Persuasion. Brenda Joyce

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 glasses, 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 glass on the floor.

      He was inebriated—and he had been in a rage. Obviously he had broken the lamp, the mirror and God 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 glass, using her skirts as an apron. “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 unbuttoning his shirt in a fit of passion, 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 buttoned 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 glass everywhere. Your feet are bare.” She spoke sharply.

      Suddenly sober, he said, “A shard of glass 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 glass.” 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 glass 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 glass of brandy before bedtime. If I broke the decanter of brandy, there are plenty of bottles downstairs.” He looked at