Authors: Carol Finch
"Confound it, don't think about that either!" Dominic muttered. He leaped up the front steps and headed for the study to pour himself a stiff drink. With bottle in hand, he plopped down in a chair and proceeded to chase down his troubled thoughts with brandy. It took some doing, but after two hours Dominic did manage to elude the shapely genie who kept rising from his bottle.
It took two servants to haul Dominic up the steps to bed. Neither of them breathed a word about the master of the house falling flat on his face at the foot of the stairs, but they could not contain their grins when they had settled the inebriated lord in his bed. Dominic pried one glazed eye open to mumble grateful appreciation. Their amusement did not come from their master's slurred voice, but from the name he gave his assistants. It was very feminine and unfitting for the two bulky men who had pulled off his boots and tossed him onto his bed.
"I think the master must have fallen beneath a witch's spell," John Chadwell snickered, closing the bedroom door behind him.
"It would certainly seem so." Chuckling, Mosley started down the steps to return to his room. "And I only know of one witch by the name Master Baudelair was calling us in his time of need."
Chadwell nodded in agreement. "There is only one Rozalyn who could cause a man s'o much trouble ... so I've heard."
"That's the one," Mosley declared. "She single-handedly drives off thieves—and she drives a man to drink to excess. I've got the uneasy feeling Master Baudelair will be wishing he hadn't come down from the mountains, that woman has already turned his world upside down and they have only just met."
"But she is quite a beauty. If I were twenty years younger . . ." Chadwell sighed whimsically.
"If you were twenty years younger you would also find yourself lying abed in an unconscious heap, just like the master," Mosley snorted. After ambling across the hall, he stood beside his bedroom door. "I've heard the rumors about the woman Dominic toted off to the theater tonight, and I've seen enough to know those wild tales are true. Master Baudelair will wind up like all the rest of the men who thought to tame that girl's wild heart. He stands a better chance fighting a mad grizzly."
"He's young," Chadwell argued. "Dominic will bounce back."
"Right back into that woman's arms," Mosley declared. When Chadwell scoffed at the prediction, Mosley's mouth stretched into a wide grin. He drew a ten-dollar gold piece from his pocket, and dared Chadwell to match it.
Chadwell eyed the old groom for a long thoughtful moment before fishing into his pocket for a coin. "This gold piece says Dominic Baudelair will have another woman draped on his arm by this same time tomorrow. No blue-eyed witch will bring a man like Dominic to his knees. Why, I'll even bet he marches back to the mountains without giving the lady a second thought."
"You've got a bet." Mosley pivoted on his heels and walked into his room. "You're going to lose your money, Chadwell. I'll even bet you double or nothing that Dominic winds up marrying that feisty lass."
Chadwell hooted in disbelief. "Dominic married? You heard him say he has no time for romance. In the mountains, he's as free as a bird and he'll stay that way. Marriage isn't his cup of tea."
"We'll just see about that," Mosley grunted sarcastically as he shut the door behind him. "He won't be the first bird to have his wings clipped."
"Dominic Baudelair?" Chadwell guffawed. He was still chuckling when he clambered into bed and snuffed out the lantern.
That old fool Mosley would soon be parted from his money. Dominic Baudelair was a restless breed of man who had never been able to stay put. He soon tired of civilization, and he longed for the wilderness and the challenges it presented. No, Rozalyn DuBois was only a pleasant diversion. Before long Dominic would yearn for the mountains. He would go where the wandering winds took him, and it would probably be another five years before Dominic ventured to return to St. L
Oui
s. Dominic married? Why, that was the most preposterous statement Chadwell had ever heard, and it would damned well cost Mosley twenty hard-earned dollars for making it!
Chapter 7
An amused grin skittered across Chadwell's lips when he strode into the dining room and saw the disheveled Master Baudelair sitting alone at the table. Dominic's head was propped on his hand, and his eyes were streaked and red from his bout with brandy. He looks a mite green around the gills, Chadwell observed.
"Good afternoon, sir," the servant said, all too cheerfully to suit Dominic whose sensitive head vibrated with each word.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed," he grunted and then groaned miserably when his temples pounded against the sides of his eyes like an overzealous drummer hammering on a percussion instrument. "Coffee . . . bring coffee." His voice was low and raspy, an attempt to guard against increasing the throbbing in his head.
Chadwell scampered back to the kitchen to retrieve a cup and quickly returned to set steaming coffee beneath Dominic's nose. "A bit under the weather, I see," he mocked lightly.
Dominic grumbled an inaudible response and, lifting the cup to his lips, cautiously took a sip.
A thoughtful frown settled on Chadwell's fair features. "I have always maintained that the best way to forget a woman is to quickly latch onto another one. It is more practical than drowning oneself in one's brandy bottle."
Narrowed green eyes glared at Chadwell from beneath a veil of tangled lashes. "I don't recall saying that a woman was my problem," Dominic muttered grouchily.
Chadwell's shoulder lifted in a nonchalant shrug. "That was easy to assume since you called me and Mosley by a certain lady's name when we put you to bed last night."
Had he? Dominic couldn't remember. The whiskey seemed to have saturated his brain. The last thing he recalled was stuffing Rozalyn's tormenting vision in the empty brandy bottle and corking it in before she could escape to haunt him again.
Since Chadwell had every intention of winning his bet with Mosley, he pursued the subject Dominic would have preferred to drop. "As I was saying, it seems a better solution to distract oneself with another beautiful woman. I've heard a good many tales about Rozalyn DuBois. If a man knows what is good for him, he would have no further association with that young lady. Rumors suggest she is not to be tamed. You are not the first to find difficulty in courting that spirited maid. It seems futile to go off in search of the sun when one knows one might be singed."
"It isn't that simple," Dominic snorted before he took another swallow of coffee. Absently he reached for one of the fruit tarts Chadwell had brought to him to settle his churning stomach.
"Nothing is simple when it comes to women," Chadwell prophesied. Bracing his arms on the table, he stared pointedly at Dominic. "But need I remind you that, even as a stripling, you were prone to variety when pursuing females. I have no doubt that Rozalyn DuBois will be long forgotten when another lovely face catches your eye. If I may be so bold, I would suggest that you turn your attentions elsewhere and leave
Mademoiselle
DuBois to her unruly ways."
With that parting remark, Chadwell took his leave. He hoped Dominic would give it a moment's consideration.
Dominic chewed on the servant's advice and then eased back in his chair to stare off at the far wall. Perhaps Chadwell was right. What he needed was a distraction, something to take his mind off his problems. It will be best to avoid Roz until I escort her to Lenore's party, he told himself, not consciously admitting that he couldn't trust himself alone with the blue-eyed minx who could ignite his passions with a mere kiss.
Determined to test the theory that the best cure for wanting one woman was to seek another, Dominic unfolded his tall frame from the chair. He went upstairs and soaked in a hot bath before venturing to town. Although he had been unable to think of holding another woman in his arms when they ached for Roz the previous night, Dominic vowed to drive his craving for that feisty chit from his mind. If he could look into another woman's eyes without seeing those fathomless pools of blue staring back at him, he would know he was cured of the spell that raven-haired witch had cast upon him.
Dominic garbed himself in buckskins and then aimed himself toward the waterfront, intending to patronize a woman whose profession it was to ease a man's needs without tying his thoughts in knots.
Dark, disapproving eyes appraised the ragamuffin garbed in baggy breeches, a stained vest, and a soiled cap pulled down around her ears. "Jest where do you think yore goin' dressed in that ridiculous getup?" Tess demanded as she stepped around the corner to block Rozalyn's escape route.
"Into the streets," Rozalyn informed the housekeeper.
Determinedly, she marched toward the plump barricade.
"Yore gran'mammy would keel over dead if she got a look at you," Tess scolded, wagging a stubby finger in Roz's unconcerned face. "Besides, yore an engaged woman, so I heard. And I got a notion yore man wouldn't approve of yore gallivantin' about town in that garb."
"Consider it my last fling before my joyous day of wedlock," Rozalyn smirked. Then, before Tess could grab a handful of her shirt, she darted away.
"Blast it, chile! Yore gonna git yoreself in a peck of trouble if you don't stop this nonsense." Tess let out her breath in a rush when the door slammed in her face. Grumbling in exasperation, she stomped up the back steps to finish her chores. "There ain't no holdin' the reins on that girl. She jest runs wild!"
Outside, Rozalyn breathed a sigh of relief when the cool evening breeze swirled about her. This distraction was just what she needed to elude the memories that had preyed so heavily on her during the day. She had awakened to find Dominic gone and she had berated herself for submitting to him like some common trollop. When she paused to consider how brazenly she had touched him—aroused him, encouraged him to make love to her a second time—her face flushed six shades of red.
What did I expect to feel the morning after? Rozalyn asked herself as she led the prancing bay stallion from the stables and reined him toward the wharf. Certainly not this warm giddy sensation that lured her back to Dominic. Heavens! Had she so easily become a slave to her own passion? It is just that the experience is so new, Rozalyn rationalized, desperately trying to keep their tryst in proper perspective. But she was different somehow. It would take time to adjust to the feelings Dominic had stirred within her.
During the ride to the wharf, she assured herself that it was only fascination that tugged on the strings of her heart—not love. Besides, Dominic had made no promises, nor had he confessed any deep feelings for her. She had to keep her emotions under control. After the dinner party, she would keep her distance from him. Giving herself time to reflect on their whirlwind affair, she would see if Dominic sought her out again or if he was content to go his own way. She was certainly not going to chase him, she vowed as she slowed the stallion to a walk and aimed herself toward Sadie's Tavern. She had carefully guarded her heart these past few years, and it would not do to have it broken by a green-eyed devil with a charismatic smile. Dominic had led her to believe that what he felt for her was more than fleeting desire, but could she be sure? If she bared her heart to him would he respond with true affection, or would it be unwise to be open? After all, he was a man and her past experiences warned her to proceed with caution.
Flinging aside her pensive deliberations, Rozalyn ambled into the smoke-filled tavern. Harvey Duncan was seated at a corner table, dealing cards to three other men.
The sight of Rozalyn, even in her outrageous garb, made his hazel eyes light up, and a broad smile cracked his face. Eagerly he gestured toward the unoccupied chair across from him. As, Rozalyn threaded her way through the crowd to take her seat, several familiar faces turned to greet the notorious lass who made a weekly appearance at Sadie's.
When Rozalyn was settled in a chair, Harvey dealt her into the game and Gilbert Powell shoved a mug of ale in front of her. Rozalyn glanced dubiously at the tall stack of coins at Gil's elbow and then she arched a curious brow.
"It appears that you have enjoyed a productive week," she said mockingly.
"I should say," Gil chuckled. After scooping up his cards, he thoughtfully chewed on the end of his cheroot. "Some dandy was generous enough to hand me a donation. Right kindly of him, it was."
One delicate brow arched higher as Rozalyn studied him from beneath the brim of her dingy cap. It was doubtful that Gil had related the incident exactly as it had happened. "Did this dandy need forceful persuasion or did he readily donate to your cause, Gil?" she asked point-blank.