirred in years.
There had been a time when Julian was his closest companion—co-conspirator, confidant, the one constant through boyhood and into war. Julian had served as well—cavalry, not rifles—but had come through it with his spirit intact in a way Dominic could not comprehend.
He was everything Dominic had been, before Spain. Easy, charming, quick to laughter. A man who moved through the world as though it were a gift, not a burden.
Looking at him now was like confronting a portrait of his former self.
“You might have sent word,” Dominic said, because I am glad you are here remained beyond him. “A room could have been prepared.”
“I imagine Rovewood can contrive to house one errant earl without ceremony. Mrs Potter!” Julian turned as the housekeeper appeared with her usual quiet efficiency. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Pray tell me you still produce that incomparable game pie.”
“Lord Julian.” Mrs Potter’s face softened into a smile—the first unguarded one Dominic had seen in some time. “What a pleasure. Of course we can accommodate you. Shall I prepare the blue chamber?”
“Perfect. And the pie?”
“I shall consult with Cook.”
Julian beamed. “You see, Dom? This is why I return. You do not deserve this woman.”
“No,” Dominic said quietly. “I do not.”
A flicker—too brief to name—crossed Julian’s face before it was gone. “Well then. Give me an hour to rid myself of the road, and you may inform me of everything I have missed. Begin with the child.”
“There is very little to tell.”
“There is always much to tell. You simply decline to tell it.” He was already taking the stairs two at a time, all restless energy. “An hour, Dom. And for goodness sake, change that cravat. You look as though you have slept in it.”
He vanished upward, leaving behind mud, movement, and an unsettling sense of life.
Dominic stood in the quiet that followed and found himself unsure whether he felt relieved or invaded.
“His lordship appears in good spirits,” Graves observed.
“His lordship,” Dominic returned dryly, “is constitutionally incapable of restraint.”
As he turned toward his study, his hand rose, unbidden, to the scar at his brow. He forced it down.
Julian was here, and he would see everything. He always did. And, unlike the rest of the world, he never chose to look away.
***
Dinner that evening altered the very atmosphere of the house.
Dominic had grown accustomed to solitude—to meals taken alone, or in the quieter company of Thomas and Miss Weston. He had forgotten what it was to sit at table with Julian Pierce.
Julian talked.
Of York and London, of a horse he meant to purchase, of a scandal involving a viscount’s wife and an unfortunate bear that had disrupted a garden party. Of Parliament, and crops, and books. He spoke with the expansive ease of a man convinced that silence was a failing to be remedied.
And somehow, he drew the others into it.
Thomas, seated beside Lorraine at the far end—Dominic having insisted upon his presence—watched him with open fascination. Julian, sensing it, turned his attention upon him.
“And you, Master Thomas—what do you make of Yorkshire? A trifle bleak, is it not?”
“It is not bleak,” Thomas said, with unexpected firmness. “There are birds. Many birds. Miss Weston and I study them.”
“Birds! Admirable. Which is your favourite?”
“The kestrel. It can stay still in the air. His Grace showed me how—using its tail.”
Julian’s brows rose. He glanced at Dominic with deceptive mildness. “Did he indeed? How very un-glacial of him.”
“I merely mentioned—”
“He knows a great deal,” Thomas pressed on. “And he gave me a horse. A wooden one. His grandfather made it. It is called Captain. After my papa.”
Julian looked again—more closely this time. Dominic turned his attention to his plate.
“A fine name,” Julian said, more quietly. “Your father was an excellent man. One of the best I knew.”
“You knew him too?”
“I did. Once lost five shillings to him over a wheel of Spanish cheese. He ate the entire thing. Was ill for three days. Your mother was not pleased.”
Thomas laughed—a bright, unguarded sound.
“Truly?”
“Nearly fatal. And I have seen battle, so I do not make the claim lightly.” Julian smiled. “I believe I still owe him those five shillings. Perhaps I shall settle the debt with you.”
“Yes, please!”
Laughter moved around the table. Even Dominic felt something shift at the edge of his mouth—quickly suppressed.
Julian noticed—Julian always noticed—and filed it away behind that easy smile.
It was Lorraine, though, who drew Julian’s most sustained attention.
She had dressed with care—a deep green gown, simple but well cut, her hair more precisely arranged than usual. She did not look like a governess tonight. She looked—dangerously—like she belonged.
“Miss Weston,” Julian said, turning toward her as the second course was served, “Dom tells me nothing of consequence, so I must look elsewhere for intelligence. How long have you been at Rovewood?”
“Nearly six weeks, my lord.”
“Six weeks—and you have not yet fled. Remarkable.”
“I find the moors beautiful, in their way. And the household has been most kind.”
“Has it?” Julian leaned back with careless ease. “I am glad. The place has been in want of animation. Dom has been haunting it like a particularly well-appointed ghost.”
“Julian—” Dominic began warningly.
“It is true.” He waved it aside. “Tell me, Miss Weston—what occupied you before you came here?”
Lorraine’s expression did not change, but Dominic saw the shift—a slight tightening, quickly mastered.
“I was with a family in Hampshire,” she said. “Three daughters—very lively. Before that, I was brought up in the country. My father was a gentleman of modest means, and a great lover of books.”
“A reader! Dom used to be a reader too, before he determined that misery would serve as a profession.” Julian grinned, and the warmth of it was difficult to resist—Lorraine smiled in return, unguarded, the kind that altered her whole face, setting her eyes alight and bringing a faint colour to her cheeks.
Dominic watched that smile appear and felt something dark tighten in his chest.
He knew it for what it was. He had read of it, heard it named, dismissed it as something that belonged to other men. Yet there it was—sharp, unmistakable.
Jealousy.
Julian was making her laugh. Julian—with his ease, his charm, his unbroken lightness—drew from her in a moment what Dominic had approached only with care. As though it cost him nothing.
Dominic’s hand closed beneath the table. He reached for his wine and drank, tasting nothing.
You have no right, he told himself. She is not yours.
He set the glass down with more force than necessary. Lorraine glanced toward him, and something in her expression altered—awareness, perhaps.
“Your Grace? Are you well?”
“Perfectly.” His voice was clipped, the old coldness settling back into place. “If you will excuse me, I have correspondence to attend to.”
He rose without waiting for a reply, aware of Julian’s gaze, of Thomas’s disappointment, of the way Lorraine’s smile faded as he withdrew.
He did not look back.
***
Julian found him in the study an hour later, precisely as expected.
He entered without knocking and took the chair opposite the desk as though it belonged to him.
“Well,” he said. “That was instructive.”
“I do not know what you mean.”
“Of course you do. You left the table as though the house were on fire, and you expect me to believe it was about correspondence.” Julian stretched out his legs. “Speak, Dom.”
“There is nothing to say.”
“There is a great deal to say. There is a woman at your table who looks at you as though you hung the moon, and you fled because I made her laugh.”
Dominic’s hands tightened. “Miss Weston is Thomas’s governess. Nothing more.”
Julian’s expression shifted, the levity giving way to something steadier. “Miss Weston is a remarkable woman, and you are either blind or wilfully obtuse. As I know you are not blind—”
“You presume too much.”
“I observe.” Julian leaned forward. “I watched you tonight. I watched you watch her. I have not seen that look on your face since before Spain.”
“You are mistaken.”
“I am not. You are in love with her.”
The words struck with quiet force.
Dominic went still.
“I am not—”
“You are.” There was no mockery in it now. “You tracked her every movement. You tensed when she smiled at me. You left because you could not bear it. Dom, I know you.”
“I cannot.” The words came low, strained. “You know I cannot.”
“What I know,” Julian said, just as quietly, “is that you survived the war. I was there too, Dom—different regiment, different fields—but I saw enough. I lost men as well.” He paused, choosing his words.
“I do not pretend to carry it as you do. What happened in that ambush—” He broke off. “It was a terrible thing.”
A beat.
“But punishing yourself for it, year after year, is not honour.” His gaze held Dominic’s. “It is cowardice.”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“William would not have wanted this,” Julian continued. “He would have wanted you to live.”
“He wanted me to take care of his son.”
“And you are doing so.” Julian paused. “Imperfectly, perhaps—but you are doing it. The boy thinks the world of you. He spoke of you all through dinner. And of Miss Weston as well.” A beat. “The feeling is not one-sided, Dom. Anyone can see it.”
Dominic said nothing.
“I am not in love with her,” he said at last. The words sounded thin, even to him.
Julian did not argue. He merely looked at him.
“I cannot be,” Dominic went on, more quietly. “She is in my employment. She is under my protection. If I act on this—” He broke off. “I will not be that man.”
“You are not that man,” Julian said. “And you know it.” He rose, poured brandy, and set a glass before him. “The question is not what you feel. It is what you intend to do about it.”
Dominic did not reach for the glass.
“If you keep her at a distance,” Julian continued, “she will go. And you will spend the rest of your life wondering.”
He turned toward the door, then paused.
“You have been frozen long enough. She is the thaw. Do not waste it.”
And then he was gone.
Dominic sat for a long time without moving.
You are in love with her.
He was not. He could not be.
Love belonged to other men. Whole men.
He lifted the glass at last, turning it in his hand, watching the light catch in the amber.
He thought of Lorraine’s smile—warm, unguarded. Not for him.
He thought of her touch. The quiet certainty of it.
A day at a time.
“I am not in love with her,” he said aloud.
The lie tasted worse than the brandy.
He drank anyway.