Seduction

“JULIANNE? WHY ARE YOU so concerned?” Amelia said.

They stood on the threshold of the guest bedchamber, looking into the room. It was a starry night outside, and Julianne had lit the fire, illuminating the chamber. Charles remained asleep and his supper tray was on the table, untouched.

She was never going to forget the fear that had stabbed through her when she had found him lying on the floor; for one moment, she had been afraid that he had died! But he hadn’t been dead, he had fallen. When he had slowly stood up—absolutely, magnificently, shockingly naked—she had pretended not to look, but she had been incapable of looking away. “It has been over twenty-four hours since he last awoke,” she said.

“He is recovering from a terrible wound,” Amelia pointed out, her tone hushed. “You are beginning to remind me of a mother hen.”

Julianne flinched. Amelia was right, she was worried—she wanted him to wake up, so she could be reassured. But then what? “That is nonsense. I am merely concerned, as anyone would be.”

Amelia stared, hands on her small hips. “Julianne, I may not have spoken with him as you have, but I am hardly blind. Even asleep, he is a very attractive man.”

She fought to remain impassive. “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

Amelia laughed, a rather rare sound for her. “Oh, please. I have noticed that when you are with him, you cannot keep your eyes to yourself. It is a good thing he has been sleeping, or he would have caught you ogling him! But I am glad. I had begun to wonder if you are immune to men.”

Amelia might not sound so cheerful if she knew what Julianne knew about their guest—and Julianne would soon have to tell her, as they were all under one small roof. Amelia was apolitical. Still, she was a patriot, and the most rational person Julianne knew. She would be horrified to learn that they were harboring an enemy of the state.

“My, that sounds like the pot calling the kettle black,” Julianne said quickly, changing the subject.

Amelia said softly, “I wasn’t always immune to handsome men, Julianne.”

Julianne immediately regretted having taken such a tack. She had been only twelve years old the summer Amelia had fallen in love with the earl of St. Just’s younger son, but she recalled their brief, passionate courtship. She remembered standing at the window downstairs, watching the two of them gallop away from the house, Simon Grenville in pursuit of her sister. He had been so dashing, he had seemed to be a veritable black prince, and she had thought her sister terribly fortunate. She also recalled Amelia’s shock when they had learned of his brother’s death. He had been summoned to London, and Julianne remembered thinking that her sister shouldn’t cry, for Simon loved her and he would be back. But she had been naive and foolish. He hadn’t returned. Amelia had cried herself to sleep for weeks on end, her heart broken.

Apparently Simon had quickly forgotten Amelia. Julianne did not think he had ever written, not a single missive, and two years later he had married the daughter of a viscount. In the past nine years, he had not been to the seat of his earldom, just to the north of St. Just, even once.

Julianne knew that Amelia had never forgotten him. The year after St. Just left, Amelia had turned down two very good offers, from a young, well-off barrister and a handsome officer in the royal navy. And then there were no more offers....

“I am twenty five years old, and no beauty,” she said, matter-of-fact now. “My dowry is sparse and I am committed to taking care of Momma. If I am immune to men, it is by choice.”

“You are very attractive, but you seem to want to vanish in plain sight!” Julianne hesitated. “Maybe one day you will meet someone who makes your heart race.” She blushed as she thought about Charles Maurice.

“I hope not!”

Julianne knew she must drop the sore subject. “Very well. I am not blind, so yes, Monsieur Maurice is rather handsome. And he was so grateful when he awoke. He was charming.” Charles Maurice was very eloquent, indicating some education and perhaps a genteel background. And he was dangerously charming.

“Ah, if that last part is true, then clearly, he has won your fickle heart!”

Julianne knew she was being teased, but she could not smile. She had thought about their guest night and day, well before he had awoken. She hoped she wasn’t as infatuated with the French stranger as she seemed to be. Maybe this was the right time to reveal his identity to her sister.

“Julianne?” Amelia asked.

Julianne pulled her out of the doorway. “There is something you should know.”

Amelia stared. “Obviously I am not going to like it.”

“No, I don’t think you will. You know Monsieur Maurice is a Frenchman, as I told you, Amelia…but he is not an émigré.”

Amelia blinked. “What are you saying? Surely he is a smuggler, like Jack.”

She wet her lips and said, “He is a French army officer, Amelia. He has survived terrible battles and the loss of so many of his men!”

Amelia gasped. “And how did you reach such a conclusion? Did he tell you this when he was awake?”

“He was delirious,” Julianne began.

Amelia turned; Julianne seized her.

“I have to notify the authorities!” her sister exclaimed.

“You can do no such thing!” Julianne stepped in front of her, barring her way. “He is seriously ill, Amelia, and he is a hero!”

“Only you would think such a thing!” Amelia cried. Then, lowering her voice, she continued. “I don’t believe it is legal to have him here. I must tell Lucas.”

“No, please! He is doing no harm—he is ill! For my sake, let us help him recuperate, and then he can go on his way,” Julianne pleaded.

Amelia stared at her, aghast and very grim. She finally said, “Someone will find out.”

“I am going to see Tom immediately. He will help us keep him here, in secret.”

Displeasure was written all over Amelia’s face. “I thought Tom was courting you.”

Julianne smiled—the change in topic meant she had won. “Tom and I are always discussing politics, Amelia. We share the same views. But that is hardly a courtship.”

“He is smitten. He might not approve of your guest.” She glanced into the bedchamber—and paled.

Charles was watching them both, his expression oddly alert, even wary.

The moment he saw her looking at him, he smiled and began to sit up. The covers fell to his waist, revealing his muscular chest.

Julianne did not move. Had he just looked at her as if she was an adversary he did not trust?

Amelia hurried into the room, her face set. Julianne followed her into the bedchamber. Her tension escalated.

Had he overheard their argument?

If he had, he gave no sign. Instead, Charles exchanged an intimate, sidelong look with her. Her insides seemed to vanish—it was as if they shared a sinful secret.

But didn’t they?

Images flashed through her mind of him standing up, stark naked, after falling; of his so casually wrapping the sheet around his waist, clearly not caring about his modesty; and of his slow, suggestive smile before he kissed her, when he had been delirious.

Her heart was rioting now.

She glanced at Amelia closely, but Amelia gave no sign that she was interested in his broad, sculpted chest. He was pulling the covers up modestly. As Amelia went to the table to retrieve the dinner tray, Charles looked at her again, a warm light in his eyes.

“Your sister, I presume?” he asked.

Amelia faced him, holding his supper tray, before Julianne could speak. Her French was excellent; she also spoke Spanish and some German and Portuguese. “Good evening, Monsieur Maurice. I hope you are feeling better. I am Amelia Greystone.”