style="font-size:15px;"> Her heart lurched. He did not sound pleased. “I told you, I wish to make certain the children are well. And, yes, some concern extends to you.”
“I am touched.”
She stared closely at him, but if he was mocking her now, she could not tell. His expression was hard.
“I was just thinking about you,” he said, staring down at the edge of the table. Then he looked up, his gaze dark. “I was thinking about the encounter we shared last night.”
There was so much tension, of course there was. Amelia waited, uncertain of where he meant to go.
His gaze held hers. “My recollection is patchy. But I believe I owe you an apology.”
She inhaled. Hopefully he did not recall very much! “You do.”
“Was I very rude?”
She hesitated, because he had been far more than rude—he had been bold, he had referred to their past affair several times, and he had been entirely seductive. “It doesn’t matter, your apology is accepted.” She was final.
But he was not. “I tried to seduce you.”
She stiffened, wondering if she could deny it.
“I happen to remember holding you in my arms. Did I seduce you?” he asked, almost casually.
She exhaled. He did not remember the extent of their exchange? “No, you did not.”
He glanced aside, and she had no clue as to what he was thinking. Then, very softly, his gaze frighteningly direct again, he said, “But we kissed.”
She was almost speechless now. She wasn’t sure whether his mouth had brushed her cheek, but that wasn’t what he meant. Then she whispered, “No, Simon, we did not kiss.”
His eyes widened.
She was surprised by his surprise. And there was so much tension in the room, between them, that it was hard to breathe. Or was all the tension coming from her? “I’d like to see the children,” she said, hoping to rapidly change the subject.
“Are you certain?” he asked, as if he hadn’t heard her.
She bit her lip. “Yes, I am certain.” She knew she must end this subject now. “You were entirely foxed. I do not believe you were responsible for most of your behavior. You said some strange things as well, which I did not understand.”
“Such as?” He came around his chair toward her.
Oh, she did not want to be trapped in that small space between the table and the wall! She hoped he would not reach out and touch her! Of course, she could simply turn and run down the length of the table and out of the room—which was exactly what she felt like doing. Instead, she did not move.
“Such as?” he said again, but his tone was demanding, and he stood within reach of her.
What she would not do was tell him that he had wanted to discuss the past, that he had raised the subject several times. “You sounded as if you had been to France, or had been involved in the war.”
He made a dismissive sound. “Really? I have not been abroad in years. What else did I say?”
“We talked about Lady Grenville.”
His gaze sharpened. “Ah, yes. I vaguely recall telling you that I was not fond of my wife.”
She clasped her hands and said, unhappily, “You claimed you were not grieving for her but I did not believe you.”
He made a mocking sound. “Of course, you would think the best of me.”
“What does that mean?”
“You always believed in me. Your faith was unshakable.”
He wished to discuss the past again? She was incredulous. “I believe,” she said carefully, “that you love your children and you loved your wife, although perhaps not in a conventional way.”
“As I said, your faith is unshakable. Apparently I was being entirely truthful with you last night. I am not grieving for Lady Grenville. I hardly wished her ill, but I cannot grieve for a woman I barely knew.”
“How is that even possible?” Amelia gasped. “You shared children and she was so beautiful and so gracious!”
“It was her duty to bear my sons,” he pointed out, rather darkly. “Just as it was my duty to marry her and beget an heir.”
She felt her eyes widen. It hadn’t been a love match. It didn’t even sound as if he had had a choice. Was all the terrible gossip true? She didn’t dare ask. She said softly, “I am so sorry. You both deserved more.”
Grenville was clearly incredulous. “You are sorry that I did not love my wife? That she did not love me? That I am not brokenhearted? You would wish me well?”
“Yes—no!” Then, blushing and aware of it, she cried, “I would not wish anyone ill.” She stopped. They were fast approaching dangerous ground—today would be an even worse time to venture onto the subject of their past. She quickly said, hoping to divert him, “If you are not grieving for Lady Grenville, then there is another cause for your anguish. I had forgotten that the last time you were in residence, your brother died.”
His face hardened. “That was a decade ago.”
She almost pointed out that he seemed to remember their affair well, so surely he recalled that tragedy, as well. “I am sorry that you had to return under these painful circumstances.”
“I think I believe you,” he said. “Only you would continue to care, to have concern and even compassion for me.” He shook his head. “The question becomes, how is it possible that you would still have faith in me?”
She hated this tangent! But apparently, he would not be diverted. “I am not a cynic,” she managed to respond. And did she still have faith in him? Grenville was a man of honor, a man of duty, a man of character—even if he had behaved so callously with her. She did believe it, God help her.
“I have found, Amelia, that in this life the cynics are usually right.”
“Then I am sorry for you,” she snapped.
“And I fear for you—for one day, you will learn such a lesson.”
“No. I will remain an optimist, and I will continue to have faith in my friends and neighbors.” She meant it.
He was staring intensely. “I wonder what I will have to do this time to shake that faith.”
What did that mean? She cried, “There will not be another time!”
“Ah, so now we get to the gist of the matter.”
“I am only here out of concern for the children.”
“Liar!” He smiled dangerously now. “Do you think I have not noticed that every time I mention
