Seduction (10 page)

“You should go,
ma chere,
” he said softly, “so we do not tempt fate again.” He was reluctant to release her.

She smiled at him, gazing into his eyes, her fingertips on his chest. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “And I hate leaving you.”

His heart skipped oddly and he couldn’t deny it. But that did not mean he had feelings for her. Even if he did, he would dismiss them. She had no place in his world.

He wished that she weren’t so transparent. He wished she weren’t head over heels in love with Charles Maurice. But he had been very aware of her feelings for him before he had seduced her. He had ignored the twinges of guilt. He had deliberately played upon her affections, all for the sake of maintaining his alias. And he had chosen to treat her like any other passing lover. He was experienced enough to know that her feelings would blossom, once they made love—yet he hadn’t cared about that, either.

He had cared only about using her for his own ends, and the desire raging between them. He had lied when he said he had no regrets.

“You are brooding. What’s wrong?” She kissed his chest.

He smiled slightly at her. “Nothing is wrong. You are perfect.”

“I will see you at eight,” she said, smiling.

He lay still as she got up. She expected him to return to France. She would never learn that he wasn’t her beloved hero, Charles Maurice.

He watched her slip on the white, virginal nightgown. He said, “Walk with me today on the cliffs.”

She brightened. “That is a lovely idea.”

He warned, “My motives are rather base.”

She laughed. “I know exactly what your motives are, Charles.” And she turned and slipped from the room.

His smile faded. It was time to leave. Prior to their affair, it hadn’t ever occurred to him to discuss it with her—he had envisioned simply vanishing one day, perhaps leaving a note of gratitude behind. Unfortunately he would not be able to reimburse her and her family for their care, as that would threaten his alias. Now, he wasn’t so sure he felt comfortable simply walking out without a word, or leaving a simple note behind.

And that made him a fool.

“I
THINK
THAT
A
MELIA
is suspicious,” Julianne said, but she was smiling. It was a gorgeous summer afternoon, the sun high and bright. Below the cliffs where they strolled, the ocean was an unusual shade of sapphire-blue. A slight, cool ocean breeze whipped her skirts against his legs as they walked. A pair of shaggy herding dogs had followed them from the stables and were hunting grouse amidst the gorse, tails wagging.

“She doesn’t like me, which is different from being suspicious,” he said, smiling. The manor remained behind them and in sight. As he glanced back, he knew that they could be seen with the naked eye, and Jack had a spyglass in his bedroom. Amelia could be watching them as they spoke. “Does she dislike most men, or is it only me?”

Julianne reached for his arm and he tucked her hand firmly against his side. “She was heartbroken years ago. I didn’t realize it until you came into our care, but I think she still has feelings for that man—and you are somewhat like him. I believe that is why she is so mistrustful of you.”

“She was involved with the nobleman you mentioned, St.
Just?”

“You have an excessively good memory, Charles.”

“You said he was a patriot—making him my enemy. Of course I recall him,” he said amiably. But what was this? He knew Grenville well, and while no ladies’ man, Grenville always kept a beautiful mistress. Dominic could not imagine him courting Amelia Greystone. Surely the petite, dour Amelia had misconstrued whatever interactions had occurred. “Your sister was casting about for an earl?”

“He wasn’t the earl then, or even an heir,” she said. “And my sister does not cast about, fishing for men! St. Just discovered her at the market. He called on her many times, but he obviously had no genuine interest, because when his brother died, he simply left the parish and never called again.” She glowered. “He did not even write a letter.”

Dominic could not imagine Simon Grenville behaving like a besotted fool, but Simon’s older brother had died nine or ten years ago. People could change, he supposed.

“Look,” Julianne said.

A pair of huge boulders was ahead. They were as tall as towers, and Dom felt his entire body tighten. Julia slipped her hand into his. Grinning, she pulled him forward and around the corner, until they were safely out of sight.

Instantly he embraced her, his heart slamming. Her smile was gone and he saw the hunger in her eyes, which had to match his. It had been only a few hours since she had left his bed, but he pulled her close. He wanted her with a maddening urgency.

Why not linger for a few more days? When he left, he was never returning. When he left, his life would be reduced to a few moments in London, and then nothing but war and espionage, revolution and death.

“Charles,” she whispered roughly. “Make love to me.”

He inhaled. She knew he was well enough to leave; she knew that day was coming, even if they hadn’t discussed it.

Dominic kissed her, hard, before pulling her down to the ground with him.

“I
HAVE
NEVER
SEEN
you in such good spirits,” Tom Treyton said, his gaze sharp.

Julianne smiled warmly at Tom as they drove up the rocky road toward Greystone, sharing the front seat of the carriage together, his horse tied behind the rear fender. Several days had passed since she and Charles made love by the ocean. She had gone into Penzance for badly needed supplies, and had bumped into Tom outside the candle maker’s. She hadn’t had a chance to speak with him since Charles had awoken from his delirium, almost three weeks ago. And as eager as she was to return to her lover, Tom always had the latest news. She not only wanted information for herself, she wanted it for Charles.

Her lover.

As she thought about him, her heart lurched with so much love and desire. For almost two weeks—it had been twelve days, to be precise—she had been stealing into his bedchamber every night, or walking with him on the cliffs, or in the cove—which meant that they were making wild, frantic love in the afternoons. Julianne knew she could no longer think straight—not when with Charles. She was deeply in love.

And Julianne was certain he loved her as she loved him. His passion was greater now than it had been at first. He seemed as aware as she was of the ever-ticking clock, as their time together ran out. And he was always asking her personal questions about her life at Greystone, both her past and her future. Julianne thought that if he ever wanted to, he could probably write a biography about her.

She was terrified of his leaving her.

Of course, they never spoke of his pending departure for France. It was as if they had reached a silent accord to live in the moment—dangerously, passionately, fortuitously.

That morning, she had reluctantly told him that she had to go into the city. To her surprise, he had encouraged her—as if he did not mind missing their afternoon tryst. It was then that he had stressed how badly he needed the London newspapers. She had seen the dark urgency in his eyes—and it had been like a dash of ice water, thrown into her face. They were carrying on as if two lovers without a care in the world. They had forgotten about the war, the revolution, and even the government’s war policies there at home—and it was inexcusable.

Of course she would bring him news.

And Tom’s news was not particularly good. Lyon, Marseilles and Toulon were now in the hands of anti-republican leaders. There were continuing riots in Paris, mostly because of the high prices of bread and the spectacular shortage of foodstuffs, and the city was in a state of near anarchy. Mobs ruled, except when the police were present. According to Tom, the riots were occurring throughout the rest of the country, as well.

Until then, they had spent the entire drive catching up on the war. They had not had a chance to discuss their personal affairs.

“I am always in good spirits,” she now told Tom. “But you do not seem happy. Is anything wrong, Tom?”

“I have heard rumors that Pitt has erected a ministry to deal with French espionage in Britain.” He rolled his eyes. “It is called the Alien Office.”

“Are there French agents in Britain?”

“I imagine so. Those damned émigrés are everywhere, hatching up all kinds of royalist plots against the Republic.” He added, “But the real gossip is that Pitt wishes to use this new agency to hunt down Jacobin sympathizers like you and me.”

She was stabbed with fear. “That is absurd! Surely our government will not persecute its own citizens.”

“I don’t know if it is absurd or not. I do know that Pitt hates us—the king hates us—and the Tories hate us.”

She shivered.

“Just be careful. We haven’t spoken in weeks, Julianne. I received a letter from Marcel,” he said, referring to their contact at the Parisian Jacobin Club they corresponded with. “He claims an émigré family has settled in south Cornwall or will do so. He wishes for me to locate the Comte D’Archand and his two children. Have you heard of this man?”

“No, I have not,” she said, taken aback. “Why do they wish to know of this man’s whereabouts?”

“I have no idea, but I said we would help.”

“Of course we will help,” she said, patting his forearm.

Tom looked at her. “I have missed you.”

She tensed.

“What is wrong, Julianne? Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked. “I know you are aware of my affection for you.”

“Of course,” she managed, in dismay. The manor was finally visible, standing out starkly against the sky and the ocean. She inhaled. “I told you about Maurice.” She had sent Tom a note weeks ago. “I have had a very ill guest to care for. I haven’t had a moment to think of myself.” She turned away, blushing at the shameful lie. All she had done these past two weeks was think of herself and her need to be with Charles.

“I would think you put out by having a guest for so long, especially one who’s convalescing, impinging upon your interests and passions.”

Oh, this was terrible, she thought, her heart lurching now. “Fortunately, Charles is a very interesting man. I have been entertained, not put out. You will like him immensely, Tom. He is very articulate and very charming.”

Tom’s eyes sharpened. “It is Charles?”

Not quite looking him in the eye, she said, “He has become my friend.”

Tom sighed. “Of course he has. He is a French army officer, so of course I like him already. Has he been regaling you with war stories, Julianne? It seems unlikely that an army officer would be so articulate.”

“He is the son of a jeweler, but he owns a print shop in Paris, and he is very well read, as you shall see,” she said eagerly. Charles had told her all about his family and his life in France. She couldn’t wait for the two men to meet. They would like one another instantly—they had so much in common.

Tom stared at her. They were traveling up the drive, his fine gelding trotting briskly in the traces. “How unusual, for a jeweler’s son to be literate.”

“It is very unusual,” Julianne said, “but Charles is hardly average, as you will see.”

“You almost sound smitten.”

She said carefully, “I am hardly smitten.”

They fell into silence now, approaching the house. Tom halted the carriage, setting the brake. Julianne got down without his help, and was about to walk with him to the front door, when a sense made her turn. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Charles sauntering out of the stables.

What on earth? she thought, but she smiled.

He did not smile back, as he slowly approached.

Tom said harshly, “That is Maurice?” Displeasure was in his tone.

She glanced at him and saw how dark his expression was. “Of course it is. Who else would it be?”

“You failed to mention that he is a big, handsome fellow.”

Her heart skipped in alarm. “That is hardly a topic of conversation,” she began.

“The man looks like a damned rake,” Tom said flatly.

Julianne glanced back and forth between both men, realizing that Charles was staring at Tom, a half-smile on his face now, as Tom glowered back. Tom said, “What was he doing in the stables? Maybe he was going to ride off to… What? Spy?”

“We’re on the same side,” she said tersely. “So if he did mean to spy on our neighbors, what difference would it make?”

Charles was now in earshot. He smiled casually at her. She quickly introduced both men.

“I am very pleased to finally make your acquaintance,” Charles said politely to Tom. “And I apologize for my poor use of your language.”

Tom shook hands. “Julianne told me about you, as well. I see you are fully recovered.”

“I am improving on a daily basis, and I owe my life to Mademoiselle Greystone.” He turned to Julianne. “Did you enjoy your afternoon in the city?”

“Yes, of course, and I have two newspapers for you.”

“Thank you.” He hesitated. “I appreciate what you are doing for my country,
monsieur.
”