Seduction (23 page)

And the desire made her dizzy and faint. She kissed him back, wondering if she dared to believe him, to trust him, shaken to the core of her being. He tore his mouth from hers, kissing her throat and then her breasts. Only two thin layers of fabric covered her body and Julianne whimpered. It was impossible to think coherently.

But he seized her shoulders, anchored her and kissed her very thoroughly again. Julianne gave up trying to think. There was only the whirl of growing sensation and pleasure, of building pressure, of anticipation and need.

He ended the kiss, breathing hard, his green gaze on fire. “I want you very much.”

She stared into his gaze, too breathless to speak, her mind beginning to function. Did she dare start over with him now?

And her heart screamed “Yes!” at her.

He touched her cheek with his knuckles. “I don’t ever want to go through the horror of finding you in prison again.”

“I don’t ever want to be in prison again.”

“Good.” He was firm. “We are agreed. And I want you to stay here with me until you are fully recovered.”

She knew that if she stayed, she would wind up becoming his lover again.

“I am not letting you leave,” he said softly.

Their gazes locked. “That is tyrannical.”

He smiled. “I suppose so.”

“I don’t think Lady Paget will allow me to stay.”

He merely raised a brow, amused. “This is my home,” he said, “and she will do as I wish.”

And Julianne knew she had lost the argument.

J
ULIANNE
WAS
CURLED
UP
in her bed when a knock sounded on her door. She had been so exhausted that she had slept on and off for most of the day. She had just awoken and it was early evening now. Her heart leapt. She hoped Dominic was at the door.

Nancy came inside, a pile of clothes in her arms. “You have a caller. Can I help you to dress?”

The only person who would call on her was Lucas, she thought. She prayed Dominic was out. As she got up, she asked, “Is Lord Paget at home?”

“He is downstairs with your caller,” Nancy said, holding up a beautiful silk chemise trimmed with lace.

Julianne walked over to her and looked at the beribboned linen stays, the dimity under petticoat, and then at the pale blue silk ensemble—a corded and draped skirt and fitted jacket. “Whose clothes are these?” She had never worn such fine garments in her life.

“I don’t know. I believe his lordship sent someone to Lady Paget’s seamstress. Perhaps these garments were ordered by someone else and he found a way to acquire them?”

“I don’t think I should wear them.”

“I was instructed to bring them to you,” Nancy said, looking worried. “You will be beautiful, Miss Greystone, in that shade of pale blue.”

Julianne surrendered. Just then, she did not care what she wore—if Paget were filling Lucas’s ears with details of her misadventures, he was going to be furious with her.

Fifteen minutes later, her hair simply brushed, with a few sections pulled and tied back, the rest hanging loose, Julianne followed Nancy downstairs. As she descended the last few steps, she could see into the larger salon, as the mahogany doors were wide open. She saw both men before they saw her. Dominic faced the door, still clad in his dark brown coat. He held a drink in his hand. Lucas had his back to her, wearing an unadorned tan frock coat, breeches and boots. She faltered as Dom’s gaze moved slowly over her, widening with stark appreciation.

Lucas turned and stared coldly.

Her heart drummed. She didn’t even try to smile, coming down the rest of the stairs, and crossing the threshold of the salon with vast trepidation. “Hello, Lucas.”

He did not mince words. “I am very angry with you.”

She looked past him at Dominic. “Did you spare me at all?”

“No, I did not.”

She went to her brother and kissed his cheek but he seized her arm. “You were incarcerated.”

“Yes, I was. But as you can see, I am fine.”

“Only because Paget managed to free you!” His gray gaze flashed.

“You are engaged in your own clandestine activities. Surely there is not a double standard here?”

Lucas choked on disbelief. “I am not engaged in sedition—in treason! And do not bother to defend yourself. I am tired of hearing about your rights. Clearly, I have indulged you when I shouldn’t have.”

She said carefully, “Whatever Paget told you, I am sure he exaggerated.”

Dominic said flatly, “I told him everything, Julianne.”

She bit her lip. “Then Lucas knows I am no worse for the wear!”

Lucas was looking back and forth between them now. “I know that you lied to me, Julianne. That you attended an assembly filled with seditious speech, that you were struck and knocked down. Your jaw is black-and-blue! I understand you were very ill. But the moment you are well enough to travel, you are returning to Greystone Manor. At least there, no one will pay attention to what you say or do.”

“I am not sure of that anymore,” Dominic said to Lucas, his gaze still locked with Julianne’s. He finally looked at him. “What has just happened in London will be happening all over the country. I have had my suspicions confirmed. The Alien Office will hunt down British radicals—everywhere in the country.”

Lucas turned to Julianne. “I have heard the same thing. I have much to worry about. And now I must worry about you.”

She felt guilty then. “I am not a fool, Lucas. I have no intention of openly advocating my causes, or of inciting or attracting the authorities and their agents.” Both men regarded her at once. “I mean it. And I am glad you are back in town.” She finally smiled at him.

“I have to leave again, first thing in the morning. I hate to admit this, but I am afraid to leave you to your own devices in Warlock’s flat.”

“She can stay here.” Dom was final. “I owe her, and I intend to repay her now.”

She turned to him. Not looking at Lucas, he said to him, “She can stay here, and I will make certain she rests until she is recovered.”

“So you will be my keeper?” she asked, her heart thundering.

“Yes,” he said flatly. “Someone needs to protect you—from yourself.”

Lucas said sharply, “What is going on here?”

“Your sister saved my life. I feel that I must now save hers.” Dominic was firm.

“You already have, Bedford, when you got her out of the Tower. Your debt is undoubtedly repaid,” Lucas said, glancing with some suspicion between them now.

“I do not feel that it is repaid. What if Pitt’s men decide to question her? She is now undoubtedly on a watch list.”

Lucas gave Julianne a dark look. “You are right. I’d like a moment with my sister, if you do not mind.”

Dominic nodded, set his brandy down and strode out of the room.

Julianne sank down in a chair. Exhaustion—most of it emotional, she thought—claimed her. Lucas pulled over an ottoman and sat facing her. “Why are you near tears?”

She somehow shook her head. “I am exhausted.”

“Yes, being imprisoned is very exhausting.”

“Lucas!”

“He isn’t Maurice, Julianne—he is
Bedford.
”

She tensed. “I know.”

“Do you? I believe that you are falling for him.”

She looked into his searching, worried eyes. “I should go home,” she said, referring to Warlock’s Cavendish Square flat.

“You haven’t answered me.” He took her hand.

Julianne clung to it. “I pray that I am not falling in love with him, against all common sense. But sometimes it feels as if he is my hero after all.”

He pulled her close and held her. “He is not for you, Julianne. Trust me on that. Of course he feels like a hero to you—he just got you out of the Tower. But one day, he will marry some wealthy debutante. It is what nobles do. As witty and wonderful and as beautiful as you are, you will never be that woman. He is the earl of Bedford, Julianne, and you only have to look around you now to see that you cannot overcome the gulf of class and economy that separate you. I hate that he has affected you so.”

Julianne was afraid that Lucas was right.

“Has he made advances?” Lucas asked.

Julianne felt herself blanch. It was a moment before she could speak. “How could you ask such a thing?”

He studied her carefully. “Thank God you are in one piece.” Lucas embraced her briefly. “I have to go, Julianne. I have traveled all day, and it is getting late. But I believe it is best for you to stay here, for a while.”

“You won’t tell me what you are up to, will you?” When he simply smiled, not answering, she hugged him, hard. “Please be careful, Lucas.”

“I am always careful.”

He was so confident! Julianne walked him to the door. Dominic stood in the hall outside. Julianne paused on the threshold as her brother and Dominic walked into the adjacent tower room. She watched them exchange handshakes at the front door, aware of the fact that in a moment she and Paget would be alone in the house. Tension swept over her.

When Lucas was gone, the liveried doormen closed the door and Dominic turned. Her heart lurched as their gazes met from across the entry tower.

He strode across the tower room. Her tension escalated. It was dark out now. She knew she must somehow forget that they had been lovers; she must ignore the attraction that continued to smolder between them.

And he would not make advances now, would he? She had been so ill yesterday!

He took her arm and steered her back into the salon. Julianne did not balk.

He poured brandy into a snifter and handed it to her. “It has been a very long day.”

She accepted the drink. “Yes, it has.” Her heart had begun to pulse more swiftly now.

“Are you reconciled to staying here?”

“I suppose so.”

“You do not look happy about it.”

She set the untouched drink down. “I am damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”

His expression was dark. “Apparently, we feel the same way.”

“What does that mean?” she whispered.

“It means that I have missed you, Julianne.”

Just then, she believed his every word. “Dominic. I miss you so much, too.”

He pulled her close and claimed her mouth with his.

CHAPTER TWELVE

D
OMINIC
HELD
J
ULIANNE
as she slept, early morning sunlight creeping into his bedchamber. He felt as if a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. There was no denying that he had missed her. When in her arms, he slept heavily, without nightmares.

She stirred.

“Shh,” he murmured. “Stay in bed. You should rest.”

Reluctantly, he released her and sat up. No longer smiling, he admitted that he had become fond of her, very fond. During the past few weeks, he had told himself that it simply did not matter. The events of the past days had changed everything.

He had been sick with fear when he had learned that she was in the Tower, and overcome with horror when he had seen her in that rat cell. And he was furious whenever he thought of her getting caught up in that Reeves attack upon the assembly she had been attending.

He was grim now as he quietly slid from the bed, reaching for a dressing gown and draping it over his nude body. He was a Tory and she was a Jacobin. They were passionate about their beliefs. But they were lovers now. Surely he could trust her.

And did it even matter? This could hardly be a new beginning. How could it be, when he would soon return to France?

And then there was Nadine.

So much had obviously changed between them. He no longer felt connected to his fiancée; he could no longer look into her eyes and ascertain what she was thinking. She had admitted that she felt the same distance now. Yet he would always defend, admire and care for her. He had planned to end the engagement for political reasons, but now he was keeping his mistress under his roof and that made it all the more necessary—and urgent—to speak with her.

Nadine had always understood him. They had never argued. He had always wanted what was best for her, and she had always wanted what was best for him. Nadine had indicated that she had lost interest in their union, as well, but he did not relish telling her that it was over. He couldn’t imagine any woman being happy about the fact that her fiancé had become attached to someone else.

He hoped that, one day, Nadine would find herself as interested in another man as he was by Julianne.

Dom walked quickly across his bedroom, but paused at the door to his sitting room to glance back at Julianne. The bed had navy blue covers and a quilted navy blue canopy. The top of the canopy was gold, as were the draperies, the sheets and pillows. Julianne was pale and small as she lay alone in his massively sized bed. His heart skipped, but he was stirred with foreboding.

If only he could trust her completely. He wished he could tell her every horrific detail of the past two years. It would feel good to unburden himself. But he would never do such a thing.

He turned away, walked into his sitting room and crossed to his
secrétaire
.

No one was allowed in his suite except for his valet, Jean. The housemaids who cleaned it did so under Jean’s supervision. He was dressing and going out. Julianne would be alone in his private chambers.

The past few years had taught him to be suspicious and circumspect. He had learned to trust no one. He glanced at his desk carefully now, even though it was not in his nature to leave any incriminating signs about. The letter he was in the midst of writing was harmless. Only some parchment, a quill and inkwell were beside it. The letter he had received from Michel yesterday was under lock and key.

Dominic went to his massive bookcase and withdrew one book from a shelf that was eye level. He opened it and took the key from the small pocket which had been carved in its cover, then replaced the book.

He returned to his desk, unlocked the desk’s third right-hand drawer and withdrew the letter. He had already read it, and the news wasn’t good. The Committee of Public Safety had ordered General Carrier to undertake a “pacification” of La Vendée, through the complete destruction of the region. Michel needed that convoy well before mid-October.

He would write Michel later and convey the current plan, but also advise him that he would not cease his efforts to move up the scheduled rendezvous. He hoped to send the missive by courier at dawn tomorrow.

Dominic took up a box of flint from another drawer and lit one. He then burned Michel’s letter.

Because he also had some maps he had sketched within the drawer, and some notes, he relocked it.

Dominic went back to the bookcase, took out the volume of poetry and replaced the key. He sighed. He wasn’t sure he really believed that Julianne would spy amongst his affects. He was merely exercising caution.

I
F
SHE
HAD
BEEN
falling in love with Paget before, it was certainly worse now.

Julianne stared at the quilted navy blue canopy over her head. She had just opened her eyes and she did not know whether to be thrilled or dismayed. There was nowhere she would rather be than in Dominic’s arms.

She suddenly heard him moving in the adjacent sitting room, and she leaned up on one elbow. He was putting a book into the bookcase, his back to her. Then he crossed the room, disappearing from her view. She heard a door open.

Her heart turned over, hard, as she lay back against the pillows. She might be inexperienced but she was no fool. He wanted her and he had admitted that he needed her—but that hardly meant that he loved her. However, the smallest gestures had the biggest impact on her. When he planted a brief, chaste kiss on her shoulder or cheek, she had the oddest notion that he was falling in love, too.

She knew it was dangerous to begin to think that he shared her powerful feelings. She knew she should not trust his word, not after his deception in Cornwall. And even if he did care, a huge gulf remained, separating them. It was the gulf of class and politics. One day he would marry someone as rich and titled as he was.

She was so afraid. She was afraid of the feelings in her heart. She must not allow herself to fall in love. And not because he had deceived her, not because he was a stranger, or a spy and a Tory, but because he was the earl of Bedford. She was only his mistress.

She sat up slowly, against a dozen blue-and-gold pillows, hugging the silk covers to her chest. She had never been in his private rooms before. She felt as if she were in a royal bedchamber. The lower parts of the walls were paneled in gilded wood, the upper half, flocked in navy fabric threaded with gold. The ceilings were gold-and-white, boasting two large crystal chandeliers. There were two seating areas in the room, one in front of a hearth with a gold-and-white marble mantel. There was also a beautiful rosewood breakfast table by a tall window, out of which she could see spectacular gardens. The floral arrangement there was yellow and purple. She felt certain that the flowers had come from his gardens.

She should leave him. She should get up, get dressed and go back to Cavendish Square. And then she would find the first traveler returning to Cornwall and beg a ride home. There, she could go back to her ordinary, political life. There, she could try to forget him.

But she wasn’t going to do that, because she wanted to see Paget another time. She wanted to look into his eyes after this last night. She knew she was hoping to see a reflection of her own feelings mirrored there.

The dressing gown she had worn the day before had been laid out on the back of a chair for her. She slipped it on and thought she heard a door closing. She hurried to close the door to his chamber, rushing into the adjacent parlor, but Dominic was not there.

She was certain he had just left, as the door to his dressing room was open, as was the door to the hall outside the sitting room. This parlor was gold, with pale blue accents, and as such, was much more cheerful—and less majestic—than the bedchamber. A small sofa was in front of the fireplace, while a dining table was set before the windows overlooking the gardens outside. One wall boasted the bookcase, another, his
secrétaire
.

She walked over to his dressing room and knocked politely. When there was no answer, she called his name softly and glanced inside. She saw his caftan on the floor, and knew he had already dressed and left. Absurdly, she was disappointed.

It was midmorning, and she was ready for breakfast, but Julianne saw the parchment and quill on the desk and paused. She should write to Tom. It would only take a few moments and she wanted to apprise him of the recent events. She went to the desk, ignoring the letter he had been writing. She reached for a page of vellum. As she pulled it forward and sat, her gaze skipped over the bold script on the letter’s page, and she saw the date and opening line.

It had been begun a week ago, and the salutation was, “My dear Edmund.”

Hardly interested, Julianne reached for the quill when she saw the envelope beside the inkwell. It was impossible not to read it.

It was addressed to the renowned—no, infamous—reactionary, Edmund Burke!

Julianne was shocked. She despised Burke’s views! She despised Burke, the turncoat! How despicable he was! Once a longtime friend and follower of Charles James Fox, whom Julianne so admired, Burke had recently announced his formal separation from the Whigs and had become, almost overnight, one of the nation’s leading Tories. Burke was renowned for having written numerous tracts on the ills and evils of the French Revolution, which he considered nothing more than sheer anarchy. He was a proponent of stopping the revolution in its tracks!

Filled with dread, she seized Dominic’s letter and began to read, so agitated she could not breathe properly.

And she became confused.

Dominic had begun by writing, “You know, my good friend, that I stand with you on the principles that unite us—and that I stand behind the dire necessity to prevent the revolution from ever reaching the shores of this great, free land. However, I have grave reservations about using the Alien Office to repress dissent throughout the country. In a nation like ours, a healthy discussion of opposing ideas strengthens freedom. It does not weaken it.” He added, “Obviously outright and bold sedition must be oppressed, but there is a line between allowing free speech and condemning seditious speech.”

He went on to say that England’s social and political fabric should be strengthened through gentle, gradual, much-needed reform—such as widening the franchise, such as mandating a standard minimum wage. He even found the notion of an income tax upon the wealthy worth considering.

“I pray you will consider my suggestions,” he ended. “And have no doubt that I remain staunchly loyal to Prime Minister Pitt and the Tory Party, and that I will continue to do everything in my power to prevent radicals and republicans from importing the revolution to our shores.”

Julianne was stunned. Yes, he was against the revolution, and he meant to fight it, but he wasn’t the absolute reactionary she had assumed he was. She was hardly opposed to gradual and gentle reforms in her own country. She felt certain that such reforms would never be made—the ruling parties had too much to lose. Still, his views weren’t intolerable to her—not at all!

He is not for you, Julianne. Trust me on that… One day, he will marry some wealthy debutante....

She shivered, although she wasn’t cold. Did it really matter if he favored reform in Great Britain? She had better never forget that he would always be the earl of Bedford, and so far above her that he might as well have been a prince to her Cinderella. Caring was not love, and men in his position did not marry for love, anyway!

Julianne put the letter back down, shaken.
Did she secretly wish to marry Paget?

Her heart was thundering.

She had lost all desire to write Tom. Maybe she would write Amelia, she thought, suddenly miserable.

The quill was no longer on top of the desk, and she looked at the floor. Sure enough, it had fallen. As she retrieved it, she saw that the tip was broken and useless. She reached for a drawer to find another quill, not that she really cared about writing anyone now.

It was locked.

She tried the lower right-hand drawer again. It was most definitely locked. She stared. What was he keeping inside? She didn’t even have to think about it—war memos and war secrets were probably hidden there.

She was glad it was locked. She did not want to spy on him. Julianne tried the drawer above it and it opened immediately. She saw several quills—as well as a stack of envelopes tied with a black ribbon.

The delicate script on the topmost envelope was definitely feminine.

She froze. She knew she was staring at a pile of love letters.

Instantly she closed the drawer. She knew she should not look at the letters. But her mind was oddly blank. Did she have a rival? Surely those were ancient letters!

She continued to stare. She was sharing Paget’s bed. Damn it—she had to know who those letters were from—and if they were recent or not.

She took the pile of bound envelopes out, trembling. Julianne untied the ribbon and turned over the top letter. It was from Nadine D’Archand.

Surprise immobilized her.
D’Archand.
Was she one of the émigrés Marcel wished to locate? Was it even possible? Was D’Archand a common name—or an uncommon one? She could hardly believe the coincidence.