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Authors: Amelia Hart
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lusciously full of every sweet thing."
She saw again the darkness of his bedroom, felt the hard heat of his naked chest against her body, his mouth on hers, drawing her in, the most perfect trap. "No. It is all trickery."
"Would you lead me, Miss Preston? Julia? Would you take my hand and lead me into the light?" He reached out , clasped her hand and brought it to his mouth for a fervent kiss, pulling her to a halt as he looked at her under his brows, as darkly intent as his words.
"I . . . You must find your own way, Mr Holbrook."
"I cannot. I stumble on the path."
"Try harder."
"I fall by the wayside. Help me, Ju lia." His voice was husky, and there was a plea in it that was not in his eyes, which commanded her to do she knew not what.
"I can't," she said, faltering.
"You will not even try. You will not bring me to redemption."
"I don't have the power. You are sunk too deep."
"Only one such as you could have the power. A strong woman. A good woman. The best sort of temptation."
Oh, and it was tempting. To think that she, Julia Preston, might save such a notorious rake, might guide him, set him upon a steadier life, a truer course. How much good would that bring to the world? Surely she would be selfish to deny him.
But she searched his face, and found no remorse there. Only the subtle hint of satisfied anticipation, like a cat about to pounce. She pulled her hand awa y, and stood still, facing him.
"I think you are very cunning," she said quietly. "And I think you are a waste. That your intellect, which could have been turned to greatness, is spent on such evil idleness-" she shook her head. "It is a tragedy. You show me the potential of you, and I swear it could bring me to tears." The truth of her own words brought wetness to her eyes and she was embarrassed but refused to falter. Let him see she really meant what she said. "You are wrong. Your choices are wrong. Be better, Mr Holbrook. And leave me alone. I will not let you drag me down."
Then she turned and walked away.
He did not follow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She sat at the top of a long slope that rolled away down to the ornamental lake. Just here a fold of the man-made hillside hid her from sight of the house, and she could pretend there was no one for miles. The water gleamed with a pearlescent luster, reflecting the pale blue sky, yellow at the horizon. The air was warm and still, the light buttery. Between her fingers the grass was a lush carpet. Her book lay open to one side, but she had been reading the letter from her grandmother that had arrived with the post this morning.
Grandmere was a skillful w riter and her vivacity shone out clearly between the lines, making Julia alternately laugh and shake her head at the woman’s reflections. The French comtesse had morals widely divergent from the staid, modern English norm. Each missive was full of scandal, and often intimate reflections. Hardly the sort of thing one should write of to a young descendant, but Grandmere was a law unto herself.
Julia sighed fitfully. She would dearly love to see her grandmother, but she did not have the leisure for travel, and neither of them had enough money for it. In the two years since she had taken this post she had not seen London. Each year she had hoped the Trents would relocate the entire family for the season, and each year the Trents had decided they could manage perfectly well without their children. No need to disturb their studies and distract them with the attractions of the City.
There were times she regretted her wasted coming-out season, thought of the opportunities she had squandered. A more focused, determine d woman would have found a husband who lived in town, and would be running her own household now. Might even have children, and more than five dresses to her name. Could see her grandmother any time she chose.
The only casualty would be love. Though even that
She saw again the darkness of his bedroom, felt the hard heat of his naked chest against her body, his mouth on hers, drawing her in, the most perfect trap. "No. It is all trickery."
"Would you lead me, Miss Preston? Julia? Would you take my hand and lead me into the light?" He reached out , clasped her hand and brought it to his mouth for a fervent kiss, pulling her to a halt as he looked at her under his brows, as darkly intent as his words.
"I . . . You must find your own way, Mr Holbrook."
"I cannot. I stumble on the path."
"Try harder."
"I fall by the wayside. Help me, Ju lia." His voice was husky, and there was a plea in it that was not in his eyes, which commanded her to do she knew not what.
"I can't," she said, faltering.
"You will not even try. You will not bring me to redemption."
"I don't have the power. You are sunk too deep."
"Only one such as you could have the power. A strong woman. A good woman. The best sort of temptation."
Oh, and it was tempting. To think that she, Julia Preston, might save such a notorious rake, might guide him, set him upon a steadier life, a truer course. How much good would that bring to the world? Surely she would be selfish to deny him.
But she searched his face, and found no remorse there. Only the subtle hint of satisfied anticipation, like a cat about to pounce. She pulled her hand awa y, and stood still, facing him.
"I think you are very cunning," she said quietly. "And I think you are a waste. That your intellect, which could have been turned to greatness, is spent on such evil idleness-" she shook her head. "It is a tragedy. You show me the potential of you, and I swear it could bring me to tears." The truth of her own words brought wetness to her eyes and she was embarrassed but refused to falter. Let him see she really meant what she said. "You are wrong. Your choices are wrong. Be better, Mr Holbrook. And leave me alone. I will not let you drag me down."
Then she turned and walked away.
He did not follow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
She sat at the top of a long slope that rolled away down to the ornamental lake. Just here a fold of the man-made hillside hid her from sight of the house, and she could pretend there was no one for miles. The water gleamed with a pearlescent luster, reflecting the pale blue sky, yellow at the horizon. The air was warm and still, the light buttery. Between her fingers the grass was a lush carpet. Her book lay open to one side, but she had been reading the letter from her grandmother that had arrived with the post this morning.
Grandmere was a skillful w riter and her vivacity shone out clearly between the lines, making Julia alternately laugh and shake her head at the woman’s reflections. The French comtesse had morals widely divergent from the staid, modern English norm. Each missive was full of scandal, and often intimate reflections. Hardly the sort of thing one should write of to a young descendant, but Grandmere was a law unto herself.
Julia sighed fitfully. She would dearly love to see her grandmother, but she did not have the leisure for travel, and neither of them had enough money for it. In the two years since she had taken this post she had not seen London. Each year she had hoped the Trents would relocate the entire family for the season, and each year the Trents had decided they could manage perfectly well without their children. No need to disturb their studies and distract them with the attractions of the City.
There were times she regretted her wasted coming-out season, thought of the opportunities she had squandered. A more focused, determine d woman would have found a husband who lived in town, and would be running her own household now. Might even have children, and more than five dresses to her name. Could see her grandmother any time she chose.
The only casualty would be love. Though even that
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