Free Persuasion by Brenda Joyce Page A

“It is Amelia Greystone. I wish to—”
    And the door was flung open.
    Amelia did not finish her sentence. Simon stood before her, clad only in an unbuttoned shirt and his breeches. Half of his very muscular chest was revealed. He wore no stockings, no shoes. There was a great deal of bearded growth upon his face, and his hair was loose. Dark and nearly black, it reached his shoulders.
    He 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