Persuasion. Brenda Joyce

lay on her back, unmoving. Her temples throbbed. She had a terrible migraine, and her entire body was stiff with tension.

      What was she going to do?

      She had replayed her encounter with Grenville over and over in her mind, his dark, handsome image engraved there. He hadn’t forgotten her. And he had made it very clear that he hadn’t forgotten their affair, either.

      Despair claimed her.

      She closed her eyes tightly. She had left two windows slightly ajar, as she loved the tangy ocean air, and both shutters were gently rapping on the walls. The tide was high at night, and there was always a stiff breeze. But the melodic sound was not soothing.

      She had been so unnerved during their encounter. It made no sense, none at all. Worse, she was still unnerved.

      Did she dare consider the possibility that she still found him darkly attractive, and dangerously seductive?

      How could she have ever imagined, even for a moment, that he would have become fat and gray and unrecognizable?

      She almost laughed, but without mirth. Amelia opened her eyes, her fists clenched. She did not know what to do! But she did know that he had to be grieving. Lady Grenville had been an extraordinary woman, and he could not be indifferent to her death. Hadn’t she seen his anguish upon first meeting him, when he had just arrived at St. Just Hall? And there had been no mistaking it when he had rushed from the chapel, before the funeral service was even over.

      And what about his poor, motherless children?

      When she had left, the baby had been soundly asleep and the boys had been playing. She knew that there would be stark moments of grief still. But they were children. The little girl hadn’t ever known her mother, and the boys would eventually adjust, as children were wont to do.

      But the next few days and weeks would be difficult for them—for everyone.

      Of course she wanted to help, if she could. But did she want to help Grenville?

      Grenville’s smoldering gaze was in her mind. Was he even now alone in his apartments, grieving openly for Elizabeth?

      She had the inappropriate urge to reach out to him, and somehow offer him condolences, or even comfort.

      Oh, what was wrong with her! He had betrayed her! She must not allow herself any attraction at all. He did not deserve her concern or her compassion!

      But she was compassionate by nature. And she did not believe in grudges.

      She had buried the past long ago. She had moved on.

      But the affair no longer felt like ancient history. It felt as if they had met yesterday.

      I believe you were trying to purchase this.

      Amelia stiffened, recalling the seductive murmur of his voice exactly. They had met at the village market. Amelia’s neighbor was preoccupied with her newborn infant, and Amelia had taken her three-year-old daughter for a walk amongst the vendors, to give the taxed mother a chance to do her shopping. The little girl was desolate, as she had lost her doll. Hand in hand, they had wandered amongst the merchants, until Amelia had espied a vendor hawking ribbons and buttons. They had oohed and aahed over a red ribbon, and Amelia had tried to negotiate a better price with the merchant for it. She really had no change to spare for a ribbon for the child.

      “This is now yours.”

      The man standing behind her spoke in soft, seductive, masculine tones. Amelia had slowly turned, her heart racing. When she looked into a pair of nearly black eyes, the entire fair—its merchants and the crowd of villagers around her—had seemed to disappear. She found herself staring at a dark, devastatingly handsome man, perhaps five years older than she was.

      He had smiled slowly, revealing a single dimple, holding the red ribbon out. “I insist.” And he had bowed.

      In that moment, she had realized he was a nobleman, and a wealthy one. He was dressed as casually as a country squire, in a hacking coat, breeches and boots meant for riding, but she sensed his authority immediately. “I don’t believe it proper, sir, to accept a gift from a stranger.” She had meant to be proper, but she heard how flustered she sounded.

      Amusement filled his eyes. “You are correct. Therefore, we must rectify the matter immediately. I would like an introduction.”

      Her heart had slammed. “We can hardly introduce ourselves,” she managed to answer, flushing.

      “Why not? I am Grenville, Simon Grenville. And I wish to make your acquaintance.”

      Rather helplessly, perhaps already smitten, she had taken the ribbon. Simon Grenville, the Earl of St. Just’s younger son, had called on her the very next day.

      And Amelia had felt as if she were a princess in a fairy tale. He had driven up to Greystone Manor in a handsome coach pulled by two magnificent horses, taking her for a picnic on the cliffs. From the moment she had stepped inside his carriage, an attraction had raged between them. He had kissed her that very afternoon—and she had kissed him back.

      Lucas had quickly forbidden him from calling upon her. Amelia had pleaded with him to change his mind, but he had refused. He had insisted that he was protecting her—that Grenville was a rake and a rogue. But Simon hadn’t cared. He had laughed in Lucas’s face. A secret rendezvous had followed. They had met in the village and he had taken her to stroll in the magnificent rose gardens at St. Just Hall, where another heated encounter had ensued....

      Lucas had gone away to attend the quarry or the mine, she could not recall, assuming she would obey him. But she hadn’t. Simon had called on her almost every day, taking her for carriage rides, for walks, to tea and even shopping.

      She had fallen deeply in love before the week was out.

      Amelia could not stand such memories. Her body was on fire, as if she wished to be with him still. She sat up, throwing the covers aside, oblivious to the chill in the air. Amelia slid her bare feet to the floor. She had been such a fool. She had been a lamb, hunted by a wolf. Oh, she knew that now. He had never had a single serious intention toward her, otherwise he wouldn’t have left as he had.

      Thank God she had never succumbed to temptation; thank God she had never let him completely seduce her.

      “I am desperate to be with you,” he had murmured, breathing hard.

      They were in one another’s arms, in the gazebo that was behind the house. He had just given her so much pleasure. She was flushed and exhilarated—and she desperately wanted to consummate their affair. “I am desperate, too,” she had returned, meaning it. “But I can’t, Simon, you know I cannot....”

      She wanted to be innocent on their wedding night. She wanted to give him her virginity then.

      His stare had darkened, but he hadn’t said a word, and she wondered when he would ask her to marry him—when, not if he would do so. She had no doubt that his intentions were honorable. She knew he loved her as she loved him.

      Simon had been courting her for six weeks. Then one day, the stableman hurried to the manor and announced that William Grenville was dead. He had been found on the cliffs, his neck broken, obviously having fallen from his horse. The family was in mourning.

      Amelia had been stunned. She had met Will several times, and he had been everything the earl’s heir should be—noble, upright, handsome, charming. And Simon adored him, she knew that, as well. He spoke of him often, and so highly.

      She had rushed to St. Just Hall to tell Simon in person how sorry she was. But the family was not receiving; she had written a hasty note and left it with a servant.

      He did not reply. A few days later there was more stunning news—the family had left Cornwall. And Simon had left with them.

      He did not write.

      And he did not return.

      Amelia realized she was standing by the open window, her feet bare, in just