She hesitated. Telling a story before their bedtime would require her to go upstairs, into the family's private rooms. She had only been upstairs in the west wing during daylight hours, as she obviously had to supervise the management of that part of the house. She had found the time to do so when Grenville was out.

"Do you wish to tell the boys a story, or to read them one?" Grenville asked.

His regard was that of a very satisfied man.

"I would love nothing more," she said, but her heart was slamming. Did she really want to venture upstairs at this hour? Yet wouldn't he go into the library, as was his habit?

"Amelia will be up shortly. Why don't you prepare for bed in the meanwhile," Grenville suggested.

The boys ran out, smiling. Amelia hesitated, certain he wished to be alone with her, and not certain that would be wise. "Do you wish to speak to me?" she asked, her heart racing. But she kept her voice calm.

"You never go upstairs," he said softly.

It was an accusation. She dared to meet his dark regard. "Those are private rooms. It does not seem the best recourse."

"I don't mind."

She was aware that he had consumed most of a bottle of red wine. "We have been attempting to maintain a certain formality."

"Is that what you would call it?" He seemed amused. "You have been avoiding me, ever since you caught me asleep on my library sofa, while I have been trying to decide if I can truly put the welfare of my children first."

What did that mean? There was no mistaking his reference to the kiss they had shared. "I am trying to fulfill my duties as a housekeeper. You have also avoided me, so clearly you are putting the children first!"

"I suppose I have been keeping a careful distance. But I have not forgotten that encounter." He shoved his teacup aside. "It would please me, Amelia, if you read to the boys at night. They need your attention, and their needs must come before mine."

She fought to remain composed. "Thank you. I would love to do so."

"Are you afraid that I will intrude upon you while you are with them?"

Before she could dissemble and deny it, he said, "I want you to be candid."

"Yes," she breathed.

He glanced down at the table. "Perhaps I wish to hear the story, too. Perhaps it is as simple as that."

She looked at him closely. He had been denied the company of his children for so long and he was desperate to be with his family. Maybe he simply wanted to join in another family moment.

Maybe he was lonely.

He suddenly stood up. "How did your visit with your sister go?"

She inhaled, shaken by her thoughts but determined to include him during bedtime storytelling. "It was wonderful to see her."

He came around the table. "And does she approve of the position you have taken in my household?"

She would not tell him that her sister held a deep grudge against him. "She understands why I have taken it."

"I recall you being close. So she has forgotten the past? Or forgiven it?"

She did not want to lie. When she hesitated, he cried, "Oh, ho! So you have discussed the past-you have discussed me."

"I spent some time explaining the plight that all three children are in. She is very concerned for them, of course." Amelia was firm.

"So she has accepted your rationale for taking up this position?"

"Of course she has."

"Really? Because I do not believe that the Countess of Bedford has forgiven me for my transgressions. If she has, then I am impressed with your powers of persuasion." He smiled. "And have you complained about me? About my behavior?"

She started. "I would never do such a thing."

"So you did not tell her I behave oddly at times, as you put it? Or that you have found me having nightmares?"

She had thought he was referring to his sometimes bold and seductive behavior, but he was asking her if she had discussed his nightmares with Julianne. And she had done precisely that! "I did mention I am worried about you, that you seem troubled and that I am determined to help."

"Of course you did." He looked at her. "Did you share your theory with her? That you think I am in some kind of danger?" He laughed.

Amelia did not smile. "Yes, I told her I think there is a reason you are very troubled, and that I wished I knew why."

"I am only troubled because my children have lost their mother," he said quite sharply.

Amelia was silent. She hoped he was being truthful with her-but she did not believe him.

"So what was the verdict, in the end? Does your sister believe you are doing the right thing, helping me and my children? Does she also think that I am troubled?"

Their gazes met and held. Was he asking her if Julianne was also suspicious of him? Could he be that astute? "Julianne thinks you are suffering from the loss of your wife," she said slowly.

He smiled, but not with mirth. "That would be a usual conclusion, would it not? This is a difficult time."

"Yes, it would be the conclusion most would draw."

He gave her a sidelong look. Then he said, "I cannot imagine that she is pleased with your being here, no matter the circ.u.mstances."

"She has accepted my decision."

His brows lifted. "I am certain the two of you had quite the row. Let us be frank, Amelia. If she knew the truth, she would drag you from this house."

Amelia felt herself flush. "If she knew you as I do-" she stopped.

His eyes were wide. "If she knew me the way you do, she would be somewhat fond of me?" He was amused. "Amelia, you are so unique."

"Julianne isn't being fair," Amelia said quickly. "She will come around."

"Ah, it is as I suspected. She does not approve of your being here and she doesn't trust me where you are concerned. I cannot blame her. I hardly trust myself."

Amelia could not look away, her heart racing. If she were not careful, their encounter would turn romantic-she was certain of it. But then, didn't she fear that their every encounter would become romantic? "I trust you," she finally whispered, and a part of her trusted him with her entire being, even knowing that he would seduce her if he could.

"But you are afraid to go upstairs."

"Yes," she said breathlessly. "I am afraid to go up into your family's apartments."

He stared at her, his dark gaze smoldering. But he did not speak.

The silence became thick, and the tension crackled. Amelia wet her lips and said, "I think we are both behaving in a commendable manner, given the difficult circ.u.mstances in which we have found ourselves."

For one moment, she did not think he would answer her, but he did. "What I like best about you, Amelia," he said slowly, "is that you appear to be entirely prim and proper."

She knew she flushed, because they both knew she was neither prim nor proper at all.

"You are afraid to go upstairs and attend my children," he continued softly. "You are afraid to approach me in the library. You are afraid that, right now, I will come too close to you."

"Fine, yes, I am afraid!" she cried. "I trust myself even less than I trust you!"

And the moment she spoke, she realized she had just given him an opening.

He seized it. His eyes, already dark, smoldered. He stepped forward and pulled her close. "That is good to hear."

"Is it?" she whispered, her heart surging, her hands closing on his muscular arms.

"It is very good to hear. Amelia. This is impossible." Urgency burning in his eyes, he kissed her.

Amelia closed her eyes and she did not move. Instead, she exulted in the growing pressure of his mouth on hers, in the waves of pleasure washing over her and building within her as he kissed her again and again. And finally, she kissed him back.

He opened. Her tongue moved deeply inside his mouth, twisting and mating with his.

Simon pulled away from her and slid his hand over her hair. "You are supposed to be my housekeeper," he said harshly. "But I cannot forget what you feel like in my arms."

"I know," she whispered, stunned by the burning desire. She was ready to do the unthinkable. She was ready to go upstairs and join him in his bed, and to h.e.l.l with the consequences.

"If we become lovers, there is no going back," he said flatly.

She trembled. Being in his arms felt so right, but was she going to be both a mistress and a housekeeper?

What about her feelings? She was in love, wasn't she? What about her own standards, her morality? Her future?

He rubbed his knuckles over her cheek. "Amelia? This is not a good idea."

"I think the boys must be ready for their story now," she said breathlessly. But in a way, she wanted to cry.

He released her and she stepped away from the circle of his arms. But their stares never wavered. She hesitated. "You should join us, Simon."

His mouth curled but it was derisive. He dropped his gaze, but not before she saw the dark shadows flitting through his eyes. "I don't think so."

And he turned and walked into the library, closing both doors behind him.

CHAPTER TEN.

SIMON HADN'T BEEN TO Bedford House in years. Although Dominic Paget, the Earl of Bedford, was no longer active in the war effort, he had once been deeply involved in the royalist insurgency in France. From the moment Simon had been lured into Warlock's web of intrigue, he had been told that it was prudent to feign indifference to men like Paget, Penrose and Greystone. Warlock had made certain that those elite agents were well aware of one another. It was a circle of the charmed, so to speak, or perhaps of the d.a.m.ned. In any case, Simon knew the ident.i.ty of almost two dozen agents, most of whom were deeply embedded in France, gathering information for the War Office and now for the Alien Office, as well.

He had been recruited by Sebastian Warlock almost two years ago. The powers in Europe were in a panic over the anarchy in France, fearing the revolution would insidiously spread into their own countries. In Britain, it had been no different. In London's highest Tory circles, Pitt and his cronies huddled into the night, trying to comprehend the extent of the damage in France and if it could leak over into Britain and her allies. Everyone in the country with something to lose was afraid of the anarchy in France now.

It was no secret that Simon was fluent in French, Spanish, Italian and German, and that he also spoke a spattering of Russian. It was no secret that he was a Tory and a supporter of Pitt's, although not terribly active in political circles thus far. Mostly, it was no secret that he was in an unhappy marriage, and that he spent most of his time on his northern estates, avoiding his wife.

One foggy night in London, his friend Burke had invited him to White's. He had been introduced to Warlock then. A day later, Warlock had appeared at Lambert House, insisting he join him for lunch. And in the dark shadows of Sebastian's carriage, the shades drawn, he had been recruited to save his country from anarchy and revolution.

"You are never in town. You have the perfect alibi," Warlock had said.

Simon had not hesitated. His life had become an exile of sort, even if it was self-imposed. He had chosen to avoid Elizabeth, even if it meant giving up his relationship with his sons, because he could not stand the thought of a lifetime with her. Warlock's offer had been a means of escape. He had eagerly taken up the challenge of reinventing himself as a Frenchman and a Jacobin.

He knew Paget well and liked him immensely. As his coach approached Dominic Paget's home, he wondered if he dared resume the old friendship. He did not think it wise, not when he was playing both sides. But one call would not be too alarming. In any case, Paget could be a fountain of information.

Although his contact hadn't shown up the other morning, "Jourdan" had received a note earlier in the day, requesting a rendezvous. His new contact would be a man called Marcel. The Jacobin had suggested a midnight tryst in the public room of a tavern in the East End tomorrow night.

His heart drummed as he considered it. He would have to go, of course, and he was going to have to bring information he did not yet have. Jourdan had been in Britain for close to three weeks. After all, it did not matter that he was actually Simon Grenville, and that his wife had died, and that he had been in Cornwall, doing nothing except attend his children, until a week ago. He had thirty-six hours to acquire something for Lafleur and his French masters, and he was already sweating because of it.

When he had gone out the other morning, he had worn a white wig and shabby clothing, to protect his ident.i.ty. In France, as Jourdan, he had changed colorful wigs frequently, wearing white only for a formal occasion. Lafleur had undoubtedly given Marcel a description of Jourdan-that he was tall, lean and p.r.o.ne to colorful wigs. All that was fine, but he might have to go even further, as far as a disguise went. Being in London as Jourdan was inherently dangerous. Too many people could recognize him.

He considered his options carefully.

Amelia had caught him returning to the house, but she hadn't recognized him from a distance. He felt a terrible tension.

He had brought her into his household because his children needed her. And if he were truly honest with himself, it was also because he needed her.

His heart leaped. He needed to see her every single day and know that she was caring for his children, her heart filled with affection for them. The sight of her with the boys warmed him impossibly.

Of course, he needed her in other ways, too. He looked forward to having a moment alone with her after supper, so they could converse. And he would not even try to deny that his body raged around her. When she was in his arms, he was torn between an insane need to be with her and the oddest feelings of safety, as if she were the harbor he so desperately needed in a world of storm-tossed seas.

But he hadn't considered the problems her presence in his home would generate. She got up early and went to sleep late. She had caught him in an act of subterfuge after dawn, when most gentlewomen were asleep. He was going to have to sneak out before midnight to meet Marcel, in disguise, and he doubted she would be asleep by then. He must somehow make certain she did not see him.

Could he somehow find a way to preoccupy her with the children, even at that late hour? What if she believed one of the boys to be ill? Or could he formulate some other distraction? He knew he must not trust that she would be soundly asleep in her bed while he was trying to steal out of the house.

She was already suspicious of him. She had every reason to wonder at his odd behavior and his terrible nightmares. Unfortunately, she knew too much about Lucas's activities. She even knew that Paget had once been a spy.

His coach stopped and he sighed. Amelia must never find out the truth.

His footman opened the door. Bedford House was square and three stories tall, with three towers, the central one serving as the entry hall. Roses and ivy crept along the stone walls surrounding the property. A fountain was in the center of the circular drive. Simon smiled slightly and stepped down from the coach. Nothing appeared to have changed since he had last called, several years ago.

A moment later he was being escorted through the magnificent house to Paget's library. He pa.s.sed rooms with gilded furniture and brocade draperies. Masterpieces adorned the walls. A red runner was underfoot.

Dominic was expecting him, and the Earl of Bedford stepped away from his desk as Simon was shown inside a vast, wood-paneled, book-lined room.

"I was surprised but pleased to receive your note, Simon." Paget smiled, extending his hand.