Seduction. Brenda Joyce
You are so kind.”
She could barely think. Most of her body remained pressed against his. Her breasts were crushed by his chest. Her skirts covered his legs. She felt his knees against her thighs. He was stirring against her, a sensation she had never before experienced. She wanted to tell him that she would not mind, if he thought to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her—she wanted, desperately, to kiss him back.
Suddenly he shifted and she was the one with her back against the wall. His gaze moved to her mouth but he released her, stepping backward. “I do not want to take advantage of you.”
She wasn’t sure she had ever been so disappointed. “You cannot take advantage of me.”
One brow cocked upward, skeptically. “You are a woman without experience.”
“I have had a great many experiences,” she tried.
“I am not referring to assemblies and debates, Julianne.” His gaze was searching.
She did not know what to say. “I have been courted. Tom Treyton is smitten with me.”
He stared. “Let us go downstairs. I am determined, now.”
Dismay consumed her. Why hadn’t he kissed her? And didn’t he care about Tom? It was a moment before she could speak. “Are you certain? You are obviously weaker than either of us realized.”
“I am certain,” he said softly, “that I must regain my strength, which I will not be able to do lying in bed with your tending to my every whim.” He suddenly pulled away from her, seized the banister and started downstairs, giving her no choice but to follow.
In the hall below, he paused, lightly holding on to the banister, glancing carefully around.
For one moment, Julianne almost had the feeling that he was memorizing the details of her home. “Perhaps we should sit before the hearth,” she said, indicating the two burgundy chairs there.
“Is that the parlor?” he asked, glancing at a pair of closed doors.
“That is the library. The parlor is the room closest to the front door.”
He stared past the library doors, which were closed.
“That is the dining room.” She answered his unspoken question. He was pale. He should not have come downstairs yet.
He faced her. “Where are your mother and sister?”
Did he want to know if they were alone? “Amelia took Momma outside for her daily ambulatory. They will be back shortly, as Momma cannot go far.”
“I was hoping for a tour of the premises.” He finally smiled at her, but it did not reach his eyes, and she found that odd, until she realized that he was unusually pale. Perspiration was beaded upon his brow.
“You cannot go far, either. Your tour will have to wait.”
His brow lifted at her tone.
“We are going back upstairs,” she said, meaning it. “You are not the only one capable of giving orders. You are still ill!”
He looked at her. Some amusement began to shimmer in his eyes. “You are so worried about me. I will miss your anxious concern when I leave.”
She started. She had almost forgotten that, one day, he would return to France. But surely that was weeks away, or even months! “You almost fell down the stairs,” she managed.
He slowly smiled. “And if I had? I would hardly suffer from your attentions after such a fall, Julianne.”
“Your hurting yourself again isn’t amusing—not at all. Have you forgotten how ill you were?”
His smile faded. “Actually, I have not.”
She took his arm, guiding him back to the stairs, glancing at him uncertainly. “Am I being too shrewish?”
“You could never be shrewish. I think I rather like being ordered about by you.”
She smiled. “I thought pale, fainting, compliant females were in vogue.”
He chuckled. They started up the stairs, this time going up them while abreast. Julianne had no intention of releasing him, and he leaned on her again. “I don’t care for vogues. And I have never cared for women who swoon.”
She was fiercely glad she had never fainted, not once in her life. They traversed the hall in silence. As they entered the bedchamber, he said, “And will you order me to bed?”
She saw the humor in his eyes. But she also thought there was another innuendo in his words. Now, she was afraid to look at the bed.
She wet her lips and managed to sound brisk. “You may sit at the table, if you wish, and I will bring us both a light luncheon.”
“Maybe,” he said, stumbling slightly, “I had better lie down.”
Julianne rushed to help him.
A FEW HOURS LATER, Julianne hesitated outside Charles’s door. When she had brought him a light luncheon earlier, she had found him soundly asleep. She had placed his lunch tray on the table, covered him with a thin blanket and left.
His door was ajar, and in case he was still sleeping, she did not knock. She peered into the bedchamber and was rewarded by the sight of him at the table, eating the stew she had left for him earlier. “Hello,” she said, stepping inside.
“I fell asleep,” he exclaimed, setting down his fork, his plate empty.
“Yes, you did. Obviously our small outing was far too strenuous for you. And I can see that you have enjoyed your late lunch.”
“You are an excellent cook.”
“Charles, I burn everything I touch—I am not allowed to cook. It is a rule in this house.”
He laughed.
“You are feeling better,” she remarked, pleased.
“Yes, I am. Come, sit and join me.” As she did so, he said, “I hope I was not as difficult as I recall, in demanding to go downstairs earlier.”
“You were not too difficult,” she teased. “Are you in a rush to recuperate fully?” She hesitated, reminded that he would leave Greystone Manor and return to France when he was well.
“As much as I enjoy your hovering over me—” he smiled “—I prefer being able to see to my own needs. I am not accustomed to being weak. And I am used to taking care of those around me. I can hardly take care of anything right now.”
She absorbed that. “This must be awkward for you.”
“It is. We must repeat our attempted outing tomorrow.” His tone was one of command, and she knew she would not refuse. He smiled. “However, you are the one bright light in this difficult circumstance. I like being here with you, Julianne. I have no regrets.” His gaze locked with hers.
She wanted to tell him that she was so glad he was there, in her care, and that she had no regrets, either. Instead, she hesitated.
“When you worry, you bite your lip.” He spoke softly. “Am I a terrible burden? It must be maddening, to have to care for a stranger day in and day out. I am taking up all of your time.”
Impulsively she seized his hand. “You could never be a burden. I am pleased to care for you. I do not mind, not at all.” And she felt as if she had admitted all of her feelings for him.
His green eyes darkened and he returned her grasp. “That is what I wanted to hear.”
She stared into his eyes, which were smoldering. Breathlessly, she whispered, “Sometimes, I think you deliberately guide me into making admissions and confessions.”
“Our conversations flow freely. That is your imagination, Julianne.”