Two Sinful Secrets (8 page)

D
amn it, Dominic! Are you trying to kill me?” Patrick Branson, one of the company’s
actors, cried as Dominic drove him back into the scenery as they practiced a stage
duel. ��I warn you, I have no understudy. And opening night is only two days away.”

The haze of intense concentration that fell over Dominic when he was deeply immersed
in a role suddenly lifted, and he realized he held the man pinned down onstage with
the point of his rapier. He laughed ruefully, and swiped his shirtsleeve over his
damp brow as he stepped back.

“Sorry, Branson,” he said. “I just got carried away.”

Branson leaped to his feet. “I suppose it’s all in service to the play, so no harm
done. I only hope I never
really
make you that angry with me.”

“Just remember your lines and we’ll have no problems,” Dominic said jokingly. In truth,
the anger inside him that drove him to practice the fight so fiercely over and over
wasn’t with anyone around him, but with himself. He hadn’t been able to get Mrs. Westman
out of his mind all day, and it was maddening.

He kept seeing her eyes, that strange violet-blue color, and her flashing smile. He
kept remembering what it felt like to hold her in his arms as they danced, how she
laughed and leaned into him as they turned and swayed, as if their bodies had been
made to fit together just like that. The way she looked up at him, wide-eyed, breathless,
almost startled, as if she felt that sudden, sharp pull between them as fiercely as
he did.

His desire for Mrs. Westman had come over him like a lightning strike, hot and swift
and just as unwanted. It had been a long time since he needed a woman like that, and
he hated the feeling of being so out of control. That wildness that threatened to
burst free just from the smell of her perfume.

And then James had said she used to be a Huntington—and that she had Mary Huntington’s
old diary, which was surely full of secrets she could wield over his family. The one
woman he had wanted in so long, and she came from
that
family.

Dominic shook his head and turned away to toss down the rapier. He hadn’t even thought
of a woman since Jane died, not beyond a quick dalliance or a light flirtation. And
his memories of Jane, so sweet and gentle, a haven of goodness in the world, were
very different from the raw heat he felt when he touched Mrs. Westman.

A woman like that would never be a haven from the tumult of his life, a serene calm
over his own turbulent nature. No, she would drag a man out into the very midst of
the world, into violence and upheaval and noise, and glorious, messy life.

He had not known her long, but he did know
that
about her. When he looked into her bright, laughing eyes and
saw the restlessness there, it was as if he looked at himself. At everything he had
been trying so hard to tame—his anger, his wildness. He wanted to let go of the past,
of his family’s hatred toward the Huntingtons, and settle down into a peaceful life.
A woman like Jane could help him become that man he wanted to be.

A woman like Mrs. Westman, no, Lady Sophia, would only push him to greater folly.
And yet every instinct told him to go out and find her again. To discover all her
secrets.

A towel was suddenly tossed over his head, and Dominic swept it off and spun around
in one quick motion, that anger roused in him again. He saw it was Brendan who stood
there, a sardonic smile on his scarred face, as if he dared Dominic to fight him.
Dominic balled the towel up in his fist and stepped back. His quarrel wasn’t with
his brother any more than it was with Branson.

It was only with himself.

“You
are
a bear today, Dom,” Brendan said. “Surely the play isn’t that bad.”

“It’s not bad—considering Lily’s husband wrote it,” Dominic answered as he wiped the
sweat from his brow. “I think it will suit the French tastes very well. Romantic,
funny, cynical.”

“Not to mention it will give the ladies a chance to see you as a romantic hero, instead
of the glowering Shakespearean villains you like so well.”

“Glowering villains suit me.”

“Lately they certainly do. Ever since…” Brendan suddenly broke off and shook his head.

“Since Jane died, you mean?” Dominic said. His family had been unsure of his match
with her when she was
alive, hinting that perhaps they were not entirely suited. They only seemed more unsure
once she was gone.

“It’s understandable that you would grieve,” Brendan said quietly. “When you care
about someone that way…”

“Based on your vast experience of caring?” Dominic snapped, then immediately felt
a pang of remorse when something flashed in Brendan’s eyes. As far as any of the St.
Claires knew, Brendan had never been in love, but he was very private and quiet. An
oddity in their drama-prone family. “Forgive me,” Dominic said, another rarity—a St.
Claire apologizing. “It isn’t you I’m angry with, Brendan.”

Brendan shrugged. “Whatever it is, you need to get it out of your system without injuring
our actors. We open here in two days, and there is still work to be done.”

Dominic nodded. Work he understood. Work was safe. “Speaking of that, where is James?
He’s meant to be overseeing the finishing touches on the new sets and I haven’t seen
him all morning.”

“He said he had some errands. I think I heard him asking the concierge at the hotel
about flower shops.” Brendan laughed. “Maybe he has fallen for the charms of a French
woman.”

Dominic laughed with him. “That was quick work, even for James.” Their younger brother
always seemed to be falling in and out of love.

“Indeed. It seems as if he wouldn’t have had time to meet anyone in Paris yet, it’s
been so busy here at the theater.”

Dominic picked up the scattered rapiers and put them away in the open props trunk.
He couldn’t fight any more that day; he would hurt someone with all the emotions
swirling inside him. “You know James. He could have become smitten by a girl he passed
in the street.”

Brendan leaned back lazily against a crate of scenery. “Too true. Our poor brother.
He should have some sense knocked into him, so that he can see the world is actually
not
filled with romantic wonder and all that nonsense. It might save him from heartbreak
later.”

Dominic looked at his brother in surprise. Those were the most words he had heard
Brendan say together in a long time. Usually he was just silently watchful, taking
in the antics of the other exuberantly emotional St. Claires without saying a word
or giving away his own thoughts.

But there was the bitter ring of conviction in those words.

“I think James likes the heartache,” Dominic said slowly. “It seems to him to be all
part of the glory of falling in love.”

“It’s too bad he’s not much of an actor, then,” Brendan answered. “He could get all
that nonsense out on stage as you do.”

Dominic laughed ruefully. He thought of Mrs. Westman and how he felt when he just
looked at her. Not
everything
was given to the stage. “I think James was born too late. He would have been a great
Romantic poet in the Regency years, pouring out blood and anguish on the page and
making the ladies swoon over how brooding and Byronic he is.”

Much like Brendan himself, Dominic thought as he turned to look at his brother. Women
always seemed to think they would be the one to touch his hidden heart, to coax out
his rare smiles, but they never were in the end.

“I’ve read some of his love letters,” Brendan said brusquely. “He could not have been
a poet.”

Dominic laughed again, and reached for his coat where it was draped over a crate.
“Well, perhaps this new lady love can’t read English very well.”

“Did he meet someone at Madame Martine’s establishment, do you think?” Brendan asked.

Madame Martine’s? Dominic suddenly remembered James dancing with Sophia, that smitten
smile on his face—until he found out who she really was. “Why would you think that
was where he found her?”

“It could have been somewhere else, of course, but he was chattering on about the
party at breakfast. How elegant it was, how Paris was so much finer than London…”

“There were many beautiful women last night,” Dominic said abruptly. He didn’t want
to think about James being infatuated with Mrs. Westman—or his own reaction to her.

Brendan shrugged. “As you say. I’m sure it will all blow over soon, whatever it is.
What are you doing the rest of the day?”

“I told Isabel I would take her to the Tuileries for a walk before she has to rehearse.
Then we can try a new café tonight if you like.”

“I may go to Madame Brancusi’s later,” Brendan said, mentioning the famous brothel.
“Are you sure there is nothing else you want to talk about?”

Dominic shook his head. His family was the last place he wanted to talk about Mrs.
Westman. He just had to forget about her, and make sure James did, too. “Nothing.
What did you think about the rehearsal?”

It was much later by the time Dominic left the theater. There were script issues to
resolve with some of the other actors and blocking to be done on the unfamiliar stage.
He was alone when he left the stage door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

But if the theater had become quieter as the hours went on, Paris was coming alive
with the night. Well-dressed crowds hurried past him, their laughter ringing out like
music. The cafés were opening their doors for dinner and dancing, and light spilled
from their large windows onto the street.

Dominic studied them all as he turned toward the hotel, wondering wryly if he should
have gone with Brendan after all. But he felt strangely removed from the merry scene
around him, as if he watched a play he wasn’t really a part of. His mind kept going
back to Sophia Huntington, as it had far too often lately.

Suddenly a woman who was part of a large, rowdy group bumped into him, bringing him
back to the busy street.

“Oh, pardon, monsieur!” she gasped, laughing as she caught his arm. “I did not see
you there.”

“Entirely my fault, madame,” Dominic said, steadying her. When she looked up at him
from under the feathers of her headdress, he saw it was Sophia’s friend, the redheaded
Madame Martine.

“Monsieur St. Claire!” she said with a smile. “How lovely to see you again.”

“And you. We enjoyed our evening at your establishment very much,” Dominic answered.
He looked ahead
to her group, wondering if Sophia was with them. He felt ridiculously disappointed
that she wasn’t there.

He looked back to Madame Martine to find that she was giving him a knowing smile,
as if she could tell what he was thinking.

“I fear I am on my own tonight,” she said. “My friend Madame Westman was tired and
did not care to go out.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” he answered carefully.

“I told her she must enjoy Paris as much as she can while she is here! But all she
talks of is venturing to England, to her family if they will take her back. So dull.”

“Her family?” Dominic asked sharply. He had thought Sophia had left the Huntingtons
to marry Westman. She was here, after all, living a life the Huntingtons surely could
not approve of. “Is she not estranged from them?”

Madame Martine’s smile widened. “Ah, so you know my friend’s sad tale? I told her
she does not need a family who treats her as they do, but she says she is tired of
roaming. She wants stability, respectability, and she thinks to have that she must
return to her family.”

Dominic turned this information over in his mind. Sophia, who seemed so dashing, so
scandalous, wanted to return to her staid family? It seemed absurd, and yet he remembered
that flash of sad wistfulness in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. Maybe
she
did
miss her old life of ducal privilege. But what would it take for the Huntingtons
to accept her again?

Dominic thought of James’s new infatuation for Sophia, and he knew that was one thing
the Huntingtons would not accept—a St. Claire in their midst. Surely James’s crush
would fade, but the thought raised interesting possibilities in his mind.

“You see what I mean, monsieur,” Madame Martine said. “Ah, well. I must catch up with
my friends. But perhaps we will see you again soon at La Reine d’Argent?”

“Of course, madame. I wouldn’t miss it.”

“And Madame Westman will surely be happy to see you there as well.”

She hurried off, leaving Dominic to head toward his hotel again. His thoughts were
still filled with Sophia, James—and the Huntingtons. How they would hate it if Sophia
was involved with a scandalous St. Claire…

I think I am with child. Oh, God, please make it so! I cannot think what else can
bring John back to me…

S
ophie, opening night was a triumph! And I must give a million thanks to you. You charmed
everyone, and today they are all talking about the club. You will have to open your
own establishment one day, though far away from mine, of course. Hopefully this has
cured your talk of finding another job. You are suited to this one.”

Sophia laughed at Camille’s merry words and turned her face up to let the warm light
of the sun peek under the edge of her black-and-green satin hat. She hadn’t really
wanted to take the time to walk in the Tuileries Gardens when Camille suggested it.
But now she was glad to be out and about, letting the fresh air clear her head. She
was plagued by doubts about what she should do next.

She hadn’t been able to sleep well after the club closed last night. Every time she
shut her eyes, her thoughts were full of unearthly green eyes and teasing smiles,
of spinning around and around in a dance she never wanted to end.

Until it abruptly ended when she told James about her family name.

She shook away thoughts of Dominic St. Claire and
studied the beautiful gardens around her. In London, she had gone riding in Hyde Park
often, to see and be seen in the fashionable hours, but in her life with Jack there
had been little time for wandering around parks. They stayed up late and slept late,
living in casinos and ballrooms. She had never been much of a countrywoman and had
thought she didn’t miss the outdoors. But the Tuileries were more beautiful than anything
she had seen in a long time.