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Джойс Бренда
Persuasion
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CHAPTER THREE
AMELIA STARED UP at her night-darkened ceiling.
She lay on her back, unmoving. Her temples throbbed. She had a terrible migraine, and her entire body was stiff with tension.
What was she going to do?
She had replayed her encounter with Grenville over and over in her mind, his dark, handsome image engraved there. He hadn’t forgotten her. And he had made it very clear that he hadn’t forgotten their affair, either.
Despair claimed her.
She closed her eyes tightly. She had left two windows slightly ajar, as she loved the tangy ocean air, and both shutters were gently rapping on the walls. The tide was high at night, and there was always a stiff breeze. But the melodic sound was not soothing.
She had been so unnerved during their encounter. It made no sense, none at all. Worse, she was still unnerved.
Did she dare consider the possibility that she still found him darkly attractive, and dangerously seductive?
How could she have ever imagined, even for a moment, that he would have become fat and gray and unrecognizable?
She almost laughed, but without mirth. Amelia opened her eyes, her fists clenched. She did not know what to do! But she did know that he had to be grieving. Lady Grenville had been an extraordinary woman, and he could not be indifferent to her death. Hadn’t she seen his anguish upon first meeting him, when he had just arrived at St. Just Hall? And there had been no mistaking it when he had rushed from the chapel, before the funeral service was even over.
And what about his poor, motherless children?
When she had left, the baby had been soundly asleep and the boys had been playing. She knew that there would be stark moments of grief still. But they were children. The little girl hadn’t ever known her mother, and the boys would eventually adjust, as children were wont to do.
But the next few days and weeks would be difficult for them—for everyone.
Of course she wanted to help, if she could. But did she want to help Grenville?
Grenville’s smoldering gaze was in her mind. Was he even now alone in his apartments, grieving openly for Elizabeth?
She had the inappropriate urge to reach out to him, and somehow offer him condolences, or even comfort.
Oh, what was wrong with her! He had betrayed her! She must not allow herself any attraction at all. He did not deserve her concern or her compassion!
But she was compassionate by nature. And she did not believe in grudges.
She had buried the past long ago. She had moved on.
But the affair no longer felt like ancient history. It felt as if they had met yesterday.
I believe you were trying to purchase this.
Amelia stiffened, recalling the seductive murmur of his voice exactly. They had met at the village market. Amelia’s neighbor was preoccupied with her newborn infant, and Amelia had taken her three-year-old daughter for a walk amongst the vendors, to give the taxed mother a chance to do her shopping. The little girl was desolate, as she had lost her doll. Hand in hand, they had wandered amongst the merchants, until Amelia had espied a vendor hawking ribbons and buttons. They had oohed and aahed over a red ribbon, and Amelia had tried to negotiate a better price with the merchant for it. She really had no change to spare for a ribbon for the child.
“This is now yours.”
The man standing behind her spoke in soft, seductive, masculine tones. Amelia had slowly turned, her heart racing. When she looked into a pair of nearly black eyes, the entire fair—its merchants and the crowd of villagers around her—had seemed to disappear. She found herself staring at a dark, devastatingly handsome man, perhaps five years older than she was.
He had smiled slowly, revealing a single dimple, holding the red ribbon out. “I insist.” And he had bowed.
In that moment, she had realized he was a nobleman, and a wealthy one. He was dressed as casually as a country squire, in a hacking coat, breeches and boots meant for riding, but she sensed his authority immediately. “I don’t believe it proper, sir, to accept a gift from a stranger.” She had meant to be proper, but she heard how flustered she sounded.
Amusement filled his eyes. “You are correct. Therefore, we must rectify the matter immediately. I would like an introduction.”
Her heart had slammed. “We can hardly introduce ourselves,” she managed to answer, flushing.
“Why not? I am Grenville, Simon Grenville. And I wish to make your acquaintance.”
Rather helplessly, perhaps already smitten, she had taken the ribbon. Simon Grenville, the Earl of St. Just’s younger son, had called on her the very next day.
And Amelia had felt as if she were a princess in a fairy tale. He had driven up to Greystone Manor in a handsome coach pulled by two magnificent horses, taking her for a picnic on the cliffs. From the moment she had stepped inside his carriage, an attraction had raged between them. He had kissed her that very afternoon—and she had kissed him back.
Lucas had quickly forbidden him from calling upon her. Amelia had pleaded with him to change his mind, but he had refused. He had insisted that he was protecting her—that Grenville was a rake and a rogue. But Simon hadn’t cared. He had laughed in Lucas’s face. A secret rendezvous had followed. They had met in the village and he had taken her to stroll in the magnificent rose gardens at St. Just Hall, where another heated encounter had ensued....
Lucas had gone away to attend the quarry or the mine, she could not recall, assuming she would obey him. But she hadn’t. Simon had called on her almost every day, taking her for carriage rides, for walks, to tea and even shopping.
She had fallen deeply in love before the week was out.
Amelia could not stand such memories. Her body was on fire, as if she wished to be with him still. She sat up, throwing the covers aside, oblivious to the chill in the air. Amelia slid her bare feet to the floor. She had been such a fool. She had been a lamb, hunted by a wolf. Oh, she knew that now. He had never had a single serious intention toward her, otherwise he wouldn’t have left as he had.
Thank God she had never succumbed to temptation; thank God she had never let him completely seduce her.
“I am desperate to be with you,” he had murmured, breathing hard.
They were in one another’s arms, in the gazebo that was behind the house. He had just given her so much pleasure. She was flushed and exhilarated—and she desperately wanted to consummate their affair. “I am desperate, too,” she had returned, meaning it. “But I can’t, Simon, you know I cannot....”
She wanted to be innocent on their wedding night. She wanted to give him her virginity then.
His stare had darkened, but he hadn’t said a word, and she wondered when he would ask her to marry him—when, not if he would do so. She had no doubt that his intentions were honorable. She knew he loved her as she loved him.
Simon had been courting her for six weeks. Then one day, the stableman hurried to the manor and announced that William Grenville was dead. He had been found on the cliffs, his neck broken, obviously having fallen from his horse. The family was in mourning.
Amelia had been stunned. She had met Will several times, and he had been everything the earl’s heir should be—noble, upright, handsome, charming. And Simon adored him, she knew that, as well. He spoke of him often, and so highly.
She had rushed to St. Just Hall to tell Simon in person how sorry she was. But the family was not receiving; she had written a hasty note and left it with a servant.
He did not reply. A few days later there was more stunning news—the family had left Cornwall. And Simon had left with them.
He did not write.
And he did not return.
Amelia realized she was standing by the open window, her feet bare, in just a nightgown. Somehow, a tear had arisen and was slipping down her cheek. She shivered.
He hadn’t ever truly loved her. His behavior that summer was entirely reprehensible. She wiped the tear away. Impossibly, she felt raw and bruised. Was she still hurt, after all these years?
And in that moment, she recalled her father. He had been a rake and a rogue, she knew that now, although she had not known it when she was a child. Amelia had adored her handsome, dashing father, and he had loved Amelia. He had said so, time and again. He had taken her with him when he made his rounds of the tenant farms, and lavishly praised her for every small accomplishment. And then one day, he was gone. He had left her mother and his children for the gaming halls and fallen women of Amsterdam and Paris.
Amelia had been seven years old when Papa had left them. She had been certain he would come back. It had taken her years to realize that he wasn’t ever returning.
But she had known almost immediately that Simon was never coming back. He had left without a word, he hadn’t really loved her.
Papa’s betrayal had bewildered her. Simon’s betrayal was crushing.
A year later, he had married the Lambert heiress. She had not been surprised....
Amelia stared out to sea. From where she stood, she could see the night-clad, shimmering waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Only a very naive, very young, very innocent girl would have ever believed, even for a moment, that St. Just’s son, heir or not, would ever be genuinely interested in her. She could blame him for pursuing her and nearly seducing her, but she had only herself to blame for the folly of falling in love, and then having her heart broken.
Well, there was good news. She wasn’t a trusting young girl anymore. She knew better. Grenville was not for her. He might arouse her and attract her, but it was not to be. He was grieving now; he had lost his wife. She was his neighbor, nothing more. If she could help his children, she was happy to do so. She even wished to help him, for the past was forgiven. But there would not be anything personal between them.
She had learned her lesson a very long time ago.
Amelia did not feel better. There was simply too much tension within her—and too many unanswered questions.
* * *
THEY WERE COMING FOR HIM.
He heard the soft, steady footfalls and he was terrified. He clutched the bars of his cell, certain that there would be no escape this time. He had been caught. He was on the list of the damned. He was going to the guillotine....
And ghastly images flashed, of the innocents he had seen kneeling before the guillotine, some in hysterics, others silent and stoic, and then of his friend, just days ago, who had told the crowd as he marched up those bloody stairs, “Don’t forget to show my head to the people!” The bloodthirsty crowd had cheered but he had wanted to weep, except he did not dare, as Lafleur was with him, watching him closely for a sign of weakness....
He cried out, because Will was there, going up those soaking wet steps. He screamed.
The huge iron blade came down. Blood rained, filling his vision, as the child wailed.
Simon Grenville sat bolt upright, panting and covered with sweat. He was on the sofa in the sitting room of his private apartments, not standing with the roaring crowd at La Place de la Révolution—a place Will had never been!
Simon groaned, his temples hammering, as the child wailed even louder. He realized his face was covered with tears and he used his sleeve to wipe his cheeks. Then he rushed to the chamber pot to vomit helplessly, mostly the scotch whiskey he’d been drinking since the funeral yesterday.
When would the nightmares stop? He had been incarcerated for three months and six days; he had been released in time to attend Danton’s trial, as he had prepared to leave Paris for London. In the last year, Georges Danton had become a moderate and a voice of reason, but that had only incited Robespierre, and it had, in the end, ensured his bloody death.
He did not want to recall standing helplessly in the crowd, pretending to applaud the execution, when he was so sickened he could barely prevent himself from retching.
Afterward, the Jacobin had bought him a glass of wine at a nearby inn, telling him how pleased he was that “Henri Jourdan” was departing for London. The timing could not be better, he said. The Allied line ran west to east from Ypres to Valenciennes and then to the Meuse River, Namur and Trier. The French were expecting an invasion of Belgium, soon. And Lafleur had slipped a list into his hand. “These are your London contacts.”
Simon had gone back to his flat for the very last time—only to find one of Warlock’s couriers there. For one moment, he had thought he had been uncovered, but instead, he had been told that his wife was dead....
Simon stood unsteadily—he was still very foxed. And that suited him very well. He walked over to a handsome sideboard and poured another scotch. The baby kept crying and he cursed.
He had enough problems without that damned child. He hated that bastard, but not as much as he hated himself.
But he had escaped the guillotine. How many French political prisoners could claim that?
He thought of his relations in Lyons, none of whom he’d ever met, all of whom were now deceased, a part of the vengeance wreaked upon Lyons when le Comité had ordered the rebel city destroyed. His cousin, the true Henri Jourdan, was among the dead.
He was acutely aware he was on a tightrope.
One misstep and he would fall, either into the clutches of his French masters or those of Warlock.
The Earl of St. Just was well-known. When he met with his Jacobin contacts, he would have to be very careful that no one would recognize him. He would have to manage some sort of disguise—a growth of beard, his natural hair, impoverished clothes. Perhaps he could even use chalk or lime to add a false scar to his face.
His stomach churned anew. If Lafleur ever learned he was Simon Grenville, not Henri Jourdan, he would be in imminent danger—and so would his sons.
He had no delusions about the lengths to which the radicals would go. He had seen children sent to the guillotine, because their fathers were disloyal to La Patrie. Last fall, an assassin had tried to murder Bedford, right outside his own house. In January, an attempt had been made on the War Secretary, as he was getting into his carriage outside of the Parliament. There were émigrés in Britain now who were in hiding, fearing for their lives. Why should he think his sons safe?
Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.
The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.
Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible—before the anticipated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.
But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do—because he was determined to protect his sons. He would give up the state for them; he would die for them if need be.
The baby cried again.
And he simply snapped. He threw the glass at the wall, where it shattered. Damn Elizabeth, for leaving him with her bastard! And then he covered his face with his hands.
And he began to cry. He wept for his sons, because they had loved their mother and they needed her still. He wept for Danton and all of his relations who had been victims of le Razor. He wept for those he did not know—rebels and royalists, nobles and priests, old men, women and children...the rich and the poor, for these days, it was guilt by suspicion or just association, and the poor wound up without their heads as well, when they were as innocent as his sons.... And he supposed he even cried for that damned bastard child, because she had nothing and no one at all—just like him.
And then he laughed through his tears. The bastard had Amelia Greystone.
Why had she come to the service, damn it! Why had she barged into his home? Why hadn’t she changed at all? Damn her! So much had changed. He had changed. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore!
He cursed Amelia again and again, because he lived in darkness and fear, and he knew that there was no way out and that the light she offered was an illusion.
* * *
“AMELIA, DEAR, WHY are you packing up my clothing?”
Two days had passed since the funeral. Amelia had never been as preoccupied. As she prepared to close up the house, her mind kept straying from the tasks at hand. Frankly, she had been worrying about Grenville’s children ever since the funeral. She was going to have to call upon them and make certain that all was well.
She smiled at Momma, who was lucid now. They were standing in the center of her small, bare bedchamber, a single window looking out over the muddy front lawns. “We are going to spend the spring in town,” she said cheerfully. But she wasn’t truly cheerful. She realized she was reluctant to leave Cornwall now. She would not be able to offer comfort to those children if she were miles and miles away.
Garrett’s heavy footfall sounded in the corridor outside of Momma’s bedchamber. Amelia paused as the heavyset manservant appeared on the threshold of the room. “You have a caller, Miss Greystone. It is Mrs. Murdock, from St. Just Hall.”
Amelia’s heart lurched. “Momma, wait here! Is anything wrong?” she cried, already dashing past the Scot and racing down the hall.
“She seems rather distressed,” Garrett called after her. He did not follow her as he knew his duty well; Momma was almost never left alone.
The gray-haired governess was pacing in the great hall, back and forth past the two red-velvet chairs that faced the vast stone hearth. A huge tapestry was hanging on an adjacent wall, over a long, narrow wooden bench with carved legs. The floors were stone, and covered with old rugs. But a new, very beautiful, gleaming piano was in one corner of the room, surrounded by six equally new chairs with gilded legs and gold seats. The instrument and the chairs were a gift from the dowager Countess of Bedford, recently given to Julianne.
Mrs. Murdock did not have anyone with her.
Amelia realized she had secretly hoped that the governess had brought the baby. She dearly wished to see and hold her again. But her disappointment was foolish. The child hardly needed to drive through the chilly Cornish countryside.
“Good day, Mrs. Murdock. This is such a pleasant surprise,” she began, when she wished to demand if anything was amiss.
Mrs. Murdock hurried toward her as Amelia left the stairs, and tears quickly arose. “Oh, Miss Greystone, I am at a loss, we all are!” she cried. She seized Amelia’s hands.
“What has happened?” Amelia said with dread.
“St. Just Hall is in a state,” she declared, her second chin wobbling. “We cannot get on!”
Amelia put her arm around her and realized she was trembling, she was that agitated. “Come, sit down and tell me what is wrong,” she said soothingly.
“The baby cries day in and day out. She is hardly nursing now! The boys have decided to do as they please—they are running wild! They will not attend the classroom, they defy Signor Barelli, they are running about the grounds, as ill-mannered as street urchins. Yesterday Lord William took a hack out—by himself—and he was gone for hours and hours! And we could not find John—as it turned out, he had gone into the attics and hid!” She started to cry. “If they did not need me so, I would leave such a horrid place.”
She hadn’t said a word about Grenville. “The boys are surely grieving. They are good boys, I saw that, they will soon stop misbehaving.” Amelia meant her every word.
“They miss their mother, we all do!” She choked on a sob.
Amelia clasped her shoulder. “And his lordship?”
Mrs. Murdock stopped crying. A moment passed before she said, “The earl has locked himself in his rooms.”
Amelia tensed. “What do you mean?”
“He has not come out of his apartments since the funeral, Miss Greystone.”
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, AMELIA FOLLOWED Mrs. Murdock into St. Just Hall, shaking the rain from her coat. It was so silent inside the marble-floored foyer that she could have heard a pin drop. Outside, the rain beat down on the windows and the roof. For that, she was somewhat thankful, as it drowned out the sound of her thundering heart.
Keeping her voice low, she said, “Where are the children?”
“When I left, they had both gone outdoors. Of course, it is raining now.”
If the boys were still outside, they would become terribly ill. A liveried manservant appeared and Amelia handed him her soaking wet coat. “What is your name, sir?” she asked firmly.
“Lloyd,” he said, bowing.
“Are the boys within?”
“Yes, madam, they came in an hour ago, when it began to rain.”
“Where were they?”
“I suspect they were in the stables—they were covered with hay, and they both had an odor.”
At least they were safely within. She glanced at Mrs. Murdock, who was apparently awaiting her lead. Amelia cleared her throat. Her heart raced even more swiftly. “And his lordship?”
A look of dismay flitted across the servant’s face. “He remains inside his rooms, madam.”
She inhaled nervously and said, “Tell him Miss Greystone has called.”
Lloyd hesitated, as if considering an objection. Amelia nodded with encouragement and he left. Suddenly Mrs. Murdock said, “I will send for tea.” She fled.
Amelia realized that they were all fearful of Grenville. Mrs. Murdock had not exaggerated, then. She began to pace. How could he lock himself in his rooms? On the drive over, Mrs. Murdock had revealed an astonishing and disturbing fact: he had not seen his children since the funeral, either.
That was so very wrong. It was selfish!
The servant appeared several moments later. He flushed and said, “I do not believe his lordship is receiving, Miss Greystone.”
“What did he say?”
“He did not answer the door.”
Amelia hesitated. If he would not come downstairs to speak with her, she would have to go upstairs to speak to him. Filled with trepidation, she fought for courage and looked at Lloyd. “Take me to his rooms.”
Blanching, the servant nodded and led her into the corridor and up the stairs.
They paused before a heavy teakwood door. Lloyd was even paler now, and Amelia hoped Grenville wouldn’t dismiss him for his audacity in bringing her to his rooms. She whispered, “Perhaps you should go.”
He fled.
Her heart slammed. But there was no choice, so she lifted her hand and knocked sharply on his door.
There was no response. She rapped on the door again.
When only silence greeted her efforts, she took a fist and pounded on the door. “Grenville! Open up!”
There was still no response, although she thought she heard a footstep. “Grenville!” She pounded on the door several times. “It is Amelia Greystone. I wish to—”
And the door was flung open.
Amelia did not finish her sentence. Simon stood before her, clad only in an unbuttoned shirt and his breeches. Half of his very muscular chest was revealed. He wore no stockings, no shoes. There was a great deal of bearded growth upon his face, and his hair was loose. Dark and nearly black, it reached his shoulders.
He stared at her unpleasantly.
She did not know what she had expected, but she had not expected him to greet her in such a disheveled state. And now she smelled the whiskey. “Grenville... Thank you for coming to the door,” she stammered.
His mouth began to curl. His eyes darkened. “Amelia. Have you come to save my soul?” He laughed softly. “I must warn you, I cannot be saved, not even by you.”
Amelia did not move. His dark eyes were smoldering; she recognized the look. Worse, her own heart was rioting. And she was briefly speechless.
What could he possibly be thinking?
He was smiling seductively. “You are wet. Come in...if you dare.”
She had heard that tone before. Did he intend to flirt? Or worse, seduce her?
His smile widened. “Surely I am not frightening you?”
She fought for her composure. She had come to see him because his household was in a state, and there was no one in charge. His children needed him. They had to be cared for!
Some sanity returned. He had never looked as dangerous, or as dissipated—he had been drinking, excessively. They were facing one another over the threshold of his sitting room. She finally glanced inside. It was in a horrific condition. The pillows that belonged on the sofa were on the floor. Drinking glasses, some empty, some partly full, were on the various tabletops. A lamp was on the floor, broken in pieces. So was a mirror.
Several of the decanters on the sideboard were empty. There were empty wine bottles there, as well. There was also a dark red stain on the pale blue wall by the fireplace. And finally, she saw broken glass on the floor.
He was inebriated—and he had been in a rage. Obviously he had broken the lamp, the mirror and God only knew what else. “What can you be thinking?” she cried, overcome with genuine concern.
His eyes widened but she was already shoving past him. Then she turned and slammed his door. She did not want any of his staff to see the condition his rooms were in, or worse, the condition he was in.
“Let me guess,” he said in that purr again. “You wish to be alone with me.”
She trembled, wishing he would cease flirting. “Hardly!” she snapped. “I do hope you are proud of yourself.” She marched to the scattered pillows, retrieved them, and tidied up the sofa. But even as angry as she was becoming, her heart was racing wildly. She did not like being alone with him like this. He was far too masculine—far too intriguing.
“What are you doing?”
She knelt and began collecting glass, using her skirts as an apron. “I am tidying up, Grenville.” She decided not to look his way. Maybe he would close his shirt.
“There are maids who clean this house.”
She refused to turn, but the image of him, more unclothed than not, remained fresh and graphic in her mind. “I don’t want anyone to see your rooms like this.” She stood and went to the trash can and emptied her skirt into it. Then she knelt to begin picking up the shards of the broken mirror.
The next thing she knew, he was clasping her shoulders as he knelt behind her and her body was spooned into his. “You are not a housemaid, Amelia, you are my guest,” he murmured.
Amelia couldn’t move. Her mind became utterly blank. His body was large and male, hard and strong, and she felt tiny, pressed against him as she was. Her heart was rioting so wildly that she could not breathe.
“Amelia,” he said softly, and she felt his lips against her cheek.
“Release me!” she cried, struggling to stand and get free.
“I thought you liked it when I held you,” he whispered into her ear. He did not release her; he did not allow her to stand.
Impossibly, desire flamed. She felt the urgency in every part of her body, in every fiber of her being. “You are intoxicated,” she accused.
“Yes, I am. And I had forgotten just how tiny and beautiful you are, and how perfectly you fit in my arms.”
Panic gave her unusual strength—or he was done toying with her. Amelia wrenched free. She leaped to her feet as he slowly stood to tower over her. She faced him, defiantly. “What can you possibly be thinking?” she cried.
“I am thinking that you are so pretty, and that we are alone.” He was amused. “You are blushing.”
“I am old!” What had he been doing? Had he tried to embrace her? Had she felt his mouth on her cheek?
Had he kissed her?
She backed away. Coming into his rooms had been a mistake, she realized that now. “Do not touch me again!” she warned.
His dark eyes gleamed. “You entered at your own risk.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you know as well as I do that I am not to be trusted.”
She did not know what to say. He had just made a very direct reference to his courtship of her—and his betrayal. She stood there with her backside against the sideboard, trying to regain her breath. His hands fisted and found his hips. He stared at her, unsmiling, unmoving. She despaired, because now she had the vast opportunity to ogle the hard planes of his chest, the angles of his ribs and to notice that he did not have an ounce of fat upon him. He was leaner than he had been at the age of twenty-one. He was, undoubtedly, too thin.
“You are staring.” He spoke flatly.
She jerked her gaze away, and saw the pieces of broken mirror, not far from his bare feet. “You are not properly dressed.”
“Surely my bare legs do not bother you...Amelia?”
She glanced up and their gazes met. His smile was twisted, his dark gaze filled with speculation. “You have seen far more than my bare calves,” he said.
“That was uncalled for!” she cried, aghast. Now she recalled unbuttoning his shirt in a fit of passion, and running her hands over those hard muscles.
“I never claimed to be a gentleman.” But he reached for the sides of his shirt, pulling them together. Never moving his gaze from her, he buttoned up his shirt. “Is that better?”
It wasn’t better at all. She knew she must stop her memories from spilling over now. “There is broken glass everywhere. Your feet are bare.” She spoke sharply.
Suddenly sober, he said, “A shard of glass cannot hurt me.”
She saw numerous cuts on his feet. She jerked her gaze up. “Your foot is already bleeding, Grenville.” This was safer ground.
He made a derisive sound. “You are worried about a few tiny scratches?”
She was worried, but not about those cuts! “You do not want to get an infection,” she tried.
“Men die every day.” He was hard, harsh and angry. “From bayonets, powder, cannon, the Blade... And you are worried about a few little pieces of glass.” He laughed, but the sound was frightening.
She stared, hugging herself. He was talking about the war and the revolution, but why? Most Britons had been affected in some way by the wars, and the average citizen read about the war on an almost daily basis. War stories abounded in every inn and tavern, and rumors ran rampant—the threat of invasion, the reach of the Terror, the possible fall of the Republic. But Grenville sounded almost personally involved. “Have you been to war?” she heard herself ask. “Have you been to France?”
He suddenly turned away. Not looking at her, he walked over to the low table before the gold sofa and picked up a glass of scotch. As if he hadn’t heard her, he studied it. He finally said, “I do not like drinking alone. Is it late? I seem to recall that you enjoy a glass of brandy before bedtime. If I broke the decanter of brandy, there are plenty of bottles downstairs.” He looked at her and stared. His regard was challenging and very, very dark.
The terrible tension returned. “It is midday, Grenville.” She prayed he wasn’t flirting with her.
Sipping, he studied her over the rim of his glass. “Simon. Join me anyway. Drinking alone is an abhorrent habit. Despicable, truly.”
She was not about to have a drink with him, especially not now, like this. “Do you frequently drink alone?”
“All of the time.” He saluted her with his glass.
What had happened to him? Why wasn’t he comforting his children? Why had he avoided his marriage, if Mrs. Murdock were right?
“Ah, I see you are feeling sorry for me.” His eyes gleamed and Amelia realized he was pleased.
“You are grieving. Of course I am feeling sorry for you.”
His smile vanished. “It is not what you think.” He tossed off the rest of his drink and strode over to the sideboard, coming precariously close to walking over shattered glass as he did so.
She cried out. “Grenville, be careful!”
“I don’t care about the damned glass!”
She froze, because he had suddenly shouted at her and there was so much fury in his tone. It was as if lightning had ripped apart the sky, out of the blue. She stared, aghast, as he braced both arms against the sideboard.
She had the frightening urge to rush over to him and clasp his shoulder and ask him what was wrong. She wet her lips and said, “Are you all right?”
“No.” He poured another scotch, his movements stiff with anger. Then he slowly turned and faced her. “Why are you here?”
She hesitated. “You haven’t come out of your rooms in days. You haven’t seen your children.”
“No, I have not.” He made a mocking sound. “And you are here to rescue me from myself?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, we are being honest now.” His gaze darkened.
“When did you become so dark—so cynical—so unhappy?” she asked.
He started. And she saw the wave of anger as it came. He drained that drink, too, and slammed it down. “Has it ever occurred to you that being here—alone with me—is dangerous?”
She trembled. “Yes, it has.”
“I do not feel like being rescued. You should go.”
“I don’t think I should leave you when you are in such a state.”
He folded his arms across his broad chest and began to smile. “I was wrong. You have changed. The child I once knew was so terribly pliant. She was putty in my hands. I am facing a stubborn and annoying woman now.”
His words stabbed through her. “You are hurt, so you are lashing out.”
He laughed coldly at her. “Think as you will.”
Amelia watched him pour another drink, wanting to take it away. “I know you are grieving. Your children are grieving, as well. But grief doesn’t give you the right to behave as if you are a spoiled child.”
His eyes widened. “You dare to berate me?”
“Someone must set you upside down on your ear!” she cried in frustration.
He set the glass down hard, and this time, the drink was untouched. “You were never entirely intimidated by me. Even when you were sixteen, and as naive and as innocent as a newborn babe, you had the courage I find lacking in most women and most men.”
She was rigid. “I do not intend to discuss the past.”
“But you did hold me in some awe. Are you still awed?” His tone was mocking, but his gaze was hard and unwavering.
“Grenville, you could awe no one just now.”
“This is truly intriguing. I look at you and I see glimpses of that trusting, sweet girl—but then I find myself facing a sharp-tongued harridan.”
She flushed. “Insult me if it makes you feel better! But I do not want to discuss the past.”
“Why not? It is there, looming between us, as if an elephant in this chamber.”
“What happened is over, and I have forgotten all about it.”
“Liar.” She started in dismay as he added softly, “You are the one who came here uninvited, into my rooms, seeking to rescue me.... A man who did not know you as well would draw but one conclusion.”
She knew her face flamed. He said, “Do you wish to pick up where we left off?”
She cried out, close to marching over to him and striking him. “You know me better than that! How can you be so rude when you know I have come here to help?”
“Yes, I do know you well.... You are meddling out of kindness. The other day it was rather endearing. Today, however, I cannot decide if I mind or not.”
“Someone has to meddle, Grenville—you are hardly a bachelor, free to indulge yourself. You have a family to think of. You have duties toward them.”
“Ah, yes, duty—a subject of which you are inordinately fond. Who better to lecture me? Do you still take care of your mother exclusively? Julianne was far too preoccupied with her books and lectures, if I recall, to be of any help.”
“She is my mother. Of course I take care of her. And Julianne is married now to the Earl of Bedford.”
He started. “Little Julianne married Dominic Paget?”
“Yes, she did. And they have a child.”
He smiled and shook his head. “Well, your mother is a noble cause, to be sure—but time passes swiftly, Amelia, and you remain unwed.”
She crossed her arms defensively. “I am very content.” She did not know how they had gotten onto such a personal topic. “Your children need you. And that is why I am here. That is the only reason I am here.”
His smile was filled with skepticism. “I think you are here for several reasons.” He sipped from his glass. “I think that you are a woman of compassion, and you currently harbor a great deal of compassion for me.”
He wasn’t as foxed as she had thought. “You are grieving. You have lost your wife. Of course I feel sympathy for you. You have not seen your children since the funeral. It is time to sober up, Grenville.”
His lashes lowered and she could feel him thinking. “Send up for supper. I will stop drinking if you join me.” And he smiled at her. “I am enjoying your company, Amelia.”
She was in disbelief. “First you flirt, then you fly into several rages, and now you are bribing me in order to have me dine with you?”
“Why not?”
Trembling, she finally marched to him. His brows lifted. She snatched the glass from his hand, spilling whiskey on them both. He seemed amused, which only angered her even further. Flushing, she cried tersely, “I will not be bribed. If you want to behave like a common drunk, then so be it. I know you are grieving for Elizabeth, but your grief does not entitle you to this bout of self-destruction, not when your children are in this house.”
“I am not grieving for Elizabeth,” he said flatly.
She knew she had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
His face had become dark with anger again. “I hardly knew her. She was a stranger. I am sorry she is deceased, as my sons adored her. And she certainly did not deserve to die at the age of twenty-seven. But let us cease all pretense. I am not grieving for her.”
Was it true, then, what the nurse had said? That the marriage had been troubled?
He was staring. “You seem so surprised.”
She did not know what to say to him now. Finally, “Perhaps you are not being entirely honest with yourself. She was gracious, elegant, beautiful—”
He laughed harshly then, interrupting her. “I am being entirely honest, Amelia.”
She hesitated because he was so obviously anguished. She did not know what to believe or think. “This is a terrible time,” she finally said. “How can I help?”
He slowly smiled, and his dark eyes smoldered. Suddenly he brushed some hair from her face, and his fingertips fluttered over her jaw and cheek. Desire fisted and Amelia froze.
Very seductively, he said, “I need you, Amelia. I have always needed you.”
For one more moment, she could not move. The urge to go into his arms was overwhelming. Simon needed her. She believed that.
“And somehow,” he said, slowly reaching for her, “I think that you need me, too.” His hand closed over her wrist.
In another moment, if she did not defy him, he would pull her into his embrace! He was poised to do so—and he was watching her so carefully. Amelia braced against him but did not move away. There was no denying the wild attraction that she still felt for him.
But it didn’t matter. She must never allow him any liberties again! Still, the panic she had felt earlier was far less intense now.
“Isn’t that why you are here? To comfort me?” He leaned closer, still holding her arm.
Amelia felt as if she were in a whirlwind of mixed emotions—confusion, fear, panic, but also a fierce, complicated desire.
“Please let me go,” she whispered, and tears arose. She wasn’t sure what they signified.
He started, and released her.
She managed, “I am here to help if I can, but not in the way that you suggest.”
He shook his head. “I did not think so.” Then he walked past her to the sofa and collapsed upon it.
Amelia realized she was trembling, taut with tension and desire. She closed her eyes, seeking some small degree of composure.
And then she took a breath and opened her eyes. Simon hadn’t moved.
He lay on his back, one arm over his head, and she realized that he had fallen into a deep, drunken stupor.
Amelia stared, shaken to the core of her being. A long moment passed. Then she found a throw and covered him with it.
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