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 s.p.a.ce 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 circ.u.mstances."

"I think I believe you," he said. "Only you would continue to care, to have concern and even compa.s.sion 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, G.o.d 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 the past, or even refer to it with a vague innuendo, you become rather undone?"

She hugged herself. "Well, that is because last night you were relentless! And even today, it is as if you wish to remind me of the past, when I have forgotten it entirely!" There, the fighting gloves were off.

He slowly said, his eyes gleaming, "You do know that you have just raised a red flag at a bull?"

What did that mean? "Have you been imbibing today?"

"No, I have not. But do not baldly lie to my face! Do not tell me that you have forgotten the past, when the one thing I do recall is that last night I held you in my arms, and you were trembling." He had raised his voice. His dark eyes flashed.

And she found herself lying, instinctively. "You were frightening-at times you erupted in anger-I had never seen you in such a state!"

"And even now-" he pointed at her "-you are trembling, and we both know why."

She cried out. But he was right-desire was coursing through her veins.

And he became dismissive. "You should stay away from this house. You should stay away from me. You should give up your G.o.dd.a.m.ned faith. Because you are still an innocent, and I am not referring to your status as a woman. You are an innocent at heart, and do not deny it. You do not have a clue as to what transpires in the world, outside of your precious Cornwall! You do not have a clue that life is really only about death-that death is everywhere, and that n.o.bility is for fools!" His eyes blazed.

She cringed. "What has happened to you?" She wanted to weep.

"You need to stay far away from me," he continued furiously. "Either that, or come here and suffer the consequences."

She gasped again. Did he mean that he would attempt a seduction, then and there?

"Do not look so surprised! I am a rogue, remember-a rake."

She did not know how to reply. But she was about to defend him, and she closed her mouth to stop herself from doing so.

He laughed. "G.o.d, you would defend me even now!"

She backed up and hit the dining-room wall. Finally she found her voice. "I will defend you, Grenville, when you have been unjustly and erroneously accused of some misdeed. But right now, I will not even attempt to excuse your atrocious behavior!" Was she shouting?

His eyes widened.

"You are obviously in a state of grief-do not deny it! Whether you are grieving over your wife, your brother, or someone else, the anguish is obvious. But your grief does not give you a carte blanche to treat me with utter disrespect!"

His mouth pursed, as if he fought to prevent himself from speaking.

She realized she was shaking. "I am genuinely concerned for your children, and, yes, for you. If you choose to think I harbor some ancient flame, then so be it. I am not going to try to change your mind. However, I must say something, and you will not like it. Your selfish behavior must cease."

Grenville was motionless. But he was listening to her, his gaze narrow.

"Go see your sons. Go see your newborn daughter! They need you, Grenville. And then do something to repair this household!" She was most definitely shouting at the Earl of St. Just, but she could not recall ever having been as angry.

He finally said, "Are you finished?"

"Yes, I have said what needed to be said." She lifted her chin defiantly. "And I am going to check in on the children before I go-unless you object." She dared to meet his gaze, wondering if he was about to forbid her from a.s.sociating with his children. If he did, she would not blame him. She would not be surprised if he ordered her forthright from his house.

His face impossible to read, he said calmly, "I believe they will be pleased to see you."

Relief almost swamped her. Amelia quickly turned and rushed down the length of the dining hall, beginning to realize what she had done. She had just scolded Grenville. She had just shouted at him. She had berated him at the top of her lungs.

She had, in fact, behaved exactly like the harridan he had accused her of being.

And in the hall, she glanced back at him.

The Earl of St. Just hadn't moved, not a single muscle. He was staring, and if he despised her now, she could not tell.

AMELIA REALIZED SHE WAS flushed and perspiring as she reached the cla.s.sroom door. Worse, her heart would not stop racing.

She should not care if Grenville despised her now. Someone had to set him down and stop him from continuing his selfish and self-destructive behavior.

Signor Barelli rushed to the threshold of the room. He had been seated at one of the three desks in the room, reading. John was on the floor, playing with dominoes. William stood at the window, gazing outside, a fishing rod in his hand.

So much for their lessons, she thought.

"I am so pleased to see you," the Italian cried. He was clearly distraught as he lowered his voice and said, "They will not do the reading I have a.s.signed them."

John leaped up and rushed into her arms. Amelia hugged him as William walked over, his dark face set. "h.e.l.lo," she said, as cheerfully as possible. "Aren't we fortunate? It has stopped raining and tomorrow promises to be a glorious day."

"Good, I will go riding," William said, far too decisively for a boy his age.

"I will go riding, too," John said, beaming at her. "Can you come with us? Please?"

Amelia glanced at the tutor. "I would love to go riding with you, but I do not have a hack. However," she said, before they could protest, "if you both settle down and begin your a.s.signments, I will ask your father permission to take you on a picnic on the weekend-after all your a.s.signments are done."

William's sullen expression had vanished. "Picnics are for the summertime," he said.

"I want to go on a picnic!" John shouted, jumping up and down.

"This will be a special picnic," Amelia told William. "And if the weather permits, we will even bring your sister."

John began dancing around the room. Amelia realized he was entirely out of bounds. William said seriously, "I'd like that. But Father is locked in his rooms."

Amelia took his hand. "No, he is downstairs, dining."

Such a poignant look of hope flared across the small boy's face that she went still. The best medicine for these children would be their father, she was certain. And she wondered if she dared take them downstairs, then and there, and reunite the family.

Signor Barelli said, "Thank the lord he has come out of his apartments. They miss him dearly, Miss Greystone."

Did she dare?

"I want Papa," John cried, pouting. His gaze was moist with tears.

If she went through with this, he would throw her out of the house, once and for all. But did it matter? She held out her other hand. "Come, John. We are going to call on your father."

John's eyes widened and he ran to her, giving her his hand.

Amelia prayed she was not making a mistake. She turned to Barelli. "I think they need a moment with their father before they resume their lessons."

"I think you are right," he said with relief.

Amelia smiled at both boys, holding their hands, and they went into the corridor. As they started down the hall, the nursery door opened and Mrs. Murdock came out, her eyes wide. "I thought I heard your voice, Miss Greystone," she said, smiling. "Oh, I am so glad you have called!"

Amelia paused to greet her. "I am taking the boys downstairs. It is high time they chatted with their father. How is the baby?"

"She has just awoken."

Amelia looked past Mrs. Murdock. From where she stood, she could see into a part of the crib. The infant lay on her back, her hands and feet in the air. She was gazing at a toy suspended over the crib.

He had yet to see his newborn daughter, she thought with unease. Did she dare bring the baby down, as well?