“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.
