Seduction - Brenda Joyce

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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.”

       “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Greystone. I cannot thank you and your sister enough for your hospitality and your kindness in nursing me during my recovery from my wounds.”

       Amelia brought Charles his tray. “You are welcome. I see that you are as articulate as my sister has claimed. Do you speak English?”

       Charles accepted the tray. In heavily accented English, he said, “Yes, I do.” Then he looked at Julianne again. His smile faded. “Should my ears have been…burning?”

       She knew she blushed. “You speak very well, monsieur. I mentioned it to my sister. That is all.” His English, although accented, was also very impressive, she thought.

       He seemed pleased. Turning to Amelia, who stood beside his bed, he said, “And what else has she said about me?”

       Amelia’s smile was brief and strained. “Perhaps you should ask her. Excuse me.” She turned to Julianne. “Momma needs her supper. I will see you later, Julianne.” She left.

       “She doesn’t like me,” he said, some laughter in his tone, speaking in French again.

       Julianne jerked and saw that he had lain his hand over his bare pectoral muscle. “Amelia has a very serious, sensible character, monsieur.”

       “Vraiment? I hadn’t noticed.”

       She felt some of her tension ease. “You are in fine spirits.”

       “How could I not be? I have slept several hours, and I am with a beautiful woman—my very own angel of mercy.” His gaze held hers.

       She felt her heart turn over, hard. She reminded herself that all Frenchmen were flirts. To cover up her agitation, she said, “You have slept for more than an entire day, monsieur. And clearly, you are feeling better.”

       His eyes widened. “What is today’s date, mademoiselle?”

       “It is July 10,” she said. “Is that important?”

       “I have lost all sense of time. How long have I been here?”

       She could not tell what he was thinking. “You have been here for eight days, monsieur.”

       His eyes widened.

       “Does that fact disturb you?” She approached. Her sister had left his tray on a bedside table.

       His smile came again. “I am simply surprised.”

       She pulled a chair over to his bedside. “Are you hungry?”

       “Famished.”

      

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