Seduction

by Brenda Joyce

  Then she used the chamber pot, as discreetly as possible, and sat back down, praying that the damned guard would speak with the constable. Minutes turned into an hour, then two. She stared at the end of the corridor, refusing to allow herself to think about an eternity spent in the Tower, with no way out.

  The door opened. The man approaching was well dressed in a brown velvet coat, a copper waistcoat, pale breeches and stocking. His wig was even powdered.

  She slowly stood up. “Constable.”

  He looked her up and down, very skeptically.

  Julianne knew she looked like the homeless in the East End. “I am Julianne Greystone,” she said. “My brother is Lucas Greystone, my uncle Sebastian Warlock. And my friend is Bedford. Please tell him I am here.”

  The constable stared at her. “You speak very well.”

  She fought her desperation. “Bedford will not be happy when he learns I am here and that my pleas have fallen on deaf ears.”

  The constable stared and she knew he was trying to weigh the pitfalls of approaching a peer like Bedford with what might possibly be a con.

  “I am telling you the truth. You must tell Bedford that I am here. Sir—what could I possibly gain by sending you on a wild-goose chase?”

  “That is precisely what I am trying to decide,” he said.

  “GOOD MORNING, darling,” Catherine said, walking into the breakfast chamber, which was a corner tower room with bright yellow walls.

  Dominic laid down his newspaper and arose, moving to her to kiss her cheek. She was clad in a riding ensemble, and her cheeks were flushed, meaning she was just getting back from an early morning ride. “Good morning.” He was surprised that she had cut her ride short to join him for breakfast. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

  “We haven’t had a private moment in days.” She smiled and took the chair he had pulled out for her.

  “That is because you are the height of fashion, and you are on a constant whirl,” he said with affection, meaning it. Catherine was always being called on, and her calendar was full.

  “Should I stay at home by myself? Hmm, how dull would that be?”

  “God knows, you are never dull.”

  A servant appeared, pouring Catherine her favorite tea. She thanked him and said, “Did you enjoy the fête Lady Davis gave last night?”

  He looked inquiringly at her. “I was rather bored.”

  “I thought so. I saw Nadine did not attend, although she was invited.”

  Dominic hadn’t seen Nadine since their reunion, and he had expected to see her at the soirée. D’Archand had been present, and while he had seemed in good spirits, he hadn’t wanted to discuss Nadine with Dom, beyond saying she had a bit of a cough.

  Dom hadn’t believed him. He suspected Nadine had as much use for society now as he did.

  They had more in common now than they had had before the revolution began, he thought. “I will see her later today. I have already sent a note.”

  “Good.” She smiled at him. “You are the perfect diplomat, Dominic, and the perfect gentleman. Have I ever told you that? Nadine is a fortunate young woman.”

  Suddenly he thought of Julianne, screaming at him that he was a liar. Julianne would very much disagree, he thought. “Being diplomatic is usually the practical solution to a conflict,” he said evasively. Catherine would be horrified if she ever realized that he had sacrificed his gentility to the cause of survival long ago.

  “Well, if you are calling on her this afternoon, I will wait and do so tomorrow.” She smiled, clearly pleased. Then, softly, “I am sure the awkwardness will pass, Dominic.”

  He sipped his tea. Catherine would not be pleased when he broke off the engagement, he thought. She would have to adjust to that event, just as she would adjust to his leaving shortly for France. Before he could summon up a bland response, Gerard entered the room. “My lord, you have a caller.”

  Dom frowned. “It is 9:00 a.m. No one calls at this hour.”

  “He claims to be the Constable of the Tower.”

  Dom started. “The constable of what tower, pray tell?”

  “The Tower of London, my lord.” Gerard waited.

  Dom did not know the Constable of the Tower of London. Rather intrigued, he stood. “Where is he?”

  “In the entry hall.”

  “Excuse me,” he said to Catherine, who was as surprised as he was. He walked past Gerard, who followed him from the breakfast room into the corridor outside. The Tower served as a prison, an armory and a storehouse for royal treasures and monies. The Constable could have any number of responsibilities, but none to do with him. “Did he say why he wishes to see me?”

  “He said he has a message for you from one of his prisoners.”

  Dominic could not imagine knowing someone currently imprisoned in the Tower. Those sent for incarceration there were often high-ranking figures, mostly political prisoners of some sort. But he had been away for a long time. He might have an acquaintance who was imprisoned there. Aware that Catherine had followed them into the hall, he looked over his shoulder at her. “Has anyone we know been recently imprisoned?”

  “Not that I can think of,” she said.

  These days, no one really knew who might be an enemy of the state, he thought. But those against the war—and in favor of the French Republic—hid their views.

  And then Julianne’s image came to mind.

  Julianne—an open Jacobin sympathizer.

  His heart felt as if it had briefly stopped. He shoved the alarm aside. Julianne was in Cornwall. No one cared about her Society of Friends of the People. No one, other than Treyton and himself, knew that she had been asked to locate an émigré family by the Parisian Jacobins. No one in London would even know of her existence.

  He calmed slightly as he entered the grand, high-ceilinged foyer of the house. The constable turned, smiling. Dom saw that he did not know him. Portly and elegant, the man bowed. “My lord, I am Edward Thompson. I am very sorry to call at this hour, but I was given a message to relay to you from one of my prisoners. It is highly unusual, of course, but she insisted. I only pray there is no treachery here, and I am not the victim of a small conspiracy.”

  She insisted....

  Somehow, he kept the utter shock from his face. No, it could not be Julianne! “Who wishes to contact me?”

  “Miss Julianne Greystone, my lord. She insisted I come to you directly and inform you of the fact that she has been incarcerated. I pray I have not made a grave error.”

  Julianne was in the Tower.

  The anger began. “Take me to Miss Greystone.”

  SURELY DOMINIC WOULD come for her.

  She prayed he was a man of his word.

  Julianne sat on her pallet, hugging her knees to her chest, staring toward the end of the corridor. The door was too far away for her to see it, and the end of the hall was cloaked in shadows. But she knew the door was there. Dominic would have to walk through it if he came for her. He would come, wouldn’t he?

  She thought she saw a movement at the corridor’s end. Afraid to hope, she froze. And then she heard the heavy iron door closing. She heard faint footsteps.

  Please, let it be Dominic, she prayed.

  The footsteps were clearly audible now. They grew louder, approaching.

  She was so afraid that a pair of guards would be walking toward her. Her heart slammed wildly, making it impossible to breathe.

  And Dominic emerged from the shadows....

  He saw her at the exact moment that she saw him. Their gazes met; he halted. His green eyes widened in shock.

  Slowly, Julianne stood, trembling and faint from exhaustion and relief. And she wondered how she had ever thought him a mere army officer. He was the epitome of wealth, power and authority, every inch the nobleman. She had never seen him in his own clothes before, and he wore a navy blue velvet coat, a pale, silvery blue silk waistcoat, fine white breeches, white stockings and black buckled shoes. He even had on a dark, elegant wig and
a black tricorn hat.

  His gaze slammed down her bloodstained, blackened skirts. He turned. Julianne saw that he was wearing several rings. “Release her at once.” His voice was filled with dangerous warning. It was a tone that no one would dare disobey.

  “Yes, my lord.” The Constable nodded, and a guard rushed to obey.

  Julianne fought the terrific urge to break down and weep. He had come. He was getting her released.

  And she met his gaze again. She wondered if he was angry. His green gaze was dark.

  “Are you all right?” He spoke calmly as the guard turned the key in the lock.

  She hesitated. She wasn’t all right, and she didn’t think she would ever be all right again.

  “Whose blood is that, Julianne?” he asked as calmly.

  “I am not hurt.” She inhaled as the door was opened. “I don’t know.”

  His brow slashed upward.

  The guard gestured for her to come out, but she turned and looked at Nesbitt, Adams and the other three men in the cell. They stared back. She had already told them that if she were released she would help them get out, while Nesbitt had urged her to expose the atrocious despotism of Pitt’s government. She had promised him she would.

  “Julianne,” Dominic said, as quietly. Nevertheless, it was an order.

  She smiled weakly at her friends and turned, starting forward. As she did, the cell tilted wildly. She watched the bars spinning.

  He cried out.

  Julianne saw his horror as he rushed toward her—and that was the last thing that she saw.

  JULIANNE BECAME AWARE of light pressing against her closed eyelids—and a solid, familiar wall of muscle behind her back, equally familiar male arms around her. “Charles.” She murmured, the cloud lifting.

  “You have fainted. Be still.”

  She opened her eyes and looked at Charles’s beloved face. But it wasn’t Charles who held her in his arms, as she lay in the back of a coach with red velvet seats. It was Dominic Paget.

  Recollection returned instantly. “Dominic.”

  “Yes.”

  “You came.” Relief flooded her. She wasn’t in the Tower. She was with Paget—she was safe.

  “Of course I came.” His expression was bland, his tone utterly collected.

  She struggled to sit up and he released her. Her weary mind raced. He was a man of his word; the horror of the past few days was over. “I was afraid you would not come.”

  His green eyes searched hers. “I told you to send word if you ever needed me, Julianne. I meant it when I said I owed you.” His mouth firmed ever so slightly. “We are probably even.”

  He was so devoid of emotion. Had she really seen anger in his eyes a moment ago? “I was afraid that you had left London.”

  “As you can see, I have remained in town.” His gaze moved slowly over her face.

  Her heart skipped a beat. She remained prone upon the bench, in a near state of collapse, their bodies touching. She had no wish to move away from him now, when she knew she should put some distance between them. His stare remained intent upon her face. It was searching.

  He had rescued her from the Tower.

  She hadn’t ever expected to see him again.

  “You are staring,” she managed. She added, on a breath, “You don’t look very republican now.”

  He looked away immediately.

  Could he possibly feel guilty for his past deception? she wondered.

  “Where are we?” The coach was traveling at a moderate speed, but the shades were partially drawn and she couldn’t really see outside.

  “In my coach. The Constable wanted me to take you to his office but I refused. I wanted to get you out of there—and to my physician—as quickly as possible. Are you ill?”

  “I am weak. I haven’t eaten in days,” she added, by way of explanation. She now really looked at the stunningly luxurious coach they were in. The sconces were gilded, and gold tassels were hanging from the crimson window shades. The seats were velvet, the wood lacquered. Then she looked at him—at the silk waistcoat he wore, at the lace cuffs spilling from his velvet coat sleeves, at the two rings he wore. The signet ring was sapphire, the other a large ruby. Then her gaze lifted to his steady, unwavering green regard.

  “Thank you, Paget.”

  “You’re welcome.” He touched her chin and she winced. “Your jaw is black-and-blue.”

  She hesitated. How much did he know? “I was caught in a terrible mêlée. Someone hit me in the face.”

  He frowned, his gaze even darker now. She wondered if she would ever forget the horror of that brawl—or the greater horror of being imprisoned in the Tower. She almost wished to be held and comforted, but she knew she must fight such urges. She must not forget why they were at this abysmal place in time.

  But what did his stare mean?

  Obviously she was a sight. She was bruised, her clothing dirty and stained. She intended to burn her gown. It was unfortunate that she couldn’t dispose of her memories the same way.

  “Do you think you will faint again? You are very white.”

  She looked at him, wondering if concern was reflected in his regard. “I am still light-headed.” Without thinking, she told him, “I have never been so afraid.”

  Something flickered in his eyes and he pulled her close, tucking her chin to his broad chest. She closed her eyes, fighting the sudden surge if tears. He lay his chin on the top of her head. As if sensing her distress, he said, “You do not need to be afraid anymore.”

  The tears began, trickling slowly down her face. He tightened his embrace and she turned her face onto his chest. She had been struck in the jaw and knocked to the ground. She had been dragged from her bed and thrown into the Tower. She had never been so frightened, and she had truly understood what it was to be powerless, without rights, without protections.

  “Do you know how brave you are?”

  “I am not brave at all.”

  “I beg to differ with you.” And to her surprise, his gaze moved to her mouth.

  Even though his eyes instantly lifted and he moved away from her, she knew what that look meant. Charles had looked at her that way a hundred times when he was about to kiss her.

  She tensed. Her heart thundered of its own volition. Did he want to kiss her?

  “I want to know what happened.”

  She hesitated, studying him. He was so grim, and she was almost certain that he was angry. She hoped he was angry because she had been incarcerated and mistreated—and not because he knew about the convention and disapproved. “I came to London to attend a two-day assembly of radicals. I couldn’t afford to go to Thomas Hardy’s convention in Edinburgh, and Tom suggested I go to London. Of course, neither Amelia nor Lucas knows why I came to town. They believe I came to town to—” She stopped. She wasn’t sure she should be honest now. “They believe I came to London to lift my spirits.”

  “In the wake of my deception?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said grimly, “in the wake of your deception.”

  He eyed her. “What happened, Julianne? Precisely?”

  “Reeves men broke into the assembly and attacked us. A brawl erupted. I was caught up in it. That is how my jaw got bruised.”

  His expression hardened.

  “Have you ever heard of Rob Lawton? He was their leader, his men had sticks and clubs. He condoned the assault!” she cried. “I was knocked down and I thought I would be trampled to death!”

  He pulled her close, stunning her. “I know Lawton. He is fervently set against republicans, Julianne.”

  She jerked away. “He is a vile brute, using violence and intimidation to achieve his reactionary ends.” Then she thought of how he had dragged her to her feet and gotten her out of the assembly. She dismissed the recollection. “Those Reeves men should have been rounded up, not me.”

  “I am not going to condone vigilantism, Julianne, just as I do not condone the use of violence to achieve any ends. But we are at war and you suppo
rt the enemy. Was there seditious speech at that assembly?”

  She stiffened.

  “You cannot go around London or Cornwall or any part of Britain, openly espousing the defeat of the British Army and the triumph of the French Republic.”

  She had already reached that conclusion, but she did not feel like admitting it. “I am a British citizen, with rights. Lawton took the list of delegates, I saw him. I was dragged from my own bed that night by a British officer.”

  “I am sorry,” he said grimly. His eyes were very hard—almost ruthlessly so.

  “Are you angry?”

  “I am very angry.”

  “With me?”

  “With you—with Lawton—with the officer who arrested you.” And he embraced her, holding her tightly against his chest.

  Her heart picked up a new, swift, pounding beat. What was he doing? She had to protest—didn’t she?

  Then he kissed her temple.

  It was a tiny, feathery kiss. Desire surged. Her thoughts became completely blank. Her attraction to him hadn’t faded, not at all.

  He feathered her ear with his lips and she shivered, becoming so hollow, so faint.

  She inhaled, trembling, on fire. If only she could think clearly. She should not be in his arms like this. But he would protect her. Just then, she felt as if she needed protection.

  And he caught her chin, tilted her face up, eyes blazing—and he looked at her mouth.

  More desire slammed. “Kiss me, Paget,” she heard herself whisper.

  And before she had even finished the sentence, his mouth covered hers, firm and determinedly. There was no escape—Julianne didn’t care. She cried out, opening eagerly for him. His tongue thrust deep. She slid her hands under his jacket, over his waistcoat, wanting to feel his naked skin. He tore his mouth from hers and rained kisses down her throat and on the bare skin of her collarbone and chest, above the edge of her bodice. She moaned, reaching for the front of his breeches. A massive, rock-hard bulge was there.

  “Promise me, Julianne, you will never tempt fate again.”

  “I want you,” she whispered, barely hearing him. “God help me, I do.”