was the next afternoon, and the sun was trying to break through the overcast skies. Small buds had appeared on the tall black trees surrounding the house. Even the lawns seemed to be turning a bit green. Spring was on its way, but she was not cheered.
She had not been able to sleep at all last night. That terrible encounter with Grenville had replayed over and over in her mind. His image had haunted her, at times mocking, at times anguished, and so terribly seductive.
He was grieving and angry, and an attraction still raged between them. She did not know what to do.
She had gone to visit the children after leaving him sleeping in his rooms. The boys had been thrilled to see her, but she had instantly noticed how out-of-sorts they were. John had broken a china horse model and showed no remorse. William had scribbled blackly in one of his schoolbooks. The boys had been smiling and happy to see her, but she knew they were suffering over the loss of their mother and that their misbehavior was a cry for help.
She had gone to visit the little girl, too. Mrs. Murdock had been out, which had been a relief of sorts, and a housemaid had allowed her to hold and feed the infant. Afterward, she had thought about checking upon Grenville. Instead, she had decided that the wisest course of action was to flee his house.
But she had worried about him and his children ever since.
“I will give the mare water, miss,” the groom said, interrupting her thoughts.
Amelia half turned. A stableman had taken hold of the mare in the traces of the curricle she had used to drive over. She thanked him, summoned up her courage—no easy task—and started up the steps to the house.
Was she afraid of him? She was far more nervous now than she had been yesterday. Or was it her own reaction to him that frightened her?
In any case, she prayed he was doing better that day. She hoped, fervently, that she had imagined the attraction that had arisen between them yesterday. And if she had not, she must fight her own feelings.
A wiser woman would have stayed away, she thought, knocking nervously on the front door. But he had been so devastated yesterday. Ignoring his pain was simply impossible.
A liveried doorman allowed her inside, and a moment later, Lloyd had entered the front hall. Amelia smiled brightly and falsely at him as she removed her coat. “Good afternoon. I was hoping to call upon his lordship.” Their gazes met and held. She continued to sound cheerful. “Is he up and about today?”
“He has just come downstairs,” Lloyd said. “But he was very adamant, Miss Greystone, he is not receiving callers today.”
Her relief was instantaneous and huge. Grenville had come out of his rooms! She was so thankful. Surely she did not need to seek him out, if that was the case. She could simply return home—that would be so much safer than actually calling upon him! “Then I should go. But first, how are the children?”
Lloyd’s eyes flickered with concern. “Lord William seems very distraught today, Miss Greystone. This morning he locked himself in his rooms, and it took Signor Barelli several hours to convince him to come out.”
Her relief vanished. She would expect such behavior of John, not his older brother. “And where was his lordship at the time?”
“He had yet to come down, Miss Greystone. I do not believe he has been told of the incident.”
Her tension spiraled. “But he has seen the children since coming down?”
Lloyd shook his head. “I do not believe he has seen the children since the funeral, Miss Greystone.”
Amelia stared at him, appalled. Then, “How is he?”
Lloyd lowered his voice. “I do not believe he is feeling very well today.”
And she knew she could not leave yet. “Where is he?”
Lloyd was alarmed. “He is dining, Miss Greystone, but he was very specific—”
“I will manage his lordship,” she said, hurrying into the corridor. Determination filled her. He was probably suffering from the effects of his binge. Well, no matter how poorly he felt, it was time for him to step up and be a father to his children.
If she remembered correctly, the dining chamber was a vast room paneled in dark wood with a timbered ceiling, several oil paintings on the walls and a long oak table with two dozen stately burgundy-velvet chairs. Two ebony doors guarded the chamber. Both were closed. A liveried servant stood outside the doors, as still and unblinking as a statue. Amelia did not hesitate and she did not knock. She pushed open both doors and stepped over the threshold.
Grenville sat at the head of the long table at the other end of the room, facing the doors. The table was set beautifully with linen and crystal for one. Tall white candles formed a centerpiece. He was eating, seeming preoccupied, when she barged inside.
He looked up; she halted. Staring from across the great room, he laid his utensils down.
Amelia hesitated, then turned and closed the doors. The ensuing conversation should probably remain private. She hoped that cornering him now was not a huge mistake.
Turning, she was aware of some dread—was she baiting the lion yet again in his den? It certainly felt that way. She started grimly forward, straining to make out his expression.
Grenville continued to stare as she approached. Only a short distance separated them when he finally laid a gold cloth napkin on the table and stood up. “You could not stay away, I see.” He did not smile.
She paused when two chairs separated them, grasping the back of one. He did not look well. He had shaved, but there were shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He was pale, in spite of his olive complexion. He was impeccably dressed in a navy blue coat, his shirt frothing lace at the throat and cuffs, his breeches fawn, his stockings white. But his hair had been pulled carelessly back into a queue. He looked as if he had spent a very long night carousing, which, for all intents and purposes, he had. “I remain concerned about the children.”
“But your concern does not extend to me?”
She decided to ignore the taunt. “Are you feeling better today?”
“I feel exactly the way I look—like hell.”
She bit back a smile. “One must pay the piper,” she said tartly.
“Hmm, I think you are pleased to see me suffering so.”
“You could hardly think that you would escape the consequences of such a binge unscathed?” She lifted her brows. “But I am not pleased if you are feeling ill.”
“I do not believe,” he said slowly, his gaze unwavering upon her face, “that I was thinking at all.”
A silence fell. No, he had not been thinking, he had been feeling—he had been angry and grief-stricken. He had also been very, very suggestive. Amelia glanced away, finally breaking the stare they shared.
He gestured at the chair she was grasping. Amelia saw the gesture from the corner of her eye and shook her head, glancing at him again. “I am not staying long.”
“Ah, yes, your mother awaits.”
She
