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Persuasion
Brenda Joyce
BETRAYAL TORE THEM APART Amelia Greystone was deeply in love when the earl of St. Just abruptly ended his courtship and left Cornwall, ten years earlier. So she is stunned when Simon returns, recently widowed. Now she must forget the past they shared and his betrayal and console him as any neighbor would. Simon has changed—he is dark and haunted now–but he can still make her reel with a single look. When he offers her the position of housekeeper, Amelia knows she must refuse. But for the sake of his children, she throws all caution to the wind….PASSION WILL REUNITE THEMA British spy, Simon Grenville is now playing both sides in a time of war, his goal to keep his sons safe. But when he is brought face to face with the woman he once loved, he realizes nothing about his feelings for Amelia has changed–if anything, they are even stronger. Still Simon knows he must stay away from Amelia; his life is too dangerous now. But sometimes, passion is too strong to be denied….


Betrayal Tore Them Apart
Amelia Greystone was deeply in love when the earl of St. Just abruptly ended his courtship and left Cornwall ten years earlier. So she is stunned when Simon returns, recently widowed. Now she must forget the past they shared and his betrayal and console him as any neighbor would. Simon has changed—he is dark and haunted now—but he can still make her reel with a single look. When he offers her the position of housekeeper, Amelia knows she must refuse. But for the sake of his children,she throws all caution to the wind....
Passion Will Reunite Them
A British spy, Simon Grenville is now playing both sidesin a time of war, his goal to keep his sons safe. Yet when heis brought face-to-face with the woman he once loved, he realizes nothing about his feelings for Amelia has changed—if anything, they are even stronger. Still, Simon knows he must stay away from Amelia; his life is too dangerous now. But sometimes passion is too strong to be denied....
Praise for the novels of
New York Times bestselling author
Brenda Joyce
“Merging depth of history with romance
is nothing new for the multitalented author,
but here she also brings in an intensity of political history
that is both fascinating and detailed.”
—RT Book Reviews on Seduction
“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns
in her characters’ personal lives.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Another first-rate Regency, featuring multidimensional protagonists and sweeping drama... Joyce’s tight plot and
vivid cast combine for a romance that’s just about perfect.”
—Publishers Weekly, starred review, on The Perfect Bride
“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters, Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”
—Booklist on The Perfect Bride
“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor
and storytelling prowess to bear on her witty,
fully formed characters.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last
“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight, which keeps this hefty entry absorbing,
and her fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”
—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride
Persuasion
Brenda Joyce




Contents
PROLOGUE (#ua13de9a9-d403-5c15-8997-4825014bb126)
CHAPTER ONE (#uf2f05012-422b-5eba-9534-7ecc8bd0642d)
CHAPTER TWO (#u658b6869-ed04-5f81-8570-768e6456f3b0)
CHAPTER THREE (#u5b26a399-4b90-5c0e-b1e4-0946fea6d369)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u50e2cf72-7817-5602-98b5-4743e56b4bd8)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINETEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
PROLOGUE
La Prison de la Luxembourg, Paris, France
March, 1794
THEY WERE FINALLY COMING for him.
His heart lurched with fear. He could not breathe. Slowly, filled with tension, he turned to stare into the dark corridor. He heard soft, steady footfalls approaching.
He knew he needed his wits. He walked over to the front of the cell and grasped the ice-cold iron bars there. The footfalls were louder now.
His insides shrank. The fear was cloying. Would he live to see another day?
The cell stank. Whoever had inhabited it before him, they had urinated, defecated and vomited within its confines. There was dried blood on the floors and the pallet, upon which he refused to lie. The cell’s previous inhabitants had been beaten, tortured. Of course they had—they had been enemies of la Patrie.
Even the air flowing into the cell from its single, barred window was fetid. La Place de la Révolution was just meters below the prison’s walls. Hundreds—no, thousands—had been sent to the guillotine there. The blood of the guilty—and the innocent—tainted the very air.
He could hear their voices now.
He inhaled, sick with fear.
Ninety-six days had passed since he had been ambushed outside the offices where he clerked at the Commune. Ambushed, shackled, a hood thrown over his head. “Traitor,” a familiar voice had spat as he was heaved onto the bed of a wagon. An hour later, the hood had been ripped from his head and he had found himself standing in the midst of this cell. He was being accused, the guard said, of crimes against the Republic. And everyone knew what that meant....
He had never seen the man who had spoken, yet he was fairly certain that he was Jean Lafleur, one of the most radical officials of the city’s government.
Images danced in his head. His two sons were small, handsome, innocent boys. He had been very careful, but not careful enough, when he had left France in order to visit his sons. They had been in London. It had been William’s birthday. He had missed him—and John—terribly. He hadn’t stayed in London very long; he hadn’t dared linger, for fear of discovery. No one, outside of the family, had known he was in town. But with his departure hanging over him, it had been a bittersweet reunion.
And from the moment he had returned to French shores, he had felt that he was being watched. He had never caught anyone following him, but he was certain he was being pursued. Like most Frenchmen and women, he had begun to live in constant fear. Every shadow made him jump. At night, he would awaken, thinking he had heard that dreaded knock upon his door. When they knocked at midnight, it meant they were coming for you....
As they were coming for him now. The footsteps had become louder.
He inhaled, fighting his panic. If they sensed his fear, it would be over. His fear would be the equivalent of a confession—for them. For that was how it was now in Paris, and even in the countryside.
He seized the cell bars. His time had just run out. Either he would be added to the Liste Générale des Condamnés, and he would await trial and then execution for his crimes, or he would walk out of the prison, a free man....
Finding courage was the hardest act of his life.
The light of a torch was ahead. It approached, illuminating the dank stone walls of the prison. And finally, he saw the outlines of the men. They were silent.
His heart thundered. Otherwise, he did not move.
The prison guard came into view, leering with anticipation, as if he knew his fate already. He recognized the Jacobin who was behind him. It was the rabidly radical, brutally violent Hébertiste Jean Lafleur as he had suspected.
Tall and thin, his visage pale, Lafleur came up to the bars of his cell. “Bonjour, Jourdan. Comment allez-vous, aujourd’hui?” He grinned, delighting in the moment.
“Il va bien,” he said smoothly—all is well. When he did not beg for mercy or declare his innocence, Lafleur’s smile vanished and his stare sharpened.
“Is that all you have to say? You are a traitor, Jourdan. Confess to your crimes and we will make certain your trial is swift. I will even make certain your head comes off first.” He grinned again.
If it ever came to that, he hoped he would be the first to the guillotine—no one wanted to stand there for hours and hours, in shackles, watching the ghastly executions while awaiting one’s own fate. “Then the loss would be yours.” He could barely believe how calm he sounded.
Lafleur stared. “Why aren’t you declaring your innocence?”
“Will it help my cause?”
“No.”
“I did not think so.”
“You are the Viscomte Jourdan’s third son, and your redemption has been a lie. You do not love la Patrie—you spy! Your family is dead, and you will soon join them at the gates of purgatory.”
“There is a new spymaster in London.”
Lafleur’s eyes widened in surprise. “What ploy is this?”
“You must know that my family has financed the merchants in Lyons for years, and that we have extensive relations with the British.”
The radical Jacobin studied him. “You vanished from Paris for a month. You went to London?”
“Yes, I did.”
“So you confess?”
“I confess to having business affairs in London that I had to attend, Lafleur. Look around you. Everyone in Paris is starving. The assignat is worthless. Yet I always have bread on my table.”
“Smuggling is a crime.” But Lafleur’s eyes glittered.
Finally, he let his mouth soften and he shrugged. The black market in Paris was vast and untouchable. It was not going to end, not now, not ever.
“What can you get me?” Lafleur demanded softly. His black gaze was unwavering now.
“Didn’t you hear me?”
“Are we speaking about bread and gold—or the new spymaster?”
Very softly, he said, “I have more than business relations in that country. The Earl of St. Just is my cousin, and if you have properly researched my family, you would have realized that.”
He felt Lafleur’s mind racing.
“St. Just is very well placed in London’s highest circles. I think that he would be thrilled to learn that one of his relations has survived the destruction of the city. I even think he would welcome me with open arms into his home.”
Lafleur still stared. “This is a trick,” he finally said. “You would never come back!”
He slowly smiled. “I suppose that is possible,” he said. “I suppose I might never come back. Or I could be the Enragé I claim to be, as loyal to la Liberté as you are, and I could return with the kind of information very few of Carnot’s spies could ever attain—priceless information to help us win the war.”
Lafleur’s gaze was unwavering.
He did not bother to point out that the gains to be made if he did as he said—move within the highest echelons of Tory London and return to la République with classified information—far outweighed the risk that he might vanish from France never to return.
“I cannot make this kind of decision by myself,” Lafleur finally said. “I will bring you before le Comité, Jourdan, and if you convince them of your worth, you will be spared.”
He did not move.
Lafleur left.
And Simon Grenville collapsed upon the pallet on the floor.
CHAPTER ONE
Greystone Manor, Cornwall
April 4, 1794
GRENVILLE’S WIFE WAS DEAD.
Amelia Greystone stared at her brother, not even seeing him, a stack of plates in her hands.
“Did you hear what I said?” Lucas asked, his gray eyes filled with concern. “Lady Grenville died last night giving birth to an infant daughter.”
His wife was dead.
Amelia was paralyzed. There was news every day about the war or the violence in France—all of it awful, all of it shocking. But she had not expected this.
How could Lady Grenville be dead? She was so elegant, so beautiful—and too young to die!
Amelia could barely think. Lady Grenville had never set foot in St. Just Hall since their marriage ten years ago, and neither had her husband. Then she had appeared in January at the earl’s ancestral home with her household and two sons—and a child obviously on the way. St. Just had not been with her.
Cornwall was a godforsaken place in general, but even worse in January. The region was frigidly cold and inhospitable in the midst of winter, when gale winds blew, and vicious storms swept the coast.
Who would come to the farthest end of the country in winter to give birth to a child? Her appearance had been so terribly strange.
Amelia had been as surprised as everyone else in the parish to hear that the countess was in residence, and when she had received an invitation to tea, she hadn’t even considered refusing. She had been very curious to meet Elizabeth Grenville, and not just because they were neighbors. She had wondered what the Countess of St. Just was like.
And she had been exactly what Amelia was expecting—blonde and beautiful, gracious, elegant and so very genteel. She had been perfect for the dark, brooding earl. Elizabeth Grenville was everything that Amelia Greystone was not.
And because Amelia had buried the past so long ago—a decade ago, in fact—she hadn’t once made the comparison. But now, as she stood there reeling in shock, she wondered suddenly if she had wished to inspect and interview the woman Grenville had decided to marry—the woman he had chosen instead of her.
Amelia trembled, holding the plates tightly to her chest. If she wasn’t careful, she would remember the past! She refused to believe that she had really wished to meet Lady Grenville in order to decide what she was like. She was horrified by the comprehension.
She had liked Elizabeth Grenville. And her own affair with Grenville had ended a decade ago.
She had dismissed it from her mind then. She did not want to go back in time now.
But suddenly she felt as if she were sixteen years old, young and beautiful, naive and trusting, and oh so vulnerable. It was as if she were in Simon Grenville’s powerful arms, awaiting his declaration of love and his marriage proposal.
She was stricken, but it was too late. A floodgate in her mind had opened. The heady images flashed—they were on the ground on a picnic blanket, they were in the maze behind the hall, they were in his carriage. He was kissing her wildly and she was kissing him back, and they were both in the throes of a very dangerous, mindless passion...
She inhaled, shaken by the sudden, jarring memory of that long-ago summer. He hadn’t ever been sincere. He hadn’t ever been courting her. She was sensible enough to know that now. Yet she had expected an offer of marriage from him and the betrayal had been devastating.
Why would Lady Grenville’s terrible death cause her to remember a time in her life when she had been so young and so foolish? She hadn’t given that summer a single thought in years, not even when she had been in Lady Grenville’s salon, sipping tea and discussing the war.
But Grenville was a widower now....
Lucas seized the pile of plates she was holding, jerking her back to reality. She simply stared at him, horrified by her last thought and afraid of what it might mean.
“Amelia?” he asked with concern.
She mustn’t think about the past. She did not know why those foolish memories had arisen, but she was a woman of twenty-six years now. That flirtation had to be forgotten. She hadn’t wanted to ever recall that encounter—or any other like it—again. That was why she had dismissed the affair from her mind all those years ago, when he had left Cornwall without a word, upon the heels of the tragic accident that had killed his brother.
It all had to be forgotten.
And it was forgotten! There had been heartache, of course, and grief, but she had moved on with her life. She had turned all of her attention to Momma, who was addled, her brothers and sister and the estate. She had genuinely managed to forget about him and their affair for an entire decade. She was a busy woman, with strained circumstances and onerous responsibilities. He had moved on, as well. He had married and had children.
And there were no regrets. Her family had needed her. It had been her duty to take care of them all, ever since she was a child, when Papa had abandoned them. But then the revolution had come, the war had begun, and everything had changed.
“You were about to drop the plates!” Lucas exclaimed. “Are you ill? You have turned as white as a sheet!”
She shivered. She certainly felt ill. But she was not going to allow the past, which was dead and buried, to affect her now. “This is terrible, a tragedy.”
His golden hair pulled casually back in a queue, Lucas studied her. He had only just walked in the door, having come from London—or so he claimed. He was tall and dashing in his emerald-velvet coat, his fawn breeches and stockings, as he spoke, “Come now, Amelia, why are you upset?”
She managed a tight smile. Why was she upset? This wasn’t about Grenville. A young, beautiful mother had died, leaving behind three small children. “She died giving birth to a third child, Lucas. And there are two small boys. I met her in February. She was as beautiful, as gracious, as elegant as everyone claimed.” It had been obvious from the moment she had walked into the salon why Grenville had chosen her. He was dark and powerful, she was fair and lighthearted. They had made the perfect aristocratic couple. “I was very impressed with her kindness and her hospitality. She was clever, too. We had an amusing conversation. This is a shame.”
“It is a shame. I am very sorry for those children and for St. Just.”
Amelia felt some of her composure returning. And while Grenville’s dark image seemed to haunt her now, her common sense returned. Lady Grenville was dead, leaving behind three small children. Her neighbors needed her condolences now, and possibly her help.
“Those poor boys—that poor infant! I feel so terribly for them!”
“It will be a rough patch,” Lucas agreed. He gave her an odd look. “One never gets accustomed to the young dying.”
She knew he was thinking about the war; she knew all about his wartime activities. But she kept thinking about those poor children now—which felt better, safer, than thinking about Grenville. She took the plates from Lucas and began setting the table grimly. She was so saddened for the children. Grenville was probably grieving, as well, but she did not want to consider him or his feelings, even if he was her neighbor.
She put the last plate down on the rather ancient dining-room table and stared at the highly polished, scarred wood. So much time had gone by. Once, she had been in love, but she certainly didn’t love Grenville now. Surely she could do what was right.
In fact, she hadn’t seen Simon Grenville in ten years. She probably wouldn’t even recognize him now. He was probably overweight. His hair might be graying. He would not be a dashing young rake, capable of making her heart race with a single, heavy look.
And he would hardly recognize her. She was still slender—too slender, in fact—and petite, but her looks had faded as all looks were prone to do. Although older gentlemen still glanced at her occasionally, she was hardly as pretty as she had once been.
She felt some small relief. That terrible attraction which had once raged would not burn now. And she would not be intimidated by him, as she had once been. After all, she was older and wiser now, too. She might be an impoverished gentlewoman, but what she lacked in means she made up for in character. Life had made her a strong and resolute woman.
So when she did see Grenville, she must offer her condolences, just as she would to any neighbor suffering from such a tragedy.
Amelia felt slightly better. There was some small relief. That silly memory had been just that—silly.
“I am sure the family is reeling,” Lucas was saying quietly. “She was certainly too young to die. St. Just must be in shock.”
Amelia looked up carefully. Lucas was right. Grenville had to have loved his beautiful wife very much. She cleared her throat. “You have taken me by surprise, Lucas, as you always do! I was hardly expecting you, and you step in the door, with such stunning news.”
He put his arm around her. “I am sorry. I heard about Lady Grenville when I stopped in Penzance to change carriages.”
“I am very concerned about the children. We must help the family in every way that we can.” She meant her every word. She never turned her back on anyone in need.
He smiled slightly. “Now that is the sister I know and love. Of course you are concerned. I am sure Grenville will make the appropriate arrangements for everyone, once he can think clearly.”
She stared thoughtfully. Grenville was undoubtedly in shock. Now, deliberately, she kept his dark, handsome image at bay—remembering that he was likely fat and gray. “Yes, of course he will.” She surveyed the cheerfully set table. It wasn’t easy making up a table, not when their circumstances were so pinched. The gardens were not yet in bloom, so the centerpiece was a tall silver candelabra, left over from better times. An ancient sideboard was the only piece of furniture in the room, and their best china was displayed there. Their hall was as sparsely furnished. “Luncheon will be ready in a few more minutes. Will you go upstairs and get Momma?”
“Of course. And you did not have to go to this trouble.”
“I am thrilled when you are home. Of course we will dine as if we are an ordinary family.”
His smile was wry. “There are few ordinary families left, Amelia, not in these times.”
Her small smile faded. Lucas had just walked in the door moments ago, and she hadn’t seen him in a month or more. There were shadows under his eyes and a small scar on his cheekbone, which hadn’t been there before. She was afraid to ask how he’d gotten it, and even more afraid to ask where. He was still a dangerously handsome man, but the revolution in France and the war had entirely changed their lives.
Before the French monarchy had fallen, they had all lived simple lives. Lucas had spent his time managing the estate, his biggest concern increasing the productivity of their mine and quarry. Jack, who was a year her junior, had been just another Cornish smuggler, laughing about outracing the Revenue Men. And her younger sister, Julianne, had spent her every spare moment innocently in the library, reading everything she could and honing her Jacobin sympathies. Greystone Manor had been a busy, happy home. Although the small estate depended almost entirely upon an iron quarry and tin mine for its income, they managed well enough. Amelia had an entire family to take care of—including her mother. The only thing that the war hadn’t changed was that Momma remained entirely senile.
John Greystone, her father, had left the family when Amelia was only seven years old, and Momma had begun losing her grip on reality shortly thereafter. Amelia had instinctively stepped into the breach, helping with the household, making shopping lists and planning menus, and even ordering their few servants about. And mostly she had cared for Julianne, then a toddler. Their uncle, Sebastian Warlock, had sent a foreman to manage the estate, but Lucas had taken over those duties before he was even fifteen. Theirs had been an unusual household, but it had been a busy and familial one, filled with love and laughter, no matter the financial strain.
The house was nearly empty now. Julianne had fallen in love with the Earl of Bedford when he had been deposited at the manor by their brothers, while at death’s door. Of course, she hadn’t known who he was—he had seemed to be a French army officer at the time. It had been a very rocky road—he had been a spy for Pitt and she had been a Jacobin sympathizer. It was still rather amazing, but she had recently eloped with Bedford, and she had just given birth to their daughter in London, where they lived. Amelia shook her head, bemused. Her radical sister was now the Countess of Bedford—and madly in love with her Tory husband.
Her brothers’ lives had changed because of the war, as well. Lucas was rarely at Greystone Manor now. Because they were but two years apart in age, and because they had taken over the roles of their parents, they were close. Amelia was his confidante, although he did not tell her every detail of his affairs. Lucas had not been able to sit idly by while the revolution swept over France. Some time ago, Lucas had secretly offered his services up to the War Office. Even before the Terror began sweeping France, there had been a flood of émigrés fleeing the revolutionaries—fleeing for their lives. Lucas had spent the past two years “extracting” émigrés from the shores of France.
It was a dangerous activity. If Lucas were ever caught by the French authorities, he would be instantly arrested and sent to the guillotine. Amelia was proud of him, but she was also so afraid for him.
She worried about Lucas all of the time, of course. He was the anchor of the family—its patriarch. But she worried about Jack even more. Jack was fearless. He was reckless. He acted as if he thought himself to be immortal. Before the war, he had been a simple Cornish smuggler—one of the dozens making such a living, and following in the footsteps of too many of his ancestors to count. Now Jack was making a fortune from the smuggling of various goods between the countries at war. No game could be more dangerous. Jack had been outwitting and outrunning the Royal Navy for years. Before the war, a prison sentence had awaited him if he were ever captured. Now, however, he would be accused of treason if the British authorities caught him defying the blockade of France. Treason was a hanging offense.
And from time to time, Jack aided Lucas in smuggling people across the channel.
Amelia was grateful that, at least, Julianne was comfortably settled and preoccupied with her husband and daughter. She met Lucas’s probing regard. “I worry about you and I worry about Jack. At least I don’t have to worry about Julianne now.”
He smiled. “On that point I agree. She is well cared for and out of all danger.”
“If only the war would end! If only there was good news!” Amelia shook her head, thinking how Lady Grenville had died, leaving behind an innocent newborn daughter and two small boys. “I can’t imagine what it would be like, to live without war.”
“We are fortunate we do not live in France.” He wasn’t smiling now.
“Please, I cannot listen to another horrible story. The rumors are bad enough.”
“I was not going to burden you with one. You do not need to know the details of how the innocent in France suffer. If we are fortunate, our armies will defeat the French this spring. We are poised to invade Flanders, Amelia. We have strong positions from Ypres to the Meuse River, and I think Coburg, the Austrian, is a good general.” He was quiet for a moment. “If we win the war, the Republic will fall. And that will be liberation for us all.”
“I am praying we will win,” she said, but she was still thinking about the Countess of St. Just and the children she had left behind.
Lucas took her elbow. When he spoke, his tone was low, as if he did not want to be overheard, although there was no one except Garrett, the servant, to really overhear them. “I came home because I am worried. Did you hear what happened at Squire Penwaithe’s?”
She met his gaze, tensing. “Of course I did. Everyone heard. Three French sailors—deserters—appeared at his front door, asking for food. The squire gave them a meal. Afterward, they held the family at gunpoint and looted the house.”
“Fortunately they were apprehended the next day and no one was hurt.” Lucas was grim.
Amelia was well aware of what he was thinking. She was living in such isolation with their mother and their one servant. Garrett happened to have been a sergeant in the British infantry, and was adept with weapons. Still, Greystone Manor was at one of the farthest southwestern points of Cornwall. Its isolation was one reason the parish had been such a haven for smugglers over the centuries. It was a very short run from Sennen Cove, which was just below the house, to Brest, in France.
Those deserters could have shown up at her door, Amelia thought.
A headache had begun. Suddenly tired of worrying, Amelia rubbed her temples. At least the gun closet was full—and being a Cornish woman, she knew very well how to load and fire a musket, a carbine and a pistol.
“I think you and Momma should spend the spring in London,” Lucas said flatly. “There is plenty of room at Warlock’s Cavendish Square flat, and you will be able to visit with Julianne frequently.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.
She had just spent a month in London with her sister, after her niece’s birth. They were close, and it had been a wonderful, almost peaceful, interlude. Amelia began to consider leaving her home temporarily. Maybe Lucas was right. “It is not a bad idea, but what about the manor? Will we simply close it up? And what about Farmer Richards? You know he pays me the rents, now that you are always gone.”
“I can make arrangements to have the rents collected. I feel I would be negligent in my familial duty, Amelia, if I did not remove you and Momma to safer ground.”
He was right, Amelia realized. “It will take some time to make the proper arrangements,” she said.
“Try to close up this house as swiftly as possible,” he returned. “I have to go back to London, and I will do so after the funeral. When you are ready to join me, I will either come for you myself, or send Jack or a driver.”
Amelia nodded, but now, all she could think about was the impending funeral. “Lucas, do you know when they will hold the funeral?”
“I heard that they will have a service at the St. Just chapel on Sunday, but she will be buried in the family mausoleum in London.”
She tensed. It was already Friday! And there was Grenville, with his dark eyes and dark hair, assailing her in her mind’s eye another time. She wet her lips. “I have to attend. So do you.”
“Yes. We can go together.”
She looked at him, her heart lurching. She could not stop her thoughts. On Sunday she would see Simon for the first time in ten years.
* * *
AMELIA SAT WITH LUCAS and Momma in their carriage, clutching her gloved hands tightly together. She could not believe the amount of tension within her. She could barely breathe.
It was noon on Sunday. In another half an hour, the service for Elizabeth Grenville would begin.
St. Just Hall was in sight.
It was a huge manor that was entirely out of place in Cornwall. Built of pale stone, the central part of the house was three stories high, with four huge alabaster columns gracing the entrance. A lower, two-story wing was on the landward side, with sloping slate roofs. At the farthest end was the chapel, replete with its own courtyard, columns gracing the facade and corner towers abutting the adjacent entry.
Tall, black leafless trees surrounded the house. The grounds were equally barren from the long winter, but in May, the gardens would start to bloom. By the summer, the grounds would be a canvas of rioting color, the trees lush and green, the maze of hedges behind the house almost impossible to escape.
Amelia knew all of that firsthand.
She must not remember being lost in that maze now. She must not remember being breathless and giddy, and then Simon had turned the corner, sweeping her into his arms...
She shut off her thoughts, shaken, as their carriage moved up the graveled drive, following two dozen other vehicles. The entire parish would turn out for Lady Grenville’s funeral. Farmers would stand side by side with squires.
And in a few more minutes, she would see Grenville again.
“Is it a ball?” Momma asked excitedly. “Oh, darling, are we going to a ball?”
Lucas patted her hand. “Momma, it is I, Lucas, and, no, we are attending the funeral for Lady Grenville.”
Momma was a tiny, gray-haired woman, even smaller than Amelia. She stared blankly at Lucas. Amelia was no longer saddened by her condition. She was so rarely coherent these days. As she often did, Momma thought herself a young debutante again, and that Lucas was either their father or one of her previous beaux.
Amelia stared out of her carriage window as Momma sat between her and Lucas. She had done her best, these past two days, to focus on the tasks at hand. She had a huge list to get through if she were to close up the manor and remove herself and Momma to town. She had already written Julianne, apprising her of the current events. She had begun to pack up linens, store preserves and put away their winter clothing, and organize what they would need for a season in town. Keeping busy had been a relief. From time to time she had worried about Lady Grenville’s children, but she had managed not to think about St. Just, not even once—but his dark, handsome face continually lurked in the back of her mind.
There was no denying her anxiety now. She was riddled with tension and she could barely breathe. Yet it was absurd. So what if they came face-to-face again after all these years? He was not going to recognize her, and if he did, he would not even recall their foolish flirtation—she was certain.
But images from that long-ago affair kept trying to creep into her whirling thoughts as her carriage moved forward. The urge to indulge in those memories had begun the moment she had arisen at dawn.
Amelia knew that she must keep her wits about her. But she had begun to remember how crushed she had truly been when she had learned that he had left Cornwall. Not only hadn’t he said goodbye, he hadn’t even left a note.
She was beginning to remember the weeks of heartache and grief; the nights she had cried herself to sleep.
She had to behave with pride and dignity now. She had to remember that they were neighbors, and nothing more. She hugged herself.
“Are you all right?” Lucas’s grim voice cut into her thoughts.
She didn’t try to force a smile. “I am glad we are here. I hope I have a moment to meet the children before the service begins. They are my most pressing concern.”
“Children do not attend balls,” Momma said firmly.
Amelia smiled at her. “Of course they don’t.” She turned back to Lucas.
He said, “You seem very tense.”
“I have been so preoccupied with getting everything done before we leave for town,” she lied. “I feel as if I am on pins and needles.” She smiled at Momma. “Won’t it be wonderful, to go back to town?”
Momma’s eyes widened. “Are we going to town?” She was delighted.
Amelia took her hand and squeezed it. “Yes, we are, as soon as we can be ready.”
Lucas’s stare seemed skeptical. “You know, if you are thinking about the past, no one would blame you.”
She choked as she released her mother’s hand. “I beg your pardon?”
“It was long ago, but I haven’t forgotten how he played you.” His gaze narrowed. “He broke your heart, Amelia.”
“I was sixteen!” she gasped. Lucas clearly hadn’t forgotten a thing. “That was ten years ago!”
“Yes, it was. And he hasn’t been back in all that time, not even once, so I imagine you might be somewhat nervous. Are you?”
She flushed. Lucas knew her so well, and while she did not keep secrets from him, he hardly had to know that she was foolishly anxious now. “Lucas, I forgot the past a long time ago.”
“Good.” He was firm. “I am glad to hear that!” He added, “I’ve never said anything, but I’ve seen him now and then, in town. It has been cordial. There did not seem a point in holding a grudge, not after so many years.”
She whispered, “You are right—there is no point in holding any kind of grudge. Our lives took different paths.” She hadn’t realized that Lucas had socialized with Grenville, but he was in London often now, so of course their paths would eventually cross. She almost wanted to ask him how Simon was, and how he had changed. But she knew better. She smiled a bit, instead.
He stared for another moment, searching her gaze with his own. “Well, something is keeping him. My understanding is that he has yet to arrive at St. Just Hall.”
Amelia was disbelieving. “That is impossible. Wherever he was when Lady Grenville passed, it has been three days. He would certainly be here by now!”
Lucas looked away as their carriage finally halted, not far from the chapel’s courtyard. “The roads are bad at this time of year, but I would agree, he should be here by now.”
She stared blankly. “Surely they will not hold the funeral without St. Just?”
“Everyone in the parish has turned out.”
Amelia looked out of her window. The grounds were cluttered with coaches and carriages of all descriptions. Grenville had to have arranged for the funeral. Only he could postpone it. But if he were not present, how could he do that?
“My God,” she whispered, distraught, “he might miss his own wife’s funeral!”
“Let us hope he arrives at any moment.” Lucas alighted, then turned to help Momma down. He held out his hand for Amelia. Still shocked, Amelia stepped down carefully. Maybe they would not meet that day after all. Was she relieved? If she did not know better, she would almost think that she almost felt disappointed.
A somberly dressed crowd was streaming into the chapel’s courtyard, on foot. Amelia paused and glanced sharply around. It was a gray, bleak, blustery day and she shivered, in spite of the wool coat she wore. It had been ten years since she had been at the hall, but nothing had changed. The house remained as imposing and stately as ever.
As they left the drive, intending to follow everyone else inside, her low heels sank into the ground. The lawns were thawing and somewhat muddy. Lucas steered her to the stone path leading toward the chapel’s courtyard.
Was the rest of the family already inside? Amelia wondered.
She glanced back toward the palatial front entrance of the house and faltered. A slender man and a plump, gray-haired woman were just coming down the front steps with two small boys.
Those were Grenville’s sons, she thought instantly, oddly shaken.
She did not move. They were both dark-haired, and dressed in dark, somber little jackets, breeches and pale stockings. One boy was about eight, the other perhaps four or five. The smaller boy held his older brother’s hand tightly. Now she realized that the governess carried the infant, bundled in a heavy white blanket.
She hadn’t met the boys the day that she had had tea with their mother. As they came closer, she realized that both boys so resembled their father—they would grow up to be handsome men. Her heart lurched. The younger boy was crying, while his older brother was trying so hard to be stoic. Both children were clearly grief-stricken.
Amelia’s heart broke. “Take Momma inside. I will be right back,” she said, and not waiting for Lucas to answer, she started determinedly toward them.
She hurried toward the two adults and the children, giving the gentleman a firm smile. “I am Miss Amelia Greystone, Lady Grenville’s neighbor. What a tragic day.”
The gentleman had tears in his eyes. Although well dressed, it was obvious he was a servant of some sort and a foreigner. “I am Signor Antonio Barelli, Miss Greystone, the boys’ tutor. And this is Mrs. Murdock, the governess. This is Lord William and Master John.”
Amelia quickly shook hands with the tutor and Mrs. Murdock, who was also near tears. But she did not blame them; she imagined that Lady Grenville had been well loved. And then she smiled at William, the older boy, realizing that Grenville had named his heir after his deceased older brother. “I am very sorry for your loss, William. I met your mother recently and I liked her very much. She was a great lady.”
William nodded solemnly, his mouth downturned. “We saw you when you called, Miss Greystone. Sometimes we watch callers arrive from an upstairs window.”
“That must be amusing,” Amelia said, smiling.
“Yes, it can be. This is my little brother, John.” But William did not smile in return.
She smiled at John and squatted. “And how old are you, John?”
John looked at her, his face wet with tears, but his eyes were wide with curiosity. “Four,” he finally said.
“Four!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were eight, at least!”
“I am eight,” William said seriously. Then his gaze narrowed skeptically. “How old did you think I was?”
“Ten or eleven.” Amelia smiled. “I see you are taking good care of your brother, as you should do. Your mother would be so proud of you.”
He nodded solemnly, and glanced at Mrs. Murdock. “We have a sister now. She doesn’t have a name yet.”
Amelia smiled at him. “That is not unusual.” She laid her hand on his head; his hair was silky soft, like his father’s. She started, removing her hand. “I am here to help, in any way that I can. I am less than an hour away by coach.”
“That is kind of you,” William said, sounding very much like a grown-up.
Amelia smiled at him again, patted John on the shoulder and turned to the governess. The older woman, who was heavyset and gray-haired, was beginning to cry, tears slipping down her ruddy cheeks. Amelia dearly hoped she would discipline herself—the children needed her now. “And how is the baby faring?”
Mrs. Murdock inhaled. “She has been fussing ever since...ever since... I cannot get her to nurse properly, Miss Greystone. I am at a loss!” she cried, clearly panicked.
Amelia stepped closer to look at the sleeping infant. Mrs. Murdock moved an edge of the blanket away, and Amelia saw a fair-haired child, who was clearly the image of her blonde mother. “She is beautiful.”
“Isn’t she the exact image of Lady Grenville? God rest her soul. Oh, dear! I was only recently employed, Miss Greystone. I am entirely new here! We are all at a loss—and we have no housekeeper.”
Amelia started. “What?”
“Mrs. Delaney was with Lady Grenville for many years, but she fell ill and died just after I was hired around Christmastime. Lady Grenville has been managing this household ever since, Miss Greystone. She meant to hire a new housekeeper, but no one met with her approval. Now no one is running this home!”
Amelia realized that the house must be in chaos, indeed. “I am sure his lordship will hire a new housekeeper immediately,” she said.
“But he isn’t even here!” Mrs. Murdock cried, and more tears fell.
“He is never in residence,” Signor Barelli said with some disapproval, a tremor in his tone. “We last saw him in November—briefly. Is he going to come? Why isn’t he here now? Where could he possibly be?”
Amelia was dismayed. She repeated what Lucas had said earlier. “He will be here at any moment. The roads are terrible at this time of year. Is he coming from London?”
“We don’t know where he is. He usually claims he is in the north, at one of his great estates there.”
Amelia wondered at the use of the word claim. What did the tutor mean?
“Father came home for my birthday,” William said gravely, but with some pride. “Even though he is preoccupied with the estate.”
Amelia was certain the boy was parroting his father. She could not absorb such a surprising state of affairs. There was no housekeeper; St. Just was never in residence; no one knew, precisely, where he was now. What did this mean?
John began to cry again. William took his hand. “He is coming home,” William said fiercely and insistently. But he batted back tears with his lashes furiously.
Amelia looked at him and realized he would be exactly like his father—he certainly was in charge now. Before she could reassure him and tell him that St. Just would arrive at any moment and repair the household immediately, she heard the sound of an approaching carriage.
And she had not a doubt as to who it was before William even cried out. Slowly, she turned.
The huge black coach was thundering up the drive. Six magnificent black carriage horses were in the traces. The driver was in St. Just’s royal-blue-and-gold livery, as were the two footmen standing on the rear fender. She realized she was holding her breath. St. Just had returned, after all.
The six-in-hand came around the circular drive at a near gallop. Passing the chapel, the coachman braked, shouting, “Whoa!” As the team came to a halt, not far from where they stood, gravel sprayed.
Amelia’s heart was thundering. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Simon Grenville was home.
Both footmen leaped to the ground and rushed to open Grenville’s door for him. The Earl of St. Just stepped out.
Her mind went blank.
Clad impeccably in a dark brown velvet jacket with some embroidery, black breeches, white stockings and black shoes, he started toward their group. He was tall—perhaps an inch or two over six feet—and broad-shouldered, and he remained small of hip. Amelia glimpsed his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and that chiseled mouth. Her heart slammed.
He hadn’t changed at all.
He was as handsome as she remembered. If he was gray, she wouldn’t know—he wore a dark wig, in a somewhat redder shade than his natural hair, beneath a bicorne hat.
Amelia felt paralyzed. She stared, incapable of looking at anyone other than Grenville, who had eyes only for his sons.
In fact, it was as if he hadn’t seen her. But she had known he wouldn’t remember her. So she could look openly at him. He was even more devastatingly handsome now that he was thirty, she somehow thought, in despair. He was even more commanding in appearance.
And the memories begged to be let loose. She fought them.
Grenville’s strides were long and hard. His gaze unwavering, he reached the boys and pulled them both into his arms. John wept. William clung.
Amelia trembled, aware that she was an intruder. He hadn’t looked at her—acknowledged her—recognized her. She should be relieved—this was the scenario she had envisioned—but she felt dismayed.
Grenville did not move, not for a long moment, as he embraced both of his sons. He kept his head bowed over them so she could not see his face. She wanted to leave, because this was such an intense familial reunion, but she was afraid to attract his attention.
And she heard him inhale, raggedly. Grenville straightened and released the boys, taking both of their hands. She had the oddest sense that he was afraid to let them go.
Finally, the earl nodded at the nurse and tutor. Both murmured, “My lord,” their heads bowed.
Amelia wanted to disappear. He would glance at her at any moment—unless he meant to ignore her. Her heart kept thundering. She hoped he wouldn’t hear it. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice her, either.
But Grenville turned and looked directly at her.
She froze as their gazes met.
His dark gaze seemed to widen and then it locked with hers. Time seemed to stop. All noise seemed to vanish. There was only her deafening heartbeat, his surprise and the intense look they shared.
In that moment, Amelia realized that he had recognized her after all.
He didn’t speak. Yet he didn’t have to. Somehow, she felt the pain and anguish coursing through him. It was immense. In that moment, she knew he needed her as never before.
She lifted her hand toward him.
Grenville abruptly glanced at his sons. “It’s too cold to linger outside.” He put an arm around each boy and started forward. They entered the courtyard and vanished.
She inhaled, reeling.
He had recognized her.
And then she realized that he hadn’t looked at his infant daughter a single time.
CHAPTER TWO
SIMON STARED BLINDLY AHEAD. He was seated in the first row of the chapel with his sons, but he was in a state of disbelief. Was he really back in Cornwall? Was he actually attending his wife’s funeral?
Simon realized that his fists were clenched. He was staring at the reverend, who droned on and on about Elizabeth, but he hardly saw him and he did not hear him. Three days ago he had been in Paris, posing as Henri Jourdan, a Jacobin; three days ago he had been standing amongst the bloodthirsty crowd at La Place de la Révolution, witnessing dozens of executions. The very last one had been his friend, Danton, who had become a voice of moderation amongst the insane. Watching him lose his head had been a test of his loyalty. Lafleur had been with him. So he had applauded each beheading, and somehow, he hadn’t become physically sick.
He wasn’t in Paris now. He wasn’t in France. He was in Cornwall, a place he hadn’t meant to ever return to, and he felt dazed and disoriented. The last time he had been in Cornwall, his brother had died. The last time he had been in that chapel, he had been attending Will’s funeral!
And maybe that was a part of the reason why he felt so ill. Still, the stench of blood was everywhere, as if it had followed him from Paris. It was even inside the chapel. But he smelled blood everywhere, all of the time—in his rooms, on his clothes, on his servants—he smelled blood even when he slept.
But then, death was everywhere. After all, he was attending his wife’s funeral!
And he almost laughed, bitterly. Death had been following him for a very long time, so he should not be dazed, confused or surprised. His brother had died on these moors. Elizabeth had died in that house. He had spent the past year in Paris, where the Terror reigned. How ironic it all was. How fitting.
Simon turned and looked at the rapt crowd, who was devouring the reverend’s every word—as if Elizabeth’s death genuinely mattered, as if she were not one more innocent, lost amongst thousands. They were all strangers, he realized grimly, not friends and neighbors. He had nothing in common with any one of them, except for his nationality. He was an outsider now, the stranger in their midst....
He faced the pulpit again. He should try to listen, he should attempt to focus. Elizabeth was dead, and she had been his wife. The disbelief was almost stronger now. In his mind’s eye, he could see inside that coffin. But Elizabeth did not lie inside; his brother did.
His tension escalated. He had left the parish within days of Will’s tragic death. And if Elizabeth hadn’t died at St. Just Hall, he wouldn’t have returned.
God, he hated Cornwall!
Not for the first time, he wished that Will hadn’t died. But he no longer railed against fate. He knew better. He had learned firsthand that the good and the innocent were always the first to die, which was why fate had just claimed his wife.
He closed his eyes and gave up. His mind ran free. Tears briefly burned his closed lids.
Why hadn’t he been the one to die?
Will should have been the earl; Elizabeth should have been his wife!
Simon opened his eyes carefully, shaken by such thoughts. He did not know if he was still grieving for his older brother, who had died tragically in a riding accident so many years ago, or if he were grieving for those executed by the Terror, or even if he grieved for his wife, whom he hadn’t really known. But he knew he must control his mind. It was Elizabeth, his wife, who was in that coffin. It was Elizabeth who was being eulogized. It was Elizabeth he should be thinking of—for the sake of his sons—until he went back to London to begin the dirty work of playing war games.
But he just couldn’t do it. He could not concentrate on his dead wife. The ghosts that had been haunting him for weeks, months and years began to form before him, becoming the faces of his friends and neighbors in the crowd, and they were the faces of every man, woman and child he had seen in chains or guillotined. Those faces accused him of hypocrisy and cowardice, of ruthless self-survival, of his failure as a man, a husband, a brother.
He closed his eyes, as if that action might send those ghosts away, but it did not.
Simon wondered if he was finally losing his mind. He looked across the chapel and out the light stained-glass windows. The moors stretched endlessly away. No sight had ever been as ugly. He knew he must stop his thoughts. He had his sons to think of now, to care for.
And the minister was still speaking but Simon didn’t hear a word he was saying. The image slammed over him and he could not move. He had been with the two grooms when they had found his brother lying on the hard rocky ground. He had been on his back, faceup, eyes open, the moonlight spilling over his handsome features.
All he could see was his dead brother now.
It was as if he had just found Will on the moors; it was as if the past had become the present.
Simon realized a tear was sliding down his face. There was so much heartache, so much pain. Would he mourn his brother all over again? He hadn’t ever wanted to go back to the place in time!
Or was he finally mourning Elizabeth? Or even Danton? He hadn’t allowed himself to grieve for anyone, ever. He didn’t know, and he didn’t care, but he was crying now. He felt the tears streaming helplessly down his face.
He realized he was staring through tears at the open coffin. He saw Elizabeth, so perfectly beautiful, even in death, but he also saw Will. His brother had been as golden, as perfect, as beautiful, in death. Elizabeth had been an angel, Will had been a hero.
There were so many memories rushing at him now, all vivid and painful. In some, he was with his brother, whom he had respected, admired and loved. In others, he was with his wife, whom he had tolerated but hadn’t loved.
This was the reason he had not come back to this goddamned place, he thought, in sudden anguish. Will should be alive today. He had been gallant, charming and honorable. He would have been a great earl; he would have admired and loved Elizabeth. Will would not have sold out to the radicals.
Simon suddenly thought how prophetic his father had been. On numerous occasions, the earl had faulted him for his utter lack of character. Will was the perfect son, but Simon was not. Simon was the shameless one. He was reckless, inept and irresponsible, with no sense of honor or duty.
And he was the dishonorable one. For even now, he had two letters in his pocket, proving his absolute disloyalty. One was from Pitt’s secret spymaster, Warlock, the other from his French master, Lafleur. Even Will would be ashamed of him now.
“Papa?”
It took Simon a moment to realize that his son had spoken to him. He managed to smile grimly at him. His cheeks felt wet. He did not want the boys to see. He knew John and William needed reassurance. “It will be all right.”
“You’re hurting me,” John whispered.
Simon realized he was holding his hand, far too tightly. He loosened his death grip.
He heard Reverend Collins saying, “One of the kindest, most compassionate of ladies, forever giving to others, never taking for herself.”
He wondered if it were true, he wondered if his wife had been a generous and kind woman. If she had had those qualities, he hadn’t ever noticed. And now, it was too late.
He felt so sick now, perhaps from the addition of guilt to the rest of his roiling feelings.
Thump.
Someone had dropped his Bible.
Simon froze.
He did not see the reverend now. Instead, Danton stood on the red-stained steps of the guillotine, shouting his last words defiantly to the crowd, which chanted in return, “À la guillotine! À la guillotine!”
Simon saw the huge blade come down. Yet he knew it was impossible, that no blade was in the chapel. He laughed loudly. There was no mirth in the sound, and even he heard the hysteria and fear there.
But William tightened his grip on his hand, jerking him back to reality, and he looked down. William looked up at him with stricken concern. John seemed ready to cry again.
“And she will be sorely missed by her loving husband, by her devoted sons, by her grieving family and friends...” Reverend Collins cried.
He forced himself to become still. He fought the nausea, the grief. The boys would miss their mother, even if he would not. His sons needed her, the earldom needed her.
The ghosts of the innocent whirled in his mind and around him, becoming the crowd, and now, amongst them, he saw his wife and he saw his brother. He could not stand it.
He stood. “I will be right back,” he said.
And as he pushed into the aisle and down the nave, praying he would not become sick until he went outside, her baby wailed.
He could not believe it. As he rushed toward the door, he found them in the last row. He looked at the child in the nurse’s arms, briefly. Then he saw Amelia Greystone, and their gazes locked.
A moment later he was outside behind the chapel, on his knees, vomiting.
* * *
THE SERVICE WAS FINALLY OVER. And just in time, Amelia thought grimly, because the newborn had begun to fuss rather loudly and Mrs. Murdock seemed incapable of quieting her. A number of guests had turned to glance toward the crying baby. Had Grenville actually glared at his own daughter?
Her tension knew no bounds. It had been impossible to keep her gaze from his broad shoulders during the service. He had recognized her.
Amelia had never been as shaken.
But the crowd was beginning to arise. “We should slip out before the other guests,” Amelia suggested. “The child is certainly hungry.” But her eyes were on the front of the chapel. Grenville’s two sons were seated in the front row by themselves. Grenville had left a few minutes ago, before the eulogy was over. How could he leave his children like that? Had he been that distraught?
When he had rushed up the nave, he had looked right at her. He had been terribly pale, as if he was about to become sick.
She shouldn’t care, but she did.
“She misses her mother,” Mrs. Murdock said. Tears began to slide down her face. “That is why she is so fussy.”
Amelia hesitated. The governess had managed to control herself throughout the service, and she could not blame her for crying now. A funeral was overwhelming under the best of circumstances, and Elizabeth dying so young was the worst of events. But the infant had never known her mother. “Where is Signor Barelli? I don’t know if St. Just will return. I think I should get the boys.”
“I saw him leave before his lordship did,” Mrs. Murdock said, rocking the child. “He adored Lady Grenville. I believe Signor Barelli was too distraught to stay. He was ready to weep!”
Amelia decided that Grenville had been too distraught to remain for the end of the service, as well. “Wait a moment,” she said, and she hurried past the guests, most of whom were now leaving their seats. She knew them all, and she nodded at those she passed. “William? John? We are going back to the house. I am going to help Mrs. Murdock settle your sister. Afterward, I was wondering if you might give me a tour of your rooms?” She smiled.
Both boys stared at her, stricken. John said tearfully, “Where is Papa?” But he held out his hand.
Amelia took it, her heart surging. “He is grieving for your mother,” she said softly. How wonderful the small boy’s hand felt in hers. “I believe he went outside because he needed a moment alone.”
John nodded, but William gave her an odd look, as if he wished to say something but knew better. Amelia took his hand as well, leading them toward the governess. “Signor Barelli has already left. I am sure he is waiting for you at the house.”
“We are not having lessons today,” William said firmly. Then, “I should like to see Father.”
Amelia nodded at Mrs. Murdock. The infant was whimpering, as the governess rocked to hush her. The guests ahead of them stepped aside, clearly understanding their need to leave quickly. Amelia smiled at everyone as they passed. “Thank you, Mrs. Harrod,” she said. “Thank you, Squire Penwaithe, for coming today. Hello, Millie. Hello, George. Apparently refreshments will be served shortly in the great hall.” Mrs. Murdock had said as much, but now she wondered if Grenville would even bother to greet his guests.
Her neighbors smiled at her. Millie, a dairymaid, cried, “What a beautiful baby!”
As they left the chapel, Amelia glanced around and realized she was searching for Grenville. By now, he would have returned to the house, but he was not in sight. It had begun to drizzle. The infant started to cry again, this time very loudly.
Amelia took the wailing baby from the governess. “May I? Perhaps I can be of help.” She cradled her close to her chest. It was too cold for the baby to be outside.
“I do hope so. I don’t think she likes me. She knows I am not her natural mother,” Mrs. Murdock exclaimed.
Amelia kept an impassive expression, inwardly sighing. She wished the governess would cease making such disturbing declarations, at least in front of the boys. Then she looked down at the beautiful baby, and she smiled. Her heart warmed. Oh, the little girl was such an angel! “Hush, sweetheart. We are going inside now. No child your age should have to attend a funeral.” She realized she was somewhat angry. The baby should have remained in her nursery, safe and warm; surely she could sense the distress and sorrow in the chapel. But no one had advised Mrs. Murdock. After all, there was no housekeeper, and Grenville had only returned moments before the service had started.
How could he be so negligent?
The infant hiccupped and looked at her. Then she smiled.
Amelia cried out, delighted. “She is smiling! Oh, how pretty she is!”
“Do you have any of your own?” Mrs. Murdock asked.
Amelia felt some of her pleasure vanish. She was too old to marry, and she would never have a child of her own. The knowledge caused some sadness, but she wasn’t about to indulge in self-pity. “No, I do not.” She looked up and saw Lucas and her mother approaching.
Lucas’s mouth softened. “I wondered how long it would take you to put the babe in your arms.” He spoke with affection.
“Oh, what a beautiful child,” Momma said. “Is she your first?”
Amelia sighed. Momma didn’t recognize her, but that was hardly unusual. She introduced her brother and mother to the governess, then turned to Lucas. “Could you take Momma home and then send the carriage back? I am going to stay for a bit. I want to settle the baby and the boys.”
His gaze narrowed. “I know you are merely being kind, but is that wise?”
She did not have a clue as to what he might mean.
He took her arm and steered her a short distance away from the boys. “Grenville seemed rather unhinged.” There was warning in his tone.
“What on earth does that mean? Of course he is grief-stricken. But I am not attending St. Just.” She kept her voice to a whisper. “He is so distraught he left his sons by themselves. Let me get everyone settled, Lucas. I simply must help out.”
He shook his head, but he smiled. “Then you can expect Garrett back in two hours.” His smile faded. “I hope you do not regret this, Amelia.”
Her heart lurched. “Why would I regret helping those small boys? Or this beautiful child?”
He kissed her cheek and they returned to the group. Momma was babbling on about a debut, and Amelia winced as Lucas gently led her away. Mrs. Murdock gave her a wide-eyed look as they started toward the house. “Momma is addled,” Amelia said softly. “It is rare, indeed, when she is coherent and cognizant of her surroundings.”
“I am so sorry,” Mrs. Murdock said.
The huge rosewood door was ahead, set back within the temple entrance of the house. Amelia felt herself tense. It had been ten years since she had set foot within the house.
And suddenly she recalled darting into the library, with Simon in pursuit. She had been laughing, and they had wound up on the sofa in a passionate embrace.
She hesitated inside the high-ceilinged entry hall, a circular room with marble floors, gilded furniture and crystal chandeliers. Did she genuinely wish to go inside?
“Will you really come upstairs?” William asked, jerking her back into the present.
Her heart leaped oddly. It almost felt dangerous, being in Grenville’s house. But she smiled, rocking the infant gently. The children needed her; she had no doubt. “Do you want me to come upstairs?”
“I am happy to show you our suite of rooms,” William said gravely, sounding like an adult.
“I have a soldier,” John announced with pride. “He’s a Prussian infant.”
Amelia smiled as William said, taking John’s hand, “He’s a Prussian infantryman. You can show Miss Greystone all of your soldiers, if she so wishes.” He looked at Amelia, and she saw the eagerness in his eyes.
“I cannot wait,” she said, smiling. And for the first time since she met him, William smiled back.
* * *
THE BABY HAD finally fallen asleep after nursing hungrily, while still in Amelia’s arms. Amelia had no wish to let her go, but she could hardly linger with Elizabeth’s child now. Smiling but saddened, Amelia stood and laid the sleeping infant in her crib, a beautiful affair furnished with white eyelet coverlets. As she covered her tiny body with a white patchwork quilt, she said softly, “She needs a name.”
“You are so good with children!” Mrs. Murdock exclaimed. “I have never seen her nurse as greedily, and the boys adore you when you have only just met!”
Amelia smiled. The boys were playing with the toy soldiers in their rooms. John had shown her every single solider that he had. “She was hungry.”
“No, she loves you already!” The governess sobered. “There has been too much turmoil in this household. I so wish you were not leaving us.”
Amelia started. “I have my own family to attend,” she said, but she wondered if Mrs. Murdock was right. Had the grief and upheaval in the house affected the infant? How could it not? But at least the blue-and-white nursery was a quiet sanctuary for the child. Clearly, Elizabeth had been hoping for another boy.
Mrs. Murdock sat down in a large blue-striped chair. “I am surprised that you do not have children of your own, Miss Greystone.”
Amelia felt herself tense. Of course there was dismay, after taking care of that beautiful baby. “I am not married, Mrs. Murdock, and as you have seen, I have my mother to take care of.”
“You could certainly take care of her and a husband,” Mrs. Murdock said. She seemed far too curious for comfort. “You are so pretty, if you do not mind my saying so. How could you be unwed?”
An image of Grenville, so dark and handsome, his stare impossibly direct, came immediately to mind.
Why had he looked at her that way?
And what could she say? That she had fallen foolishly in love with St. Just a decade ago, only to have her heart broken? There had been a few offers afterward, but none had interested her. Very carefully, she said, “There was someone once, long ago. He was not serious, and I was too young to realize it.”
“The cad!” Mrs. Murdock cried.
“Let us leave the subject for now. What’s done is done, after all.” She smiled firmly. “I am glad the boys are playing. I am glad they ate—and I am glad the baby nursed and quieted down. I imagine she will sleep for some time.”
“Thank you so much for your help,” Mrs. Murdock said, standing. But she seemed anxious. “Are you leaving?”
“I have to go.”
She grimaced. “What should I do if he comes here?”
It took Amelia a moment to understand. “Do you mean, if Grenville comes to see his child?”
She wrung her hands. “Maybe he won’t come. He doesn’t seem to like this child.”
“He will love this child, as he does his sons!” Amelia exclaimed, entirely distressed by such an unfounded accusation.
“He frightens me!”
Amelia started, “Mrs. Murdock, he is your employer and the Earl of St. Just. I suppose he is somewhat intimidating—”
The governess cut her off. “He frightens all of us. He frightened her ladyship!”
Amelia stiffened with displeasure. “Mrs. Murdock, I must object to such a discussion. I am sure that Lady Grenville held his lordship in the highest regard, and it was a mutual matter!”
“She changed whenever he was home. She was a happy woman—except when he was in residence. She worried about his returning. She told me how much she worried—she told me that she always seemed to displease him!”
Amelia sat abruptly down. Could this be possible? Could their marriage have been so strained? “I cannot abide gossip,” she finally said. She realized that she wished to defend Grenville. How could he have been displeased with such a wife?
“I am hardly gossiping. I heard them shouting at one another in November—when he returned for Lord William’s birthday. They argued last summer, when he suddenly appeared in town, surprising her so. And she left, within days of his arrival, she was that distraught. She did not want to be in residence with him, Miss Greystone, you may be sure of that. I do not think he cared very much for her, but she was afraid of him, I witnessed that firsthand!”
Amelia’s mind was racing. There was utter confusion. Had Elizabeth Grenville left town because her husband had arrived? Had she wished to avoid him? Had she been afraid of him? But why?
Hadn’t Mrs. Murdock claimed that Grenville was rarely in residence? She hadn’t wanted to believe that. Had there been another woman? She found herself wondering. Why else would he stay away?
As if on the same tangent, Mrs. Murdock lowered her voice. “Lady Grenville never knew where he was. Oh, she told me so herself many times, when she wished to write him and ask him for advice and guidance! Apparently when he stated he was going to the country, he never did. He would claim to be at someone’s estate, but he was never there. It is so odd, don’t you think?”
It certainly sounded as if there was another woman, Amelia thought grimly. But why should she be surprised? Hadn’t he treated her with utter disrespect?
“But perhaps it was all for the best, since he frightened her so with his dark moods and strange ramblings,” Mrs. Murdock said flatly. “We have wondered if he is a bit mad.”
Amelia stood, angered now. But she spoke with calm. “Grenville isn’t a madman. In fact, I do not think it helpful for you to even suggest such a thing!”
“Oh, I did not mean to make you angry. But I am worried about being alone in this house with him!”
“Then you must rein in your thoughts,” Amelia said, quietly furious. “Grenville will hardly murder you in your sleep. I imagine he will be in to see his child within moments.” She tried to soften. “Mrs. Murdock, the man I saw in that chapel was grieving. He was distraught. Perhaps he loved Lady Grenville, in his own way, and you simply misconstrued the nature of their relationship. After all, he would be very preoccupied with his affairs of state. Perhaps, now that she is deceased, you should give his lordship the benefit of the doubt.” Amelia firmly believed that this was all a huge misunderstanding. How could Grenville have not loved his wife?
“He walks in his sleep,” Mrs. Murdock said defensively. “Lady Grenville hated it.”
Amelia stared, speechlessly.
“She decided to move the entire household to Cornwall—when she had never once set foot in this house. How odd is that? Do you think she wanted to escape him, by coming here? That is what we all think!”
“I truly doubt she was fleeing her own husband,” Amelia said grimly. The gossip was too unsettling!
“Why else would she come to Cornwall in her condition—in the winter?” Mrs. Murdock nodded. “It was a very troubled marriage, Miss Greystone.”
Amelia looked down at the sleeping newborn. She didn’t know what to think. “I don’t think you should raise your concerns with anyone else, Mrs. Murdock. Especially not now, with the household in mourning. Such suspicions and doubts no longer matter.”
“You are right,” Mrs. Murdock said. “I wonder what he will do now? His sons—his daughter—need their father. I imagine he will take us with him, wherever he goes.” She seemed unhappy.
“You should hope that is the case, as it would be best for the children.” Amelia was firm. But she returned to the crib and stared down at the sleeping baby. He hadn’t looked at his beautiful daughter, not even once. She had a distinct feeling of dread. Something was certainly wrong. Maybe Mrs. Murdock hadn’t been exaggerating, as she hoped.
“Thank you so much for being so kind,” Mrs. Murdock cried. “Could you possibly call on us?”
Amelia slowly faced her. The nurse was in a state. Tears filled her eyes. She missed her mistress, Amelia thought, and she was afraid of Grenville. And how would Grenville manage? Even if his marriage had been strained, surely he was grieving now. She had seen the anguish in his eyes. “I am at Greystone Manor, a half hour’s ride away if astride. If I can be of further help, send a groom with a message.”
Mrs. Murdock thanked her profusely.
It was time to leave. Picking up her coat, Amelia went to the boys’ rooms to say goodbye, and to promise to visit soon. At least they seemed to have forgotten their grief for the moment, she thought, watching them play with the tiny soldiers. But she was very disturbed as she went down the corridor. She almost wished that she had never had such a conversation with Mrs. Murdock.
As she started downstairs, her tension spiraled impossibly. She did not know where Grenville was. Hopefully he was with his guests and she would slip out of his house unnoticed. They day had been far too trying. She was not up to exchanging greetings now.
She hurried past the second landing, which she believed housed his apartments. Her tension had increased. It was foolish, but she almost seemed to feel his presence, nearby.
As she started down the last flight of stairs, she realized that someone was coming up them. It was a man, his head down, and she recognized him before he looked up and saw her.
She faltered. Her heart slammed.
Grenville halted three or four steps below her, glancing up.
Instantly his gaze locked with hers.
Dread began. How could this be happening? And she knew that her dismay was written all over her face; she wondered if he could hear her thundering heartbeat. But his expression was impossible to read. If he was surprised to see her, she could not tell. And if he was consumed with grief, it was not obvious. His face was a mask of dispassion.
And they were alone on the stairs. She felt trapped.
But then, strangely, his eyes began to gleam.
Her panic intensified. “Good afternoon, my lord. I am so sorry for your loss.” She tried to smile politely and failed. “What a terrible tragedy! Lady Grenville was a kind and gracious woman. She was far too young to pass this way, leaving behind such beautiful children!” Was she speaking in a nervous rush? It seemed that way. “I hope to help, in any way that I can!” she added desperately.
His dark gaze never shifted from her face. “Hello, Amelia.”
She froze. She had not expected such an informal—and intimate—form of address. It was highly inappropriate for him to call her Amelia. But he had called her by her given name all summer long....
“I hadn’t expected to see you here.” His tone remained flat and calm.
She could not breathe properly. “I would never fail to attend Lady Grenville’s funeral.”
“Of course not.” His gaze slipped to her mouth. Amelia realized what he was doing and she was shocked. Then he looked directly at her hands.
She had yet to don her gloves. Instinctively, she hugged her coat to her chest, hiding her hands. Had he been remarking her lack of rings? Surely he hadn’t been searching for a wedding band. But why else would he look at her hands? “I had better go. Lucas must be waiting.” And without considering the fact that he was a rather large man, and it would not be easy to pass by him, she impulsively started down the stairs. She had to escape him.
But Grenville grasped the railing, blocking her way. Amelia crashed into the barrier provided by his strong arm.
Incapable of breathing normally, Amelia looked from his velvet-clad arm, locked against her waist, to his hand, which firmly gripped the banister. He was barring her way. Then she slowly looked up into his eyes.
“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
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.
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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