by Brenda Joyce
His door was closed, but not entirely shut. She raised her hand to knock, and realized how absurd that was.
Julianne pushed open the door. As she stepped inside, she saw that the chamber remained slightly illuminated. Embers glowed in the hearth from the fire that had been made at supper time. Charles stood by the hearth, clad only in his knee-length drawers. He was staring over his shoulder at the door.
“Julianne,” he said softly.
She closed the door behind her, trembling. She was suddenly uncertain, insecure and oddly afraid. He was a stranger, but she loved him and he could die in France....
He came forward, toward her. She hugged herself, gazing at his bare, sculpted chest, his concave, rippling belly, and then at the bulge pressing against thin cotton.
He quickly crossed the small room, unsmiling, his eyes ablaze. “I wasn’t sure you would come.” He caught her shoulder with one hand, her chin with the other. “I want you to be sure.”
“How could I refuse you now?” she whispered.
He kissed her.
She moved into the powerful circle of his arms, as his mouth opened hers. She forgot her doubts, her fears. This was Charles. She was in love.
Julianne found his hard, muscular back, and helplessly, she began exploring the rigid tendons there, as he softened his kiss, finally pausing to breathe hard against her cheek.
Every inch of him was aroused.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said harshly. “Not now—or ever.”
“You won’t hurt me,” she said, grasping his shoulders. His words somehow seemed odd, but it was so hard to think coherently.
His green gaze was burning. “I want you, Julianne. God, I have wanted you—needed you—from the start.”
He embraced her again, his mouth on hers. She felt herself become pliant, yielding to him, pressing against him, kissing him back. She felt so faint with need now. He tore his mouth from hers, but only to press his mouth against her throat and then into the vee of her nightgown. She moaned.
He began pulling up her nightgown. Julianne went still as her knees and thighs were bared. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, pulling it up and over her head, then tossing it aside. And before she could think about the fact that she was unclothed, with firelight washing over her, he cupped her breasts and kissed her nipples, then slid his hand low over her belly. She gasped with pleasure.
And then her heart began a wild pounding, as did every pulse point in her body.
She could not move. She did not want to. His tongue moved over her nipple. His hands moved between her thighs. He began to stroke her, deftly. Julianne cried out, stunned by the building crescendo of pleasure.
He moved his hand there, his fingers featherlike now. Julianne began to tremble violently. She wanted to tell him that she could not stand the pleasure he was bringing her—it was pleasure and agony, at once.
And he suddenly lifted her up and seated her on his hips, wrapping her legs around him. Julianne somehow opened her eyes in real surprise, her back against the door as he surged up into her.
The pressure was blinding, the pleasure shocking, the explosion instantaneous.
She clung. She clawed. She wept. And vaguely, she heard him moaning her name.
“Julianne.”
CHAPTER FIVE
OUTSIDE CHARLES’S BEDROOM, Julianne hesitated, holding a breakfast tray. Her heart was racing and her knees felt weak. She was ridiculously nervous about seeing him.
Charles had made love to her last night.
Her heart leapt in her chest. She recalled his kisses, his touch, how he felt beneath her hands, and she felt faint all over again. There was a delirious joy in her heart and a maddening urgency in her body. They were lovers now.
And she had no regrets.
She was deeply, irrevocably, in love.
Balancing the tray, she knocked gently on the door. “Charles?”
“Julianne?” he said, sounding hoarse and sleepy. As she came in, he slowly smiled at her, pulling the covers up past his naval. “Apparently I have overslept.”
“Apparently,” she breathed, stealing a glance at his bare chest. She was shocked that she would be so aroused by his mere presence again. She wondered if she would ever be able to look at him, without thinking terribly sinful thoughts—without wanting to be in his arms. She set the tray down on the table, images of his lovemaking last night flooding her mind. “I will leave you to give you some time to properly attire.”
“Prude,” he said softly.
She jumped.
“Are you afraid to look at me?”
Flushing, she slowly met his gaze. Humor filled it. “Of course not.” Some of her tension faded.
“Good. I prefer to have your company,” he said, staring. “There is no reason to feel embarrassed, Julianne.”
“I am not embarrassed.”
He glanced at the open door.
She always left the door open when they were in his chamber together. It would be inappropriate to do otherwise. “I think it better to go on as usual.” She kept her voice low.
He smiled as he got up, and she averted her eyes from his powerful body. Her mind went oddly blank. There were only those stunning, passionate memories—and her uncertainty about their relationship.
“How is Amelia today?” he asked, shrugging on his shirt.
“She remains ignorant. I hate deceiving my sister.”
“I know. I have already realized how honest and open you are.” And suddenly he touched her from behind, startling her, enough so that she whirled to face him. His green gaze steady, he said, “Why are you afraid to look at me today? Do not deny it. You are avoiding me—and you are so terribly tense. Do you regret last night?”
She met his intense, searching gaze. “No.” Her heart was pounding with frightening force. She was so acutely aware of the desire they had shared and how explosive that passion could be, again.
“Good. I have no regrets, either.” He became very serious. “How do you feel this morning? I am worried that I was rougher than I should have been.”
She glanced behind her, at the open door. He said, “We are alone,” tucking some hair behind her ear.
The tender gesture thrilled her. “You did not hurt me. Not at all. But I have never felt this way before.” When he didn’t comment, she explained, feeling shy, “I am aching and warm—in a terribly wonderful way—even in my heart.”
He smiled and pulled out a chair for her. She took it, gazing expectantly at him. He sat, allowing her to pour his tea as he began to eat from his plate of eggs and sausage. Julianne stared. Where did they go from there?
He looked up at her. “You are never so quiet. Should I worry?”
This was the second time he had asked her what was wrong. She felt her smile fade. Hadn’t he told her that he liked to know what she was thinking? “I am afraid of discovery.”
“I thought so.” He laid his knife and fork down. “It was foolish to linger together for as long as we did. It was entirely my fault. You should have left well before sunrise.”
“I knew better, also,” she said shyly. “I did not want to leave.”
“You will come to me tonight, won’t you?”
Her heart leapt in excitement. Of course she would come; they were lovers now.
But how did she ask him about his feelings? And why did she even think it necessary? He had made love to her.
“Do you think you will go into St. Just or Penzance today?”
In a way, the change of subject was welcome. “I hadn’t planned on it. Why?”
“I am anxious for news, especially of the war and the latest edicts in Paris,” he said, taking a sip of tea.
“I didn’t have time yesterday to ask for news,” she said. “Amelia is always in a rush.”
“Would you go into Penzance today, just for the purpose of soliciting news—perhaps from that friend of yours, Treyton?”
“Of course,” she said, surprised that he would recall Tom
. She had mentioned him only that one time.
“I would appreciate it.”
His stare was piercing—as if he wished to know her most personal secrets. She had a moment of discomfort. She felt that she wore her feelings rather openly; he, on the other hand, was very guarded. She never knew what he was truly thinking. “What is it?”
“Why me, Julianne?”
So he wanted to have a serious discussion about their affair. Alarmed, she hesitated. “We have become good friends—close friends,” she said carefully.
He was silent. Then, “Yes, we have.”
“We crusade for the same great cause.”
It was a moment before he spoke. “Yes, we both cherish freedom.”
“I respect and admire you very much.” She finally met his gaze. It remained intent.
It was a moment before he said, “I am flattered. But you have put your reputation in jeopardy.”
“I don’t care about my reputation, Charles,” she said, meaning it.
“All women care about their reputations.” He smiled.
And she smiled back. “With one exception.”
His gaze sparkled. “And why, pray tell, have you no regard for your reputation?”
She didn’t mind sharing her feelings with him. “I am not like other women. And not just because I am so radical. Before the war, when I was welcome in my neighbors’ homes, I was called odd behind my back—I have even been called mannish, all because I am educated, well-read and I have opinions. I believe I was twelve or thirteen when a neighbor told Momma that I had opinions, and didn’t she seek to repair that?” Julianne smiled, although at the time, she had been hurt by the Lady Delaware’s criticism. “That lady told my mother I would never catch a husband if I was not silenced.” His gaze was riveted upon her. She shrugged. “I don’t know why I am so different. I don’t know why I don’t care at all about fine silks, pearls and handsome suitors, but I do not.”
He finally smiled. “I cannot imagine you lusting for a silk ball gown—although you would be lovely in one.”
She flushed. “I have no use for ball gowns, obviously.”
“You have never been to a ball?”
“No. It would be rather hypocritical, don’t you think?” But secretly, she imagined that a ball must be glorious, indeed. And attending a ball or two would hardly be the crux of evil, not if one crusaded constantly for freedom for the common man—not that she would ever have such an opportunity.
“No one would ever accuse you of being a hypocrite.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
He was considering for a moment. “I am sorry that your neighbors do not appreciate your character and integrity.”
She hesitated. “Many doors that were once open to me are closed to me now.” Of course it saddened her—and it even hurt, at times—as she knew the entire parish so well. But she could not pretend to be someone she wasn’t.
“It cannot be easy, being a pariah,” he said softly, touching her cheek.
“Well, I am hardly a pariah!” She sighed. “Some in the parish are more hateful than others. Those who are the rudest are the very same people who are most afraid of the changes in France. I understand, and that helps. I am not hateful in return.”
“No, you would never be hateful, not to anyone, not even your political enemies.”
She cocked her head, gazing at him. “You have come to know me well.”
“I think so.” He touched her cheek again. “But you still haven’t answered my original question—why me?”
She went still. Her heart thundered. What should she say?
“Why me?” he asked again, firmly.
“I have come to care about you, Charles,” she said, trembling. He seemed to sit up straighter; his gaze now sharp. “I care enough to want to be with you—no matter the circumstance. But you already know that.”
“If there is one thing I truly admire about you, it is your candor,” he said. That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but he added, “And you know how much I have wanted you, from the moment I awoke from that fever, practically in your arms.”
“Actually, although you flirted with me, I didn’t know how much you wanted me, not then.” She smiled at the memories of his first waking moments at Greystone.
He smiled back. “Because you have so little experience.”
She dared, “Not anymore.”
He gave her a look which said that a great deal more experience was to come. Then, reflectively, he said, “You saved my life. I will always owe you. It is not unusual for a wounded man to become uncommonly attracted to his savior, Julianne.”
She was dismayed. “I do not believe this attraction common, not at all.”
“That is not exactly what I meant.” His smile flitted across his face. “You are a well-bred young woman. I realize your family has fallen on hard times, as many fine families have, but there are expectations in your circles, aren’t there? You must be expected to marry well one day, no matter how eccentric you might be. How will you do that now?”
Did he expect her to consider marriage to another man, after what had just happened? Or was he asking her about her intentions because of what had happened? “My upbringing hasn’t been usual,” she said hesitantly. “Lucas has always hoped to find me a husband who appreciates my intellect, and that is no easy task.” She thought to herself that Charles appreciated her intellect.
He was surprised. “Your brother must truly care for you.”
She rubbed her own arms, wondering if he might harbor matrimonial intentions toward her. “He has always been more of a father to me than a brother. My father left us when I was three.”
“I see,” was all that he said.
“I don’t even remember him, although there is a portrait of him somewhere in the attics. He was the black sheep of his family, disowned for his gaming and wenching. All he inherited was this estate. Lucas took over the family’s affairs when he was sixteen.
“When did your mother lose her wits?”
The question surprised her. “Shortly after Papa left us.”
“You have had an unusual upbringing,” he said. “And it has made you a very interesting and original woman.” He leaned across the table and kissed her, directly on the mouth.
HE NEEDED HER SO MUCH. Dominic thought he could not control his explosive desire for much longer, as he looked down at Julianne. She writhed beneath him. He moved deeply, urgently, raining kisses on her throat and breasts. His heart thundered; he felt faint. And now, knowing her a bit better, he was quick to cover her mouth with his, kissing her as she cried out in her climax. Moving deeply, he held her tightly, and found his own, shocking release.
When some time had passed, when his mind began to function again, he was aware that he still held her tightly. For one more moment, he allowed himself oblivion, kissing her shoulder. They were spooned together and she smiled at him.
But in that moment, he saw Nadine, not Julianne, lying dead in the street on her stomach, one white cheek upturned, her skirts crusted with dirt and blood. He shoved the horrid image aside, but it was too late—vague, ugly shadowy memories of blood, death and destruction were roiling in his mind. He embraced her even more tightly, just for a moment, his heart surging oddly in his chest. Then he kissed Julianne’s neck and released her, rolling onto his back.
He stared up at the ceiling, one arm around Julianne. He focused on the white paint and plaster, remarking places were the paint was splotched and peeling. He did not want to think about Nadine or her murder; he did not want to think about France or the war, the revolution or death.
“Charles?” she whispered, recognizing the new tension in him.
He looked at her. Had the circumstances been different, he might have allowed himself to become fond of her. But the circumstances weren’t different.
He pulled her close and held her against his chest, stroking her hair. And suddenly his gut was hollow, his loins hard and he needed to be with her again.
But pale gray light was filtering through the window. It was dawn.
He would hate it if they were discovered. It was bad enough that he had taken her innocence, while maintaining his deception. He kissed her temple absently.
His heart lurched. If he didn’t know better, he would think that he had already become fond of her. But only a fool would harbor feelings for her. He was about to leave. They would never see one another again—and that was for the best.
“You should go, ma chere,” he said softly, “so we do not tempt fate again.” He was reluctant to release her.
She smiled at him, gazing into his eyes, her fingertips on his chest. “That was wonderful,” she whispered. “And I hate leaving you.”
His heart skipped oddly and he couldn’t deny it. But that did not mean he had feelings for her. Even if he did, he would dismiss them. She had no place in his world.
He wished that she weren’t so transparent. He wished she weren’t head over heels in love with Charles Maurice. But he had been very aware of her feelings for him before he had seduced her. He had ignored the twinges of guilt. He had deliberately played upon her affections, all for the sake of maintaining his alias. And he had chosen to treat her like any other passing lover. He was experienced enough to know that her feelings would blossom, once they made love—yet he hadn’t cared about that, either.
He had cared only about using her for his own ends, and the desire raging between them. He had lied when he said he had no regrets.
“You are brooding. What’s wrong?” She kissed his chest.
He smiled slightly at her. “Nothing is wrong. You are perfect.”
“I will see you at eight,” she said, smiling.
He lay still as she got up. She expected him to return to France. She would never learn that he wasn’t her beloved hero, Charles Maurice.
He watched her slip on the white, virginal nightgown. He said, “Walk with me today on the cliffs.”
She brightened. “That is a lovely idea.”
He warned, “My motives are rather base.”
She laughed. “I know exactly what your motives are, Charles.” And she turned and slipped from the room.
