The Spymaster's Men: Persuasion Part 6

"I suspect they were in the stables-they were covered with hay, and they both had an odor."

At least they were safely within. She glanced at Mrs. Murdock, who was apparently awaiting her lead. Amelia cleared her throat. Her heart raced even more swiftly. "And his lordship?"

A look of dismay flitted across the servant's face. "He remains inside his rooms, madam."

She inhaled nervously and said, "Tell him Miss Greystone has called."

Lloyd hesitated, as if considering an objection. Amelia nodded with encouragement and he left. Suddenly Mrs. Murdock said, "I will send for tea." She fled.

Amelia realized that they were all fearful of Grenville. Mrs. Murdock had not exaggerated, then. She began to pace. How could he lock himself in his rooms? On the drive over, Mrs. Murdock had revealed an astonishing and disturbing fact: he had not seen his children since the funeral, either.

That was so very wrong. It was selfish!

The servant appeared several moments later. He flushed and said, "I do not believe his lordship is receiving, Miss Greystone."

"What did he say?"

"He did not answer the door."

Amelia hesitated. If he would not come downstairs to speak with her, she would have to go upstairs to speak to him. Filled with trepidation, she fought for courage and looked at Lloyd. "Take me to his rooms."

Blanching, the servant nodded and led her into the corridor and up the stairs.

They paused before a heavy teakwood door. Lloyd was even paler now, and Amelia hoped Grenville wouldn't dismiss him for his audacity in bringing her to his rooms. She whispered, "Perhaps you should go."

He fled.

Her heart slammed. But there was no choice, so she lifted her hand and knocked sharply on his door.

There was no response. She rapped on the door again.

When only silence greeted her efforts, she took a fist and pounded on the door. "Grenville! Open up!"

There was still no response, although she thought she heard a footstep. "Grenville!" She pounded on the door several times. "It is Amelia Greystone. I wish to-"

And the door was flung open.

Amelia did not finish her sentence. Simon stood before her, clad only in an unb.u.t.toned shirt and his breeches. Half of his very muscular chest was revealed. He wore no stockings, no shoes. There was a great deal of bearded growth upon his face, and his hair was loose. Dark and nearly black, it reached his shoulders.

He stared at her unpleasantly.

She did not know what she had expected, but she had not expected him to greet her in such a disheveled state. And now she smelled the whiskey. "Grenville... Thank you for coming to the door," she stammered.

His mouth began to curl. His eyes darkened. "Amelia. Have you come to save my soul?" He laughed softly. "I must warn you, I cannot be saved, not even by you."

Amelia did not move. His dark eyes were smoldering; she recognized the look. Worse, her own heart was rioting. And she was briefly speechless.

What could he possibly be thinking?

He was smiling seductively. "You are wet. Come in...if you dare."

She had heard that tone before. Did he intend to flirt? Or worse, seduce her?

His smile widened. "Surely I am not frightening you?"

She fought for her composure. She had come to see him because his household was in a state, and there was no one in charge. His children needed him. They had to be cared for!

Some sanity returned. He had never looked as dangerous, or as dissipated-he had been drinking, excessively. They were facing one another over the threshold of his sitting room. She finally glanced inside. It was in a horrific condition. The pillows that belonged on the sofa were on the floor. Drinking gla.s.ses, some empty, some partly full, were on the various tabletops. A lamp was on the floor, broken in pieces. So was a mirror.

Several of the decanters on the sideboard were empty. There were empty wine bottles there, as well. There was also a dark red stain on the pale blue wall by the fireplace. And finally, she saw broken gla.s.s on the floor.

He was inebriated-and he had been in a rage. Obviously he had broken the lamp, the mirror and G.o.d only knew what else. "What can you be thinking?" she cried, overcome with genuine concern.

His eyes widened but she was already shoving past him. Then she turned and slammed his door. She did not want any of his staff to see the condition his rooms were in, or worse, the condition he was in.

"Let me guess," he said in that purr again. "You wish to be alone with me."

She trembled, wishing he would cease flirting. "Hardly!" she snapped. "I do hope you are proud of yourself." She marched to the scattered pillows, retrieved them, and tidied up the sofa. But even as angry as she was becoming, her heart was racing wildly. She did not like being alone with him like this. He was far too masculine-far too intriguing.

"What are you doing?"

She knelt and began collecting gla.s.s, using her skirts as an ap.r.o.n. "I am tidying up, Grenville." She decided not to look his way. Maybe he would close his shirt.

"There are maids who clean this house."

She refused to turn, but the image of him, more unclothed than not, remained fresh and graphic in her mind. "I don't want anyone to see your rooms like this." She stood and went to the trash can and emptied her skirt into it. Then she knelt to begin picking up the shards of the broken mirror.

The next thing she knew, he was clasping her shoulders as he knelt behind her and her body was spooned into his. "You are not a housemaid, Amelia, you are my guest," he murmured.

Amelia couldn't move. Her mind became utterly blank. His body was large and male, hard and strong, and she felt tiny, pressed against him as she was. Her heart was rioting so wildly that she could not breathe.

"Amelia," he said softly, and she felt his lips against her cheek.

"Release me!" she cried, struggling to stand and get free.

"I thought you liked it when I held you," he whispered into her ear. He did not release her; he did not allow her to stand.

Impossibly, desire flamed. She felt the urgency in every part of her body, in every fiber of her being. "You are intoxicated," she accused.

"Yes, I am. And I had forgotten just how tiny and beautiful you are, and how perfectly you fit in my arms."

Panic gave her unusual strength-or he was done toying with her. Amelia wrenched free. She leaped to her feet as he slowly stood to tower over her. She faced him, defiantly. "What can you possibly be thinking?" she cried.

"I am thinking that you are so pretty, and that we are alone." He was amused. "You are blushing."

"I am old!" What had he been doing? Had he tried to embrace her? Had she felt his mouth on her cheek?

Had he kissed her?

She backed away. Coming into his rooms had been a mistake, she realized that now. "Do not touch me again!" she warned.

His dark eyes gleamed. "You entered at your own risk."

"What does that mean?"

"It means you know as well as I do that I am not to be trusted."

She did not know what to say. He had just made a very direct reference to his courtship of her-and his betrayal. She stood there with her backside against the sideboard, trying to regain her breath. His hands fisted and found his hips. He stared at her, unsmiling, unmoving. She despaired, because now she had the vast opportunity to ogle the hard planes of his chest, the angles of his ribs and to notice that he did not have an ounce of fat upon him. He was leaner than he had been at the age of twenty-one. He was, undoubtedly, too thin.

"You are staring." He spoke flatly.

She jerked her gaze away, and saw the pieces of broken mirror, not far from his bare feet. "You are not properly dressed."

"Surely my bare legs do not bother you...Amelia?"

She glanced up and their gazes met. His smile was twisted, his dark gaze filled with speculation. "You have seen far more than my bare calves," he said.

"That was uncalled for!" she cried, aghast. Now she recalled unb.u.t.toning his shirt in a fit of pa.s.sion, and running her hands over those hard muscles.

"I never claimed to be a gentleman." But he reached for the sides of his shirt, pulling them together. Never moving his gaze from her, he b.u.t.toned up his shirt. "Is that better?"

It wasn't better at all. She knew she must stop her memories from spilling over now. "There is broken gla.s.s everywhere. Your feet are bare." She spoke sharply.

Suddenly sober, he said, "A shard of gla.s.s cannot hurt me."

She saw numerous cuts on his feet. She jerked her gaze up. "Your foot is already bleeding, Grenville." This was safer ground.

He made a derisive sound. "You are worried about a few tiny scratches?"

She was worried, but not about those cuts! "You do not want to get an infection," she tried.

"Men die every day." He was hard, harsh and angry. "From bayonets, powder, cannon, the Blade... And you are worried about a few little pieces of gla.s.s." He laughed, but the sound was frightening.

She stared, hugging herself. He was talking about the war and the revolution, but why? Most Britons had been affected in some way by the wars, and the average citizen read about the war on an almost daily basis. War stories abounded in every inn and tavern, and rumors ran rampant-the threat of invasion, the reach of the Terror, the possible fall of the Republic. But Grenville sounded almost personally involved. "Have you been to war?" she heard herself ask. "Have you been to France?"

He suddenly turned away. Not looking at her, he walked over to the low table before the gold sofa and picked up a gla.s.s of scotch. As if he hadn't heard her, he studied it. He finally said, "I do not like drinking alone. Is it late? I seem to recall that you enjoy a gla.s.s of brandy before bedtime. If I broke the decanter of brandy, there are plenty of bottles downstairs." He looked at her and stared. His regard was challenging and very, very dark.

The terrible tension returned. "It is midday, Grenville." She prayed he wasn't flirting with her.

Sipping, he studied her over the rim of his gla.s.s. "Simon. Join me anyway. Drinking alone is an abhorrent habit. Despicable, truly."

She was not about to have a drink with him, especially not now, like this. "Do you frequently drink alone?"

"All of the time." He saluted her with his gla.s.s.

What had happened to him? Why wasn't he comforting his children? Why had he avoided his marriage, if Mrs. Murdock were right?

"Ah, I see you are feeling sorry for me." His eyes gleamed and Amelia realized he was pleased.

"You are grieving. Of course I am feeling sorry for you."

His smile vanished. "It is not what you think." He tossed off the rest of his drink and strode over to the sideboard, coming precariously close to walking over shattered gla.s.s as he did so.

She cried out. "Grenville, be careful!"

"I don't care about the d.a.m.ned gla.s.s!"

She froze, because he had suddenly shouted at her and there was so much fury in his tone. It was as if lightning had ripped apart the sky, out of the blue. She stared, aghast, as he braced both arms against the sideboard.

She had the frightening urge to rush over to him and clasp his shoulder and ask him what was wrong. She wet her lips and said, "Are you all right?"

"No." He poured another scotch, his movements stiff with anger. Then he slowly turned and faced her. "Why are you here?"

She hesitated. "You haven't come out of your rooms in days. You haven't seen your children."

"No, I have not." He made a mocking sound. "And you are here to rescue me from myself?"

"Yes."

"Ah, we are being honest now." His gaze darkened.

"When did you become so dark-so cynical-so unhappy?" she asked.

He started. And she saw the wave of anger as it came. He drained that drink, too, and slammed it down. "Has it ever occurred to you that being here-alone with me-is dangerous?"

She trembled. "Yes, it has."

"I do not feel like being rescued. You should go."

"I don't think I should leave you when you are in such a state."

He folded his arms across his broad chest and began to smile. "I was wrong. You have changed. The child I once knew was so terribly pliant. She was putty in my hands. I am facing a stubborn and annoying woman now."

His words stabbed through her. "You are hurt, so you are lashing out."

He laughed coldly at her. "Think as you will."

Amelia watched him pour another drink, wanting to take it away. "I know you are grieving. Your children are grieving, as well. But grief doesn't give you the right to behave as if you are a spoiled child."

His eyes widened. "You dare to berate me?"

"Someone must set you upside down on your ear!" she cried in frustration.

He set the gla.s.s down hard, and this time, the drink was untouched. "You were never entirely intimidated by me. Even when you were sixteen, and as naive and as innocent as a newborn babe, you had the courage I find lacking in most women and most men."

She was rigid. "I do not intend to discuss the past."

"But you did hold me in some awe. Are you still awed?" His tone was mocking, but his gaze was hard and unwavering.