Free Persuasion by Brenda Joyce Page B

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 her and