Seduction (21 page)

Her heart skipped a beat. She remained prone upon the bench, in a near state of collapse, their bodies touching. She had no wish to move away from him now, when she knew she should put some distance between them. His stare remained intent upon her face. It was searching.

He had rescued her from the Tower.

She hadn’t ever expected to see him again.

“You are staring,” she managed. She added, on a breath, “You don’t look very republican now.”

He looked away immediately.

Could he possibly feel guilty for his past deception? she wondered.

“Where are we?” The coach was traveling at a moderate speed, but the shades were partially drawn and she couldn’t really see outside.

“In my coach. The Constable wanted me to take you to his office but I refused. I wanted to get you out of there—and to my physician—as quickly as possible. Are you ill?”

“I am weak. I haven’t eaten in days,” she added, by way of explanation. She now really looked at the stunningly luxurious coach they were in. The sconces were gilded, and gold tassels were hanging from the crimson window shades. The seats were velvet, the wood lacquered. Then she looked at him—at the silk waistcoat he wore, at the lace cuffs spilling from his velvet coat sleeves, at the two rings he wore. The signet ring was sapphire, the other a large ruby. Then her gaze lifted to his steady, unwavering green regard.

“Thank you, Paget.”

“You’re welcome.” He touched her chin and she winced. “Your jaw is black-and-blue.”

She hesitated. How much did he know? “I was caught in a terrible mêlée. Someone hit me in the face.”

He frowned, his gaze even darker now. She wondered if she would ever forget the horror of that brawl—or the greater horror of being imprisoned in the Tower. She almost wished to be held and comforted, but she knew she must fight such urges. She must not forget why they were at this abysmal place in time.

But what did his stare mean?

Obviously she was a sight. She was bruised, her clothing dirty and stained. She intended to burn her gown. It was unfortunate that she couldn’t dispose of her memories the same way.

“Do you think you will faint again? You are very white.”

She looked at him, wondering if concern was reflected in his regard. “I am still light-headed.” Without thinking, she told him, “I have never been so afraid.”

Something flickered in his eyes and he pulled her close, tucking her chin to his broad chest. She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden surge if tears. He lay his chin on the top of her head. As if sensing her distress, he said, “You do not need to be afraid anymore.”

The tears began, trickling slowly down her face. He tightened his embrace and she turned her face onto his chest. She had been struck in the jaw and knocked to the ground. She had been dragged from her bed and thrown into the Tower. She had never been so frightened, and she had truly understood what it was to be powerless, without rights, without protections.

“Do you know how brave you are?”

“I am not brave at all.”

“I beg to differ with you.” And to her surprise, his gaze moved to her mouth.

Even though his eyes instantly lifted and he moved away from her, she knew what that look meant. Charles had looked at her that way a hundred times when he was about to kiss her.

She tensed. Her heart thundered of its own volition. Did he want to kiss her?

“I want to know what happened.”

She hesitated, studying him. He was so grim, and she was almost certain that he was angry. She hoped he was angry because she had been incarcerated and mistreated—and not because he knew about the convention and disapproved. “I came to London to attend a two-day assembly of radicals. I couldn’t afford to go to Thomas Hardy’s convention in Edinburgh, and Tom suggested I go to London. Of course, neither Amelia nor Lucas knows why I came to town. They believe I came to town to—” She stopped. She wasn’t sure she should be honest now. “They believe I came to London to lift my spirits.”

“In the wake of my deception?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said grimly, “in the wake of your deception.”

He eyed her. “What happened, Julianne? Precisely?”

“Reeves men broke into the assembly and attacked us. A brawl erupted. I was caught up in it. That is how my jaw got bruised.”

His expression hardened.

“Have you ever heard of Rob Lawton? He was their leader, his men had sticks and clubs. He condoned the assault!” she cried. “I was knocked down and I thought I would be trampled to death!”

He pulled her close, stunning her. “I know Lawton. He is fervently set against republicans, Julianne.”

She jerked away. “He is a vile brute, using violence and intimidation to achieve his reactionary ends.” Then she thought of how he had dragged her to her feet and gotten her out of the assembly. She dismissed the recollection. “Those Reeves men should have been rounded up, not me.”

“I am not going to condone vigilantism, Julianne, just as I do not condone the use of violence to achieve any ends. But we are at war and you support the enemy. Was there seditious speech at that assembly?”

She stiffened.

“You cannot go around London or Cornwall or any part of Britain, openly espousing the defeat of the British Army and the triumph of the French Republic.”

She had already reached that conclusion, but she did not feel like admitting it. “I am a British citizen, with rights. Lawton took the list of delegates, I saw him. I was dragged from my own bed that night by a British officer.”

“I am sorry,” he said grimly. His eyes were very hard—almost ruthlessly so.

“Are you angry?”

“I am very angry.”

“With me?”

“With you—with Lawton—with the officer who arrested you.” And he embraced her, holding her tightly against his chest.

Her heart picked up a new, swift, pounding beat. What was he doing? She had to protest—didn’t she?

Then he kissed her temple.

It was a tiny, feathery kiss. Desire surged. Her thoughts became completely blank. Her attraction to him hadn’t faded, not at all.

He feathered her ear with his lips and she shivered, becoming so hollow, so faint.

She inhaled, trembling, on fire. If only she could think clearly. She should not be in his arms like this. But he would protect her. Just then, she felt as if she needed protection.

And he caught her chin, tilted her face up, eyes blazing—and he looked at her mouth.

More desire slammed. “Kiss me, Paget,” she heard herself whisper.

And before she had even finished the sentence, his mouth covered hers, firm and determinedly. There was no escape—Julianne didn’t care. She cried out, opening eagerly for him. His tongue thrust deep. She slid her hands under his jacket, over his waistcoat, wanting to feel his naked skin. He tore his mouth from hers and rained kisses down her throat and on the bare skin of her collarbone and chest, above the edge of her bodice. She moaned, reaching for the front of his breeches. A massive, rock-hard bulge was there.

“Promise me, Julianne, you will never tempt fate again.”

“I want you,” she whispered, barely hearing him. “God help me, I do.”

“Good.” He pushed her down on the plush squabs. Their mouths mated again. And as their lips fused and their tongues sparred, a shocking need raced up and down her legs and through her entire body. The coach halted. She didn’t care. He kissed her for another moment, deeply, and she kissed him back as fiercely. He finally broke the kiss. Lifting his head, breathing hard, he looked down at her.

She stared up, stunned that the raging desire between them hadn’t changed. If anything, it had intensified.

“We will finish this later.”

And she realized she wanted nothing more than to leap into his bed. But sanity was rapidly returning now. She could not resume their affair. It was impossible.

He sat up, holding out his hand.

Julianne hesitated, then sat up without giving her hand to him. He gave her an indecipherable look, and yanked down his waistcoat and jacket. As he did, the coach door opened.

Julianne started. A footman in royal-blue-and-gold livery and a tricorn hat stood there. Then she looked past the footman at the water fountain in the center of the shell drive, and her shock began. Beyond the magnificent fountain was an ancient mansion with three towers, perfect red roses creeping up its ancestral walls.

“Welcome to my home, Julianne.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

D
OM
HANDED
HER
down from his coach and Julianne faltered, staring at the imposing facade of his house. The house was very old, very well kempt and very daunting. Of course she knew that Paget was an aristocrat with lands, a title and some amount of wealth. But she hadn’t expected this.

He had stepped down from the coach and he took her elbow. “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

She jerked to look up at him. “I don’t know.” She had fallen in love with a common Frenchman who believed in social justice the way that she did. But there was nothing common about Paget, and they were on opposite sides of both a war and a revolution.

“This house has been in my family for centuries, Julianne.”

Of course it had. He had inherited his home, his title, his wealth. He represented the social injustice she was fighting against. Yet she did not want to fight him, and she was hardly hypocritical enough to be against inherited wealth. Lucas had inherited the Greystone estate.

She trembled. Without his wealth and power, she would still be in the Tower.

“You’re cold,” he said sharply, his expression distraught.

“I’m fine,” she lied, her teeth chattering slightly. She was ill; it was a warm August day, yet she was cold enough to be shivering.

He wrapped his arm around her and guided her across the shining white drive and up a set of broad stone steps. Julianne felt as if the coachman and the two footmen were watching them—as if they knew of their affair.

Liveried doormen had already opened a tall, wide ebony door for them, and now, they swept bows at them. Julianne felt her heart lurch. So many differences remained between them—an even better reason to remain set against him.

She stumbled as she took the top step. As if sensing her distress, he tightened his grasp on her. “You are ill.”

“I shouldn’t be here.”

“Nonsense. I am summoning the physician, Julianne.”

She could not answer, because he guided her across the threshold and into the entry hall.

As she took in the size of the circular chamber, the height of the ceiling, the beauty of the floors and the furnishings, she heard him speaking quietly to the manservant who had materialized before them. She wondered if she could collapse in the closest chair. Her knees felt terribly weak.

“Julianne,” he said, interrupting her thoughts, “this is Gerard. Anything you wish for, you must only ask and he will provide it for you.”

“I hope you are in jest,” she said, now aware that he had kept his arm around her.

“You have suffered a terrible ordeal. You are here to recover and rest. I am being earnest,” he said flatly. “Gerard, summon the Moorish physician, Al Taqur.”

“And if I ask for diamonds and pearls?” Tears suddenly welled. Whatever had made her say such a thing? She was not a mistress, to be showered with such gifts.

His face hardened. “You would never ask for either.”

She was very close to weeping again, but not because of the horror of her recent ordeal. Her heartbreak felt recent, raw and fresh. Somehow, she shook her head now, trying to signal him that this was unbearable and impossible.

Soft, feminine footsteps sounded, high heels clicking on the marble floors.

Julianne tensed and turned. A shockingly beautiful woman had just entered the hall from its opposite end. The lady stopped when she saw them, her expression stunned.

“My mother, Lady Catherine Paget, the Dowager Countess,” Dominic said softly.

Julianne realized she was very much in Dom’s embrace, and any fool would guess at their relationship. She wanted to twist free, but she couldn’t move, for Lady Catherine was now approaching.

The Dowager Countess was the most elegant woman she had ever seen. She had never seen as many jewels, or such a splendid headdress and white wig. The ladies passing her by in Cavendish Square, who had made her feel impoverished and gauche, were nothing in comparison to this magnificent, obviously wealthy woman. Her gaze—the exact same shade of green as Dominic’s—never wavered from them. As Catherine paused before them, her face hard and set, Julianne realized that what was most striking about her was her air of absolute confidence and authority. She was certain that Lady Catherine would never miss a thing.

“So this is the radical you have rescued from the Tower,” she said.

“Mother.” His tone was filled with warning. “Julianne Greystone saved my life. She spent weeks nursing me back to health in Cornwall, without a single servant to aid her.”

Catherine looked at Julianne. Her smile was cold and controlled and it did not reach her eyes. “Then I am indebted to you, Miss Greystone. Welcome to my home.”

Julianne fought for composure. Dominic had said the exact same thing, but his words had had a hint of warmth in them. Catherine clearly did not mean a word she had said. Julianne was almost certain that the other woman hated her on sight. “Thank you.”

Catherine gave her a condescending look, as if she was very gauche and had said the wrong thing.

Julianne did not want to face this woman just then, when she was at her worst in every possible way. She felt so faint now, and she was so cold and so tired. As the chamber tilted, images flashed, so quickly, she could barely decipher them. Being dragged out from under her own bed, the guards leering at her and asking her for her favors, hanging on the bars of her cell, begging for the constable....

“You are going to faint again!” Dominic exclaimed, and he lifted her into his arms.

She clung to his shoulders to balance herself, terribly dizzy, but not enough to miss his mother’s hard, disapproving expression. “I can walk. I must go. I should not be here,” she gasped.

“I am not letting you go anywhere,” Dom returned, striding from the hall. Over his shoulder, he said, “Send me a maid with a dressing gown, a dinner tray and a bottle of brandy.”

Julianne closed her eyes, but not before she glimpsed astonishment on the faces of the doormen. She pressed her cheek into his chest. “Everyone knows.”

“No one knows. You are very ill and I am very concerned. You took care of me once. I will take care of you now.” He began striding up a staircase.

The dizziness refusing to recede, she opened her eyes anyway, glimpsing a winding staircase with a red runner. Shivering, she stared downstairs as he went up, noting several salons, their doors open, all magnificently furnished. One contained a grand piano. She hadn’t played in years.

He had reached the second landing. “What is it?”

“We sold our piano when I was thirteen. I cried that day.”
Am I delirious?
she wondered. Why would she ever tell him such a thing?

He pushed open a whitewashed door and entered a beautiful pink-and-white bedroom. Julianne glanced around as he laid her down in the middle of a four-poster, canopied bed, taking in the pin-striped silk sofa, the red floral chairs, the Aubusson rug, the marble mantel over the hearth. He sat beside her, moving hair out of her face, and she jerked to look at him.

His smile was tender, but he said gravely, “You have a fever, Julianne.”

She was very cold. She realized he was removing her shoes. “What are you doing?”

“I want to get you under the covers,” he said, “but not in that gown.” He tossed both shoes onto the floor, and then began unrolling her torn and dirty stockings.

She wanted to protest. She did not have the strength. She sank back against the dozen pillows on the bed, absolutely exhausted, as her stockings were also tossed aside. She realized they were not the only ones in the bedchamber. A young maid stood there, her eyes wide, as did Lady Paget, who was coldly observing them. The Dowager said, “I believe Nancy can undress her, Dominic.”

He is ruining my reputation,
she thought. Then, feeling oddly drunk, she realized she had no reputation left to ruin.

“Help me with this gown,” he ordered.

Julianne sat up as the maid and Dominic divested her of the bloodstained dress. His mother turned and left the room, her face taut with anger. Julianne looked at Dominic as her stays were removed, shivering and trying to keep her eyes open. “She doesn’t like me.”

“No, she does not.” He was calm, handing off each item to the maid. He then helped her out of the plain cambric under petticoat she was wearing.

“I can keep my chemise,” she managed.

His gaze locked with hers. “It needs to be laundered.”

She would be starkly naked without it.

He stood and gestured at the maid. “Remove it.”

Julianne trembled, relieved, as Nancy helped her out of the filthy garment. Dominic kept his head turned away as the maid helped her into a beautiful silk caftan.

Julianne could not sit up for another moment and she collapsed, but he caught her and laid her gently down. “I think I am ill,” she began.

“Julianne!”

She gave up. Darkness claimed her and she welcomed it.

“A
RE
YOU
IN
LOVE
with her?”

Julianne trembled, on fire. She tried to recall the identity of the woman who was speaking, certain that she knew her. Charles said calmly, “That is a highly impertinent question.”

“I have never seen you so concerned about anyone, not even Nadine!”

Julianne kicked layers upon layers of blankets off. His fiancée was Nadine, she thought somehow, but Nadine was dead.

“She saved my life. I will do whatever I can to save hers.”

“The physician has said she is young and healthy—she will hardly die. She has a fever, that is all.”

“You did not see that place. It was infested.”

“She is a Jacobin, Dominic. She is the enemy. You cannot trust her!”

“I owe her. She is awakening.”

“You are in love!”

“Julianne? It is all right. You are with me, Dominic. You are in my home—you are ill.”

Julianne somehow looked up at him. Dominic? No, it was Charles, her beloved revolutionary hero. She smiled at him and reached for his face. His green eyes widened. She pulled him close and tried to kiss him. “I love you,” she said, and then it occurred to her that Charles did not exist, that everything was a lie, and her hero was Dominic. He had rescued her, taking her from the Tower....

His mouth feathered hers. Then he said softly, “You have a fever. You are delirious.”

I love him,
she thought. And she realized she had spoken aloud.

He stared, his face grim. “Who?”

Her mind swam. She saw Charles, no, Dominic, a question blazing in his eyes. Dominic, Charles…

A cool cloth was placed on her forehead, another on her chest. He stroked her hair. “Close your eyes. Go to sleep. Your fever has broken.”

“Charles.” She sighed.

J
ULIANNE
AWOKE
and froze for one instant, not recognizing the lavish bedchamber she was in. She stared in shock at the pleated rose canopy over her head.
Where am I?

Her memory returned with stunning clarity and force. Dominic Paget had rescued her from the Tower and brought her to his home.

As she slowly sat up, aware of the exquisite sensation of silk sliding across her naked skin—she was wearing a beautiful rose-and-gold-striped caftan, with nothing underneath—she saw Dominic sprawled in a small red floral bergère, long legs crossed, a quill in hand, a tray upon his lap. He was rapidly writing upon parchment laid out there.

Her heart turned over hard. If she was remembering correctly, he had taken care of her. She stared, entirely surprised, recalling his carrying her into the bedroom, helping her to undress, and even laying wet compresses upon her.

Are you in love with her?

Had she been dreaming, or had his mother really asked him that? What had he answered? And was she mad, to even wonder about his response?

Of course he did not love her.

But she bit her lip, trembling.

“You almost look frightened. Good morning.” She jerked as Dominic spoke, amusement in his tone. She met his gaze, which was warm. He stood, clad in a men’s dressing gown and slippers, his robe an exquisite shade of green that reminded her of his eyes.

She would never forget her first glimpse of him as he strode into the prison and the flood of relief that had accompanied that sight. She had needed him desperately and he had come.

I think I am in love with him,
she thought helplessly.
Yet he is an absolute stranger—I know nothing about him, except that he is the earl of Bedford, a British spy and that he ruthlessly deceived me when I was caring for him.

She knew she must not allow herself to love him. She must not allow herself to trust him. “Good morning,” she whispered, somehow tearing her gaze from his face. She glanced at one of the windows. Bright sunlight poured into the room, and she decided it was probably close to noon.

He laid the tray with his tablet and quill on a small, beautiful rosewood table, where a striking floral arrangement was. Then he glanced at her, his smile gone. “How are you feeling?”