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Джойс Бренда
Persuasion
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CHAPTER FOUR
AMELIA HESITATED, POISED to go up the front steps of St. Just Hall.
It was the next afternoon, and the sun was trying to break through the overcast skies. Small buds had appeared on the tall black trees surrounding the house. Even the lawns seemed to be turning a bit green. Spring was on its way, but she was not cheered.
She had not been able to sleep at all last night. That terrible encounter with Grenville had replayed over and over in her mind. His image had haunted her, at times mocking, at times anguished, and so terribly seductive.
He was grieving and angry, and an attraction still raged between them. She did not know what to do.
She had gone to visit the children after leaving him sleeping in his rooms. The boys had been thrilled to see her, but she had instantly noticed how out-of-sorts they were. John had broken a china horse model and showed no remorse. William had scribbled blackly in one of his schoolbooks. The boys had been smiling and happy to see her, but she knew they were suffering over the loss of their mother and that their misbehavior was a cry for help.
She had gone to visit the little girl, too. Mrs. Murdock had been out, which had been a relief of sorts, and a housemaid had allowed her to hold and feed the infant. Afterward, she had thought about checking upon Grenville. Instead, she had decided that the wisest course of action was to flee his house.
But she had worried about him and his children ever since.
“I will give the mare water, miss,” the groom said, interrupting her thoughts.
Amelia half turned. A stableman had taken hold of the mare in the traces of the curricle she had used to drive over. She thanked him, summoned up her courage—no easy task—and started up the steps to the house.
Was she afraid of him? She was far more nervous now than she had been yesterday. Or was it her own reaction to him that frightened her?
In any case, she prayed he was doing better that day. She hoped, fervently, that she had imagined the attraction that had arisen between them yesterday. And if she had not, she must fight her own feelings.
A wiser woman would have stayed away, she thought, knocking nervously on the front door. But he had been so devastated yesterday. Ignoring his pain was simply impossible.
A liveried doorman allowed her inside, and a moment later, Lloyd had entered the front hall. Amelia smiled brightly and falsely at him as she removed her coat. “Good afternoon. I was hoping to call upon his lordship.” Their gazes met and held. She continued to sound cheerful. “Is he up and about today?”
“He has just come downstairs,” Lloyd said. “But he was very adamant, Miss Greystone, he is not receiving callers today.”
Her relief was instantaneous and huge. Grenville had come out of his rooms! She was so thankful. Surely she did not need to seek him out, if that was the case. She could simply return home—that would be so much safer than actually calling upon him! “Then I should go. But first, how are the children?”
Lloyd’s eyes flickered with concern. “Lord William seems very distraught today, Miss Greystone. This morning he locked himself in his rooms, and it took Signor Barelli several hours to convince him to come out.”
Her relief vanished. She would expect such behavior of John, not his older brother. “And where was his lordship at the time?”
“He had yet to come down, Miss Greystone. I do not believe he has been told of the incident.”
Her tension spiraled. “But he has seen the children since coming down?”
Lloyd shook his head. “I do not believe he has seen the children since the funeral, Miss Greystone.”
Amelia stared at him, appalled. Then, “How is he?”
Lloyd lowered his voice. “I do not believe he is feeling very well today.”
And she knew she could not leave yet. “Where is he?”
Lloyd was alarmed. “He is dining, Miss Greystone, but he was very specific—”
“I will manage his lordship,” she said, hurrying into the corridor. Determination filled her. He was probably suffering from the effects of his binge. Well, no matter how poorly he felt, it was time for him to step up and be a father to his children.
If she remembered correctly, the dining chamber was a vast room paneled in dark wood with a timbered ceiling, several oil paintings on the walls and a long oak table with two dozen stately burgundy-velvet chairs. Two ebony doors guarded the chamber. Both were closed. A liveried servant stood outside the doors, as still and unblinking as a statue. Amelia did not hesitate and she did not knock. She pushed open both doors and stepped over the threshold.
Grenville sat at the head of the long table at the other end of the room, facing the doors. The table was set beautifully with linen and crystal for one. Tall white candles formed a centerpiece. He was eating, seeming preoccupied, when she barged inside.
He looked up; she halted. Staring from across the great room, he laid his utensils down.
Amelia hesitated, then turned and closed the doors. The ensuing conversation should probably remain private. She hoped that cornering him now was not a huge mistake.
Turning, she was aware of some dread—was she baiting the lion yet again in his den? It certainly felt that way. She started grimly forward, straining to make out his expression.
Grenville continued to stare as she approached. Only a short distance separated them when he finally laid a gold cloth napkin on the table and stood up. “You could not stay away, I see.” He did not smile.
She paused when two chairs separated them, grasping the back of one. He did not look well. He had shaved, but there were shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He was pale, in spite of his olive complexion. He was impeccably dressed in a navy blue coat, his shirt frothing lace at the throat and cuffs, his breeches fawn, his stockings white. But his hair had been pulled carelessly back into a queue. He looked as if he had spent a very long night carousing, which, for all intents and purposes, he had. “I remain concerned about the children.”
“But your concern does not extend to me?”
She decided to ignore the taunt. “Are you feeling better today?”
“I feel exactly the way I look—like hell.”
She bit back a smile. “One must pay the piper,” she said tartly.
“Hmm, I think you are pleased to see me suffering so.”
“You could hardly think that you would escape the consequences of such a binge unscathed?” She lifted her brows. “But I am not pleased if you are feeling ill.”
“I do not believe,” he said slowly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “that I was thinking at all.”
A silence fell. No, he had not been thinking, he had been feeling—he had been angry and grief-stricken. He had also been very, very suggestive. Amelia glanced away, finally breaking the stare they shared.
He gestured at the chair she was grasping. Amelia saw the gesture from the corner of her eye and shook her head, glancing at him again. “I am not staying long.”
“Ah, yes, your mother awaits.”
She tensed. Had there been mockery in his tone? But clearly, he remembered their encounter.
Abruptly, he said, “Why are you here...Amelia?”
Her heart lurched. He did not sound pleased. “I told you, I wish to make certain the children are well. And, yes, some concern extends to you.”
“I am touched.”
She stared closely at him, but if he was mocking her now, she could not tell. His expression was hard.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said, staring down at the edge of the table. Then he looked up, his gaze dark. “I was thinking about the encounter we shared last night.”
There was so much tension, of course there was. Amelia waited, uncertain of where he meant to go.
His gaze held hers. “My recollection is patchy. But I believe I owe you an apology.”
She inhaled. Hopefully he did not recall very much! “You do.”
“Was I very rude?”
She hesitated, because he had been far more than rude—he had been bold, he had referred to their past affair several times, and he had been entirely seductive. “It doesn’t matter, your apology is accepted.” She was final.
But he was not. “I tried to seduce you.”
She stiffened, wondering if she could deny it.
“I happen to remember holding you in my arms. Did I seduce you?” he asked, almost casually.
She exhaled. He did not remember the extent of their exchange? “No, you did not.”
He glanced aside, and she had no clue as to what he was thinking. Then, very softly, his gaze frighteningly direct again, he said, “But we kissed.”
She was almost speechless now. She wasn’t sure whether his mouth had brushed her cheek, but that wasn’t what he meant. Then she whispered, “No, Simon, we did not kiss.”
His eyes widened.
She was surprised by his surprise. And there was so much tension in the room, between them, that it was hard to breathe. Or was all the tension coming from her? “I’d like to see the children,” she said, hoping to rapidly change the subject.
“Are you certain?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her.
She bit her lip. “Yes, I am certain.” She knew she must end this subject now. “You were entirely foxed. I do not believe you were responsible for most of your behavior. You said some strange things as well, which I did not understand.”
“Such as?” He came around his chair toward her.
Oh, she did not want to be trapped in that small space between the table and the wall! She hoped he would not reach out and touch her! Of course, she could simply turn and run down the length of the table and out of the room—which was exactly what she felt like doing. Instead, she did not move.
“Such as?” he said again, but his tone was demanding, and he stood within reach of her.
What she would not do was tell him that he had wanted to discuss the past, that he had raised the subject several times. “You sounded as if you had been to France, or had been involved in the war.”
He made a dismissive sound. “Really? I have not been abroad in years. What else did I say?”
“We talked about Lady Grenville.”
His gaze sharpened. “Ah, yes. I vaguely recall telling you that I was not fond of my wife.”
She clasped her hands and said, unhappily, “You claimed you were not grieving for her but I did not believe you.”
He made a mocking sound. “Of course, you would think the best of me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You always believed in me. Your faith was unshakable.”
He wished to discuss the past again? She was incredulous. “I believe,” she said carefully, “that you love your children and you loved your wife, although perhaps not in a conventional way.”
“As I said, your faith is unshakable. Apparently I was being entirely truthful with you last night. I am not grieving for Lady Grenville. I hardly wished her ill, but I cannot grieve for a woman I barely knew.”
“How is that even possible?” Amelia gasped. “You shared children and she was so beautiful and so gracious!”
“It was her duty to bear my sons,” he pointed out, rather darkly. “Just as it was my duty to marry her and beget an heir.”
She felt her eyes widen. It hadn’t been a love match. It didn’t even sound as if he had had a choice. Was all the terrible gossip true? She didn’t dare ask. She said softly, “I am so sorry. You both deserved more.”
Grenville was clearly incredulous. “You are sorry that I did not love my wife? That she did not love me? That I am not brokenhearted? You would wish me well?”
“Yes—no!” Then, blushing and aware of it, she cried, “I would not wish anyone ill.” She stopped. They were fast approaching dangerous ground—today would be an even worse time to venture onto the subject of their past. She quickly said, hoping to divert him, “If you are not grieving for Lady Grenville, then there is another cause for your anguish. I had forgotten that the last time you were in residence, your brother died.”
His face hardened. “That was a decade ago.”
She almost pointed out that he seemed to remember their affair well, so surely he recalled that tragedy, as well. “I am sorry that you had to return under these painful circumstances.”
“I think I believe you,” he said. “Only you would continue to care, to have concern and even compassion for me.” He shook his head. “The question becomes, how is it possible that you would still have faith in me?”
She hated this tangent! But apparently, he would not be diverted. “I am not a cynic,” she managed to respond. And did she still have faith in him? Grenville was a man of honor, a man of duty, a man of character—even if he had behaved so callously with her. She did believe it, God help her.
“I have found, Amelia, that in this life the cynics are usually right.”
“Then I am sorry for you,” she snapped.
“And I fear for you—for one day, you will learn such a lesson.”
“No. I will remain an optimist, and I will continue to have faith in my friends and neighbors.” She meant it.
He was staring intensely. “I wonder what I will have to do this time to shake that faith.”
What did that mean? She cried, “There will not be another time!”
“Ah, so now we get to the gist of the matter.”
“I am only here out of concern for the children.”
“Liar!” He smiled dangerously now. “Do you think I have not noticed that every time I mention the past, or even refer to it with a vague innuendo, you become rather undone?”
She hugged herself. “Well, that is because last night you were relentless! And even today, it is as if you wish to remind me of the past, when I have forgotten it entirely!” There, the fighting gloves were off.
He slowly said, his eyes gleaming, “You do know that you have just raised a red flag at a bull?”
What did that mean? “Have you been imbibing today?”
“No, I have not. But do not baldly lie to my face! Do not tell me that you have forgotten the past, when the one thing I do recall is that last night I held you in my arms, and you were trembling.” He had raised his voice. His dark eyes flashed.
And she found herself lying, instinctively. “You were frightening—at times you erupted in anger—I had never seen you in such a state!”
“And even now—” he pointed at her “—you are trembling, and we both know why.”
She cried out. But he was right—desire was coursing through her veins.
And he became dismissive. “You should stay away from this house. You should stay away from me. You should give up your goddamned faith. Because you are still an innocent, and I am not referring to your status as a woman. You are an innocent at heart, and do not deny it. You do not have a clue as to what transpires in the world, outside of your precious Cornwall! You do not have a clue that life is really only about death—that death is everywhere, and that nobility is for fools!” His eyes blazed.
She cringed. “What has happened to you?” She wanted to weep.
“You need to stay far away from me,” he continued furiously. “Either that, or come here and suffer the consequences.”
She gasped again. Did he mean that he would attempt a seduction, then and there?
“Do not look so surprised! I am a rogue, remember—a rake.”
She did not know how to reply. But she was about to defend him, and she closed her mouth to stop herself from doing so.
He laughed. “God, you would defend me even now!”
She backed up and hit the dining-room wall. Finally she found her voice. “I will defend you, Grenville, when you have been unjustly and erroneously accused of some misdeed. But right now, I will not even attempt to excuse your atrocious behavior!” Was she shouting?
His eyes widened.
“You are obviously in a state of grief—do not deny it! Whether you are grieving over your wife, your brother, or someone else, the anguish is obvious. But your grief does not give you a carte blanche to treat me with utter disrespect!”
His mouth pursed, as if he fought to prevent himself from speaking.
She realized she was shaking. “I am genuinely concerned for your children, and, yes, for you. If you choose to think I harbor some ancient flame, then so be it. I am not going to try to change your mind. However, I must say something, and you will not like it. Your selfish behavior must cease.”
Grenville was motionless. But he was listening to her, his gaze narrow.
“Go see your sons. Go see your newborn daughter! They need you, Grenville. And then do something to repair this household!” She was most definitely shouting at the Earl of St. Just, but she could not recall ever having been as angry.
He finally said, “Are you finished?”
“Yes, I have said what needed to be said.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “And I am going to check in on the children before I go—unless you object.” She dared to meet his gaze, wondering if he was about to forbid her from associating with his children. If he did, she would not blame him. She would not be surprised if he ordered her forthright from his house.
His face impossible to read, he said calmly, “I believe they will be pleased to see you.”
Relief almost swamped her. Amelia quickly turned and rushed down the length of the dining hall, beginning to realize what she had done. She had just scolded Grenville. She had just shouted at him. She had berated him at the top of her lungs.
She had, in fact, behaved exactly like the harridan he had accused her of being.
And in the hall, she glanced back at him.
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