Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  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

  DOMINIC HELD JULIANNE 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.

  IF 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.

  But this letter was from his fiancée. Now, she wondered if Nadine was even dead. After all, when he had told her about his fiancée, he had been in the midst of his deception.

  Trembling, she glanced over her shoulder, but the parlor door remained shut. She opened the envelope and withdrew the letter and read it.

  April 15, 1791

  My dearest Dominic, I know we said our goodbyes last night. But I could not help myself. Last night was wonderful. What a perfect evening to have spent together before my trip to France with your mother. I could have danced with you until dawn. You do know, of course, that you are a superb dancer, and we made every other couple there green with envy?

  Julianne was sick. She could almost hear Nadine’s soft, warm laughter now. She could almost see her in a ball gown, pretty and glowing and so in love. With moisture gathering in her eyes, she read on.

  I know you are a bit anxious about our vacation in France, but I miss home, and so does Catherine. I so miss Paris! My dear, we will be fine and we will be home before you even know we have been gone! Thank you for the flowers, for the beautiful bracelet. Thank you, Dom, for such a perfect evening. I already miss you.

  With all my love,

  Nadine

  Julianne stared at the letter in her hand, unable to see the delicate cursive clearly. Nadine had been in love with Dominic. Of course she had. She had no doubt that Nadine had been a beautiful, kind, warm woman. Had Dominic loved her in return?

  Do you still love her?

  No.

  Suddenly Julianne did not believe him. He had been masquerading as Charles Maurice at the time. And now, damn it, she was afraid. Was Nadine’s family in Cornwall? Was Nadine in Cornwall?

  Julianne refolded the letter, her hands shaking. She reminded herself that the letter w
as two years old. She tried to reassure herself—why go so far as to claim Nadine was dead if she were not? And it was horrid, hoping that someone was truly dead, but she would have never allowed Paget a single liberty if he were betrothed to someone else. She slid it back into the envelope and began to retie the ribbon. Tears blurred her vision. There was so much dread. And she heard footsteps outside the door.

  She jammed the pile of letters in the drawer and slammed it shut. As she shot to her feet, Dominic opened the door and saw her. His gaze widened.

  She inhaled, very distressed.

  His gaze narrowed.

  Julianne said, “I was going to write Tom.” The moment she spoke, she knew she shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  “I see.” His tone was flat, his expression impossible to read.

  She wet her lips. “I was looking for a quill.” She stopped, realizing her mistake. But she had never been so flustered.

  “The quill is right there, on top of the desk.”

  His face was a mask of indifference, yet she knew he suspected that she had been prying into his private things. “It is broken.”

  Very quietly, he said, “I see.”

  She stared and he stared back. If she asked him about his fiancée, he would know she had been reading his letters, yet she longed to blurt out her questions.

  He finally asked, “Were you spying upon me?”

  “No!” she cried.

  A terrible paused ensued. “I thought you might want breakfast. Unfortunately, I cannot join you. It is in your room.”

  She edged away from the desk. He did not move toward her. He did not attempt to embrace her. There was no exchange of happy greetings, no reference to the passionate night they had shared. His regard was intent and searching—it was mistrustful.