Brenda Joyce - Seduction

“Your clothes,” she said roughly, “were laundered.”

He saw that she had her glance averted still, so he stood. He wanted to collapse upon the mattress; instead, he pulled the sheet from it and wrapped it around his waist. “Did you undress me?” He glanced at her.

“No.” She refused to look at him. “My brother did—we had to give you a sea bath, to reduce the fever.”

He sat on the bed. Pain exploded but he ignored it. Long ago, he had mastered the skill of keeping his expression frozen. “Then I thank you again.”

“You came to us only in breeches and boots, monsieur. The breeches are not dry yet. It has rained since you came to us. But I will bring you a pair of my brother Lucas’s breeches.”

He now sought her gaze until she met it. She remained undone by having glimpsed him unclothed. If he were fortunate, she hadn’t noticed how incapacitated he was. He smiled. “I would appreciate a shirt, as well.”

She looked at him as if he had spoken a foreign language she did not understand. Nor did she find humor in his remark.

He sobered. “I am sorry if I have offended your sensibilities, mademoiselle.”

“What were you attempting to do, monsieur? Why would you arise without my help?”

He was about to respond when he saw her letter, lying on the floor behind her, where he had dropped it. He knew better than to try to avert his eyes; she had already turned, to look behind her.

He said softly, “When I fell, I knocked over the chair and I also bumped into the table. I apologize. I hope I have not broken the chair.”

She swiftly retrieved the letter and placed it by the inkwell; as quickly, she lifted and righted the chair.

“I was thinking to open the window for some fresh air,” he added.

Without turning, she hurried to the window, unlatched it and pressed it outward. A cool blast of Atlantic air rushed into the room.

He studied her very closely.

She suddenly turned and caught him staring.

And he knew he did not mistake the new tension that had arisen between them.

Finally, she smiled back slightly. “I am sorry. You must think me very foolish. I…did not expect to return to the chamber and find you on the floor.”

She was a good liar—but not as good as he was. “No,” he said, “I think you very beautiful.”

She went still.

He lowered his gaze. A silence fell. To be safe, he thought, all he had to do was play her.

Unless, of course, she was the spy he feared, and her naiveté was theatrics. In that case, she was the one playing him.

“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.