If the Viscount Falls (28 page)

Which meant his arse of a brother wasn't going to stop looking for him. Any minute now, he'd be striding into the harness room.

Then Jane would
have
to marry Dom.

As soon as the thought entered Dom's head, it apparently occurred to her, too, for she paled and stepped near enough to whisper, “Please. Not like this.”

He stared at her ashen face, and his stomach sank. He couldn't force her to wed him. After what had happened between them years ago, she would never forgive him for taking her choice away from her yet again.

Besides, he didn't want to force her into anything. The only way he could prove that he didn't intend to run roughshod over her for the rest of their lives was to walk away now. Even if it killed him.

Bloody hell. “I'll draw Tristan away from the stables,” Dom said tersely as he shoved his stocking feet into his boots. “That will give you a chance to finish dressing and sneak back into the house.”

Relief spreading over her face, she bobbed her head.

He buttoned up his shirt. “It will also give you a chance to decide what you want.” Gathering up his coat, waistcoat, and cravat, he added in a low murmur, “But know this, Jane. I am
not,
nor ever intend to be, a man like your father. Somewhere inside of you, you must . . .” He winced. “You surely
do
know it.”

He waited long enough to see uncertainty flicker in her eyes. Then he strode out of the harness room and closed the door behind him.

Hoping to have time to finish dressing before his brother found him, he halted. Then he spotted Tristan down the corridor searching the stalls, probably looking for Dom's team of horses.

Best to take the offensive. Perhaps that would distract Tristan from Dom's state of undress. “Good God, man, what are you doing?” Dom called out.

Tristan spun around. “What do you think? I'm looking for you, you dunderhead.” Then his gaze swept down Dom, and his eyes widened. “Why the hell are you half-dressed?”

So much for distracting him. “It's damned hot in here, in case you hadn't noticed.”

Dom made a show of wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve and hoped that his excuse would pass muster. After all, the only clothes he wasn't wearing
were ones he would actually have taken off if overly warm.

But Tristan looked suspicious. “Even I have never seen you without a cravat.”

“That's because you've never seen me toiling in a hot stables,” Dom snapped, then swiftly changed the subject. “As you can probably guess, I couldn't fix the carriage lamps.”

Tristan glanced behind Dom to the closed harness room door. “Do you want me to look at them?”

“No,” Dom said curtly. “It's a lost cause. Besides, we'll be in London soon enough where I can get an expert to repair them.” He drew on his waistcoat and coat, stuffed his cravat in his pocket, then headed for the stable entrance. “It's late. Might as well get some sleep.”

Thankfully, Tristan acquiesced and followed him out the door.

As they walked, Dom buttoned his waistcoat, then pulled his cravat out of his pocket and tied it around his neck.

Big mistake. He could smell Jane on the strip of silk from when he'd wiped his mouth with it. The scent made him want to throw caution to the winds, march back into the stables, and carry her out over his shoulder and off to gain a marriage license without delay.

Which of course he
couldn't
do, if he wanted to win her.

Damn it to blazes, how could he have bungled things so badly that he still had to
win
her, even after
bedding her? But he had. And now he had to leave her back there.

At least for the moment. He'd promised her, after all.

To keep from thinking about her stewing in her anger at him, he said, “So, what was it Ravenswood wanted to discuss with you privately, anyway? Or are you allowed to say?”

They walked a short distance in silence before Tristan answered. “Actually, he wanted to talk about you.”

“Me?” Dom said, surprised. “What about me?”

“He's worried about you. About how you'll react if Nancy ends up bearing George's son, and you lose the estate and have to go back to running the agency again.” Tristan slanted a glance at him. “He's not the only one.”

“I'll be fine.” To his shock, he realized it was true. He wouldn't be happy about it, of course, but he had learned how to cope. Compared to the first time, this was nothing. “I lost everything once and survived it well enough. I can do it again. Besides, I have a business concern that I can return to now, so it'll be easier.”

“Not if this nonsense with Nancy means you lose Jane again, too.”

He sucked in a harsh breath. “I am not losing Jane.” The words were a vow, to himself and to her. He would do whatever it took to keep her this time.

They'd almost reached the house when Tristan spoke up again. “In the course of my discussion with Ravens-wood, I tried to get him to tell me how you got your scar, but he wouldn't. He said I'd have to ask you.”

Jane's words came suddenly into his head:
That's why
you haven't shared this with your own family? That's why you keep all of us out? Because you think it was your fault? Oh, my sweet darling, none of it was your fault.

When Dom didn't answer right away, Tristan went on, “I told Ravenswood you'd always brushed off the question with some nonsense about a fight you got into. But that isn't true, I assume.”

Dom ventured a glance at his brother and winced to see the hurt on his face. Jane had said,
Every time you refuse to reveal your secrets, Dom, I assume that you find me unworthy to hear them.
Apparently, that was how he'd made
all
of them feel. As if he were somehow too important to let them into his life.

Only God could have stopped that disaster, and contrary to what you think, you
aren't
God.

When she'd said it, he hadn't understood why she would accuse him of such a thing. Why she sometimes called him “Dom the Almighty.”

But he understood now. By shielding his guilt from the world, he'd shut himself off from his family. From her. He'd pushed away the very people he should have embraced.

Having just watched Jane retreat into fear and shut him out, he now knew precisely how painful it could feel to be on the receiving end.

If he wanted to change all that, he would have to start opening his heart, letting his family—and her—see the things he was most ashamed of, most worried about. He would have to trust them to understand, to empathize, to love him in spite of everything.

The only other choice was to keep closing himself up until, as she'd said at that ball last year:
One day that church you're building around yourself shall become your crypt.
He didn't want that.

He took a steadying breath as he and Tristan walked up the steps to Ravenswood's manor house. “As it happens, I
did
receive my scar in a fight. But it was a fight against the militia at the Peterloo Massacre.”

When Tristan shot him a startled look, Dom halted at the top of the steps to face him. “If you want to hear the story, I'll tell you all about it. Right now, if you wish.”

Tristan searched his face, as if not quite sure he believed what he was hearing. “I'd like that very much.” Then he broke into a grin. “But only if we do it over a glass of Ravenswood's brandy. That's the best damned brandy I've ever tasted.”

“One of the privileges of being a spymaster is that you can get your hands on the good stuff,” Dom said lightly, though his stomach churned at the thought of revealing his most humiliating secret, even to his brother.

Still, as they headed inside, Tristan clapped him on the shoulder, and that reassured him. Telling Tristan about Peterloo represented a beginning of sorts, toward a closer friendship than Dom had allowed himself to have with his brother in recent years.

Jane would be proud.

16

J
ANE HAD AN
awful night. First, there was the nightmare that began with Papa calling Mama “ignorant” and “willful” while Jane hid behind her mother's skirts. It ended with Dom assuring Papa that he would take Jane in hand.

After Jane awoke gasping, she lay there shaking, unable to go back to sleep.

Did she really believe that Dom was like Papa? He was certainly arrogant, and he could drive her mad with the firmness of his pronouncements. It still rubbed her raw that he'd ordered her to marry him rather than asking her.

But he
had
bowed to her request not to let Tristan catch them together, even though he'd clearly realized that putting her in a compromising situation would inevitably lead to a marriage. That was something, wasn't it?

And she
had
seduced him, after all. She could see how he might interpret that as a tacit agreement to
marry him. Especially since she'd meant it as such. Indeed, she'd been more than eager to become his wife, until he'd taken it for granted and started ordering her about like . . . like . . .

Dom the Almighty.

She blew out a breath. That was the trouble. She had no way of knowing which Dom she'd be marrying. The one who said he'd been lost ever since he'd let her go? The one who took such care with bedding her?

Or the one who dictated to her? Who wouldn't even have revealed his most recent discoveries about Nancy's situation if Jane hadn't eavesdropped to get them?

A sudden scratching at the door of her bedchamber startled her. Could that be her lady's maid so early? She sat up, surprised to see from the clock that it was already six
A.M.
They were to leave Saffron Walden at seven; Lady Ravenswood had told her so last night.

For the next hour, Jane thankfully didn't have to think about her and Dom at all. By the time she did her ablutions, dressed, packed up, and had a bit of toast with tea, it was time to head off for London. Indeed, she was the last person to appear on the steps of the manor house where everyone else was assembled, saying their goodbyes to the viscount and his wife.

“So, you're heading to the Earl of Blakeborough's in London, right?” Lord Ravenswood asked Tristan.

“Yes. Dom and Max and I agree that it's our best course of action.”

The four men briefly discussed the quickest routes to London. Though she could feel Dom darting glances at
her the whole time, she couldn't face him, couldn't even look at him. Not just now, when she was still in turmoil about what they'd done.

About what he'd said to her at the end.
It will also give you a chance to decide what you want.

That was the trouble. She didn't know what she wanted. Well, she
did
know—she wanted to marry Dom the courteous gentleman. But not Dom the Almighty. She wanted the Dom who mourned for the six children who'd lost their mother needlessly, not the Dom who was sure Nancy was a whore because she'd married his bastard of a brother.

But what if both parts were him? What if she couldn't have one without the other? Why, he hadn't even said he loved her!

Then again, neither had she, so she could hardly fault him for that. Their past was still too raw, and they were both still afraid. Perhaps he'd been waiting for her to say it. She'd certainly been waiting for him. Because then she might really believe he meant to make a life with her again, and not go running off at the first sign of disaster.

Like, perhaps, if Nancy proved to be bearing George's son.

“Since it's such a beautiful morning,” Dom said, “I was thinking that someone might prefer to ride in the phaeton with me. What do you think, Jane? Shall you join me?”

He was asking. Deliberately
asking,
not ordering. And she could feel his expectant gaze on her, indeed, feel
everyone's
expectant gazes on her. But her thoughts
were too jangled right now, and an enforced ride with him would only jangle them more.

Especially since they'd be trapped together for half the day. She wouldn't be able to escape. Not that she necessarily wanted to escape. Did she?

Oh, Lord, she couldn't handle this at the moment. “Actually, I was looking forward to chatting with your sister in His Grace's coach. If you don't mind.”

Only then did she meet his gaze. It showed nothing of his thoughts, which made everything worse. She'd begun to recognize that bland expression; he only wore it when he was protecting himself. And if he felt a need to protect himself, then she'd hurt him.

She swallowed hard. She hadn't wanted to hurt him. Perhaps she
should
ride with him. Clear the air. Perhaps she was being a coward.

“Whichever you prefer,” he said curtly. Then he walked briskly down the steps to his waiting phaeton, leapt in, and set it going.