Brenda Joyce - Seduction

Join New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce as she introduces readers to a passionate and romantic new series set in a dangerous time….

Dominic Paget, the earl of Bedford, will do anything to resume spying upon Britain’s enemies. Badly wounded, he is put in the care of a beautiful gentlewoman, Julianne Greystone, only to discover that her sympathies lie with his enemies. Yet he can’t help but seduce the woman who saved his life—hoping she never learns of his betrayal.

Julianne is captivated by the wounded stranger she believes is a revolutionary hero. Until she discovers the truth…her “hero” is the privileged earl of Bedford. Devastated and determined to forget him, Julianne travels to London. But when she finds herself in danger, it is Bedford who comes to the rescue. Now Julianne must navigate the intrigues of a perilous city, the wild yearnings of her own heart and the explosion of their passion….

Praise for the novels of

New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author BRENDA JOYCE

“In her inimitable style Joyce presents her unforgettable de Warrenes

in a mesmerizing new romance. Her marvelous storytelling, combined with

the high level of emotion, makes for a non-stop delight of a read.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Impossible Attraction

“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

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns

in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

Seduction

Brenda

Joyce

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Sue and Laurent Teichman, with love and thanks!

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DEAR READER

PROLOGUE

July 1, 1793—near Brest, France

“IS HE ALIVE?”

The voice surprised him. It sounded far away. And even as he heard the Englishman, pain stabbed through his back and shoulders, like nails being driven into his body, as if he were being crucified. The pain was so horrific he could not speak, but he cursed silently. What had happened?

He was on fire now. Even worse, he wondered if he was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. A terrible weight seemed to be pushing him down. And he was in absolute darkness....

But his mind was beginning to function. The man who had just spoken was English, but that was impossible. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

And the images began, rolling through his mind’s eye with shocking speed, accompanied by horrific sounds—the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded and the dying amidst the racket of muskets and the boom of cannons, the river running red with the French blood of peasants, priests, nobles and soldiers....

He moaned. He could not quite recall how he had been wounded, and he was afraid he might be dying. What had happened to him?

Someone spoke, and the voice was familiar. “He is barely alive, Lucas. He has lost a great deal of blood and has been unconscious since midnight. My surgeon does not know if he will live.”

“What happened?” A second Englishman was speaking.

“We suffered a terrible defeat at Nantes, messieurs, a rout by the French under General Biron, but Dominic was not wounded in the battle. He was ambushed outside my apartments last night by an assassin.”

And then he realized that his lifelong friend, Michel Jacquelyn, was speaking. Someone had tried to murder him—because someone had known he was a spy.

“Christ,” the second Englishman said.

Dominic managed to open his eyes, a vast, prolonged effort of will. He lay on the beach on a pallet, under blankets—the surf beat the shore and the night above glinted with stars. Three men stood over him, in coats, breeches and boots. His vision was blurred, but he could distinguish them somewhat. Michel was short and dark, his clothes bloodstained, his hair pulled back in a queue. The Englishmen were tall and golden, their shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Everyone was heavily armed with pistols and daggers. Now, he heard the creaking of wood masts, the flap of canvas, the pounding of wind-whipped waves. And then he could no longer keep his eyes open. Exhausted, they closed.

He was going to faint, damn it....

“Were you followed?” Lucas asked sharply.

“Non, but le gendarmerie are everywhere, mes amis. We must make haste. The French blockade the coast—you will have to be careful to avoid their ships.”

The other Englishman spoke, and he sounded cheerful. “Have no fear. No one can outrun the navy—or the revenue men—like me. Captain Jack Greystone, monsieur, at your service on this highly interesting night. And I believe you already know my brother, Lucas.”

“I do. You must get him to London, messieurs,” Michel said. “Immédiatement.”

“He won’t make it to London,” Jack returned. “Not alive, anyway.”

“We’ll take him to Greystone,” Lucas said flatly. “It’s close—and safe. And if he’s fortunate, he will live to fight another day.”

“Bien. Keep him well—we at La Vendée need him back. God speed you all.”

CHAPTER ONE

July 2, 1793—Penzance, Cornwall

SHE WAS VERY LATE.

Julianne Greystone practically leapt from the curricle, having parked it before the milliner’s shop. The Society’s meeting was next door, in the public room of the White Hart Inn, but every space in front was taken up already. The inn always did a brisk business in the afternoon. She rechecked the curricle’s brake, patted the old mare in the traces and quickly tied her to the post.

She hated being late. It wasn’t her nature to dally. Julianne took life very seriously, unlike the other ladies she knew.

Those women enjoyed fashion and shopping, teas and social calls, dances and dinner parties, but they did not live in the same circumstances as she did. Julianne could not recall a time in her life when there had been days of leisure and frivolity; her father had abandoned the family before her third birthday, not that their straits hadn’t already been dire. Father had been a younger son, without means, as well as a wastrel. She had grown up doing the kind of chores around the manor that her peers reserved for their servants. Cooking, washing dishes, carrying in firewood, ironing her brothers’ shirts, feeding their two horses, mucking stalls.... There was always a chore awaiting her. There was always something left to do. There was simply not enough time in any given day, and she found tardiness inexcusable.

Of course, it was an hour’s drive from her home on Sennen Cove to the city. Her older sister, Amelia, had taken the coach that day. Every Wednesday, come hell or high water, Amelia took Momma calling on their neighbors—never mind that Momma did not recognize anyone anymore. Momma wasn’t well. She rarely had her wits about her, and sometimes failed to recognize her own daughters, but she loved to visit. No one was as adept at frivolity and gaiety as Momma. Momma often thought herself a debutante, surrounded by her merry girlfriends and chivalrous suitors. Julianne thought she knew what it had been like for her mother to grow up in a home filled with every luxury, where she was waited upon hand and foot, in a time before the Americans had sought their independence, a time of only occasional war—a time without fear, rancor and revolution. It had been a time of absolute splendor and indifferent and lavish ostentation, a time of blatant self-indulgence, a time when no one bothered to consider the misery of the common man next door.