Persuasion (5 page)

“What were you doing upstairs in my house?” he asked without emotion. But his gaze was unwavering upon her face.

She wanted him to remove his arm—for now, she was actually trapped. She stared into his dark eyes. “I put your daughter to sleep. She is very beautiful,” she said tersely, wishing she dared to look away.

His mouth finally seemed to soften. His gaze lowered. Thick, black lashes fanned against his high cheekbones. Amelia could feel him thinking, carefully, deliberately. But he did not move and he did not release the railing. He finally said, “You still babble when you are nervous.”

Her heart kept thundering. What kind of comment was that? She finally managed, “You are blocking my way.”

He looked up, still using his arm as a barrier to prevent her from going downstairs. “I beg your pardon.” Finally, almost reluctantly, he released the banister. But he did not move aside. His body took up most of the space of the stairwell.

Amelia didn’t move. She wanted to go, she truly did, but she felt so paralyzed. “I hope I am not intruding. Mrs. Murdock seemed to need my help.”

“I am making you nervous.”

She trembled. What could she say when he was right? “It has been a very trying day—for everyone!”

“Yes, it has been a very trying day for us all.” His regard flickered, but it still remained unwavering upon her. “I see that you remain as kind and compassionate as ever.”

That was another odd statement to make, she thought nervously. It was as if he remembered her very well. “Mrs. Murdock was so very attached to Lady Grenville. She is distraught. And the boys were distraught. They are playing in their rooms now.”

“Then I am grateful.” His gaze narrowed. “Mrs. Murdock?”

“The nurse,” she cried, realizing he hadn’t had a clue as to whom she was discussing.

“Ah, yes, Elizabeth’s hire...”

His tone seemed wry and she could not get a sense as to what he was thinking or feeling now. He had even looked away. His words seemed to hang upon the air. Did he want to talk about his wife? He probably needed to talk about her. She wanted to flee, but how could she? He had been so very upset in the church.

He suddenly said, “She is afraid of me.”

Amelia inhaled, realizing that he was referring to the nurse. “Yes, I think she is.”

He glanced directly at her and their gazes met.

“That will change,” Amelia managed, “I am sure of it.”

“Yes, you would be certain.”

Was he amused by her optimism? “Now that you will be in residence, she will become accustomed to you,” Amelia said quickly. When his eyes widened, she flushed. “I met Lady Grenville. And I meant it when I said I am so sorry. She was so gracious and so beautiful!”

His stare had sharpened. His mouth seemed hard. “Yes, I suppose she was very beautiful.”

And Amelia realized he had spoken reluctantly, as if he had no wish to praise or discuss his deceased wife. Had Mrs. Murdock been right? Surely he was grieving for Elizabeth! “She invited me for tea. It was a lovely afternoon.”

“I am sure it was.”

And Amelia realized that she knew him well enough to know that he did not mean his words. Feeling helpless and very confused, she stared back. They had had an unhappy marriage, she somehow thought.

“I am truly sorry,” she whispered, at a loss. “If there is anything I can do to help you now, in such a difficult time, you must ask.” She felt her heart lurch. His stare had become unnerving.

“You haven’t changed at all.”

She could not comprehend him. His wife was dead. It was Elizabeth they must discuss.

“You rescued the babe, and perhaps even the nurse. Now you wish to comfort me in my time of grief.” His eyes flickered oddly. “In spite of the past.”

Her heart slammed. They must never discuss the past! How could he even raise it? “We are neighbors,” she cried, flustered. And surely he had noticed that she was ten years older now. “I must go! Garrett, my driver, is surely waiting. I must prepare supper!” Knowing she sounded as frantic as she felt, she started forward but he grasped the banister and blocked her way again.

“I am not trying to frighten you, Amelia.”

The pressure of his arm against her ribs was unnerving. “What are you doing? You cannot call me Amelia!”

“I am curious.... It has been a long time, yet here you are. You could have decided not to attend my wife’s service.”

She did not know what to do—she wanted to flee! He was obviously determined to remind her of the past—and it was so dishonorable to do so. She was acutely aware of him. “Of course I would attend Lady Grenville’s service. I really must go, Grenville.”

He released the banister, watching her carefully.

Feeling almost like a mouse in a lion’s den, she hesitated. Then she blurted, “And you should visit the boys—they wish to see you—and your daughter.”

His closed expression never changed. “Will you meddle in my personal affairs?”

Had she been meddling? “Of course not.”

His stare was oddly watchful. “I do not think I mind very much if you do.”

His tone was wry, but was it also suggestive? She froze, debating telling him that she was merely being a good neighbor.

He added, so softly she had to strain to hear, “You aren’t wearing a ring.”

She had been right. He had looked at her hands earlier for a sign of whether she was married or not. But why would he do such a thing?

He made a harsh, mirthless sound. As he reached into the interior pocket of his brown-velvet jacket, removing a silver flask, his gaze moved slowly over her features, one by one. Amelia was rigid. His look was somehow suggestive. “You are being kind and I am being rude. Barring your way. Asking impertinent questions. Failing to offer you a proper drink.” He took a draught from the flask. “The lady and the beast.” He smiled slowly. “Would you care to have a drink, Amelia? Would you care to have a drink...with me?”

The panic returned, full-blown. What was he doing? She was certain he was not inebriated. “I cannot have a drink with you,” she gasped.

His mouth curled. He tipped the flask again, taking a longer draught this time. “Somehow, I did not think you would join me.”

She inhaled. “I do not imbibe in the afternoon.”

And suddenly he smiled with some humor. “So you do imbibe?”

Her heart slammed and raced. He had one dimple on his right cheek, and she had forgotten how devastatingly good-looking and seductive he was when he smiled. “I take a brandy before bed,” she said, sharply and defensively.

His smile vanished.

She was afraid of what he might be thinking. “It helps me to sleep,” she added quickly.

Those thick lashes had lowered again. He put the silver flask back into his pocket. “You remain sensible and direct. Intelligent and bold. You haven’t changed.” He spoke reflectively, staring down at the steps he stood upon. “I, on the other hand, have become an entirely different person.”

Couldn’t he see that ten years had changed her—making her a wiser, stronger and older woman?

He finally looked up, his gaze bland. “Thank you for coming today. I am sure Elizabeth appreciates it—God rest her blessed soul.” He nodded curtly. Then, before she could move, he brushed past her up the stairs and was gone.

Amelia collapsed against the wall. She began to shake. What had just happened?

She realized she was straining to hear his footsteps above her, fading away.

Amelia seized the banister for support and rushed downstairs, fleeing Simon Grenville.

CHAPTER THREE

A
MELIA
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.

* * *

T
HEY
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?