Brenda Joyce - Persuasion

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.