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, becauseI am glad you are hereremained 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.
