Surrender (18 page)

His gaze moved slowly down her silvery gray dress. “I approve. You have never looked lovelier.”

She felt her heart slam. “And I did not realize you meant to attire so formally tonight.” But that wasn’t what she wanted to say—she wanted to ask him if he was dressing up for her. He was dressed like a suitor, and he was as beautiful as a mythological Greek god. “Dressing up suits you.” She managed a composed smile.

“I have attended the occasional London supper party.” He smiled in return. “Red or white?”

She entered the gold-and-white salon, a large room with a great many oversize windows that looked out onto his gardens. All the furniture was gilded, as were the two chandeliers overhead. “I will have whatever you are having.”

He walked over to a magnificent sideboard and poured a glass of red wine, which he then handed to her. “I hope I haven’t rushed you.”

She took the wineglass, but did not sip. She was seeing such a different side of him, she thought. “Where is the captain of the
Sea Wolf?
” she asked.

He laughed. “Right here. I am capable of good manners, Countess.” His smile faded as he took her arm and they strolled from the salon. “But of course, you would not realize that, considering how I have acted since we first met.”

She halted, as did he. “You have been the perfect gentleman!” She realized she sounded fierce.

“I have behaved horribly—and we both know it. But I am appreciative of the fact that I am somehow forgiven. Shall we?”

His smile was the male equivalent of a sea siren’s, she thought, as her insides lurched in response. It was charming and seductive—impossible to resist. Had she been fooling herself to think that this invitation was casual and innocent?

“Do my accommodations satisfy you? Is there anything you need?” he asked, now speaking softly.

She shivered in response to his tone. “Your home is beautiful. I do not think I am lacking for anything.”

“I like beauty,” he said softly but firmly. “But that, of course, you know.”

She met his gaze, stumbling; he caught her around her waist, smiling. Her heart pounding, Evelyn slowly detached herself from his embrace. “You flatter me far too much.”

“That is not possible.” As he spoke, his unwavering attention intensified. “But I am beginning to believe that you do not have a clue as to your effect upon the male gender.”

Evelyn wet her lips, but could not reply. He gestured at the dining room.

The two doors to the room were open. Evelyn faced a table that could seat twelve, set with gold-rimmed plates, gold dinnerware and sparkling crystal. Several tall gold candlesticks held burning golden tapers. The beautifully adorned table was set for two.

She walked inside, Jack following. The two place settings were kitty-corner, his at the head of the table. He held her chair out for her. Evelyn thanked him and sat down.

As he took his seat adjacent hers, she said, “You have gone to a great deal of trouble, furnishing this house.” Her tone was husky and she cleared her throat.

“Yes, I have. I prefer to live in a privileged manner, now that I can.”

“I do not understand.”

“Greystone Manor is barely furnished. It is not the impoverished estate everyone thinks, but it is hardly a wealthy one. And Lucas is a very frugal and serious man. His decision has been to put as much of the family fortune away as is possible—until recently, he did not know that Julianne or Amelia would ever marry, much less well. He was determined to set aside what wealth he could for their futures, and that is exactly what he did. I like the finer things in life, Evelyn, but I grew up with only the bare necessities. I enjoy having all of this.” He gestured at the room.

Servants in livery appeared. Plates filled with salmon were set down before them. “Is that why you have chosen the life of a smuggler?”

He smiled with amusement. “The sea is my true love, Evelyn.”

“The sea—or adventure?”

He laughed. “Both. I could never live as my brother does. Boredom would destroy me. And I do like reaping the rewards of the free trade.”

He would never be a gentleman farmer, a landlord or some such expected thing, she thought. “I do not blame you. Everyone prefers luxury to subsistence.”

His gaze sobered. “In a way, our lives have taken opposite courses, have they not?”

She thought about how much she and Henri had had before the revolution. “I was fortunate to marry Henri. Now I have been returned to less fortunate circumstances.” She shrugged, as if indifferent. “You, however, have earned a life of luxury.”

“And you are not looking down your nose at me.” Then he became serious. “One never knows what life has in store. You might have another change of fortune—I should rather expect it.” He gestured at the cold poached salmon salad. “Please.”

She wondered at his comment. He was so optimistic about her future, and not for the first time. Evelyn smiled, now ravenous, and took a bite. The salmon was delicious and for a moment, they both ate, rather determinedly, in silence. When she had devoured half of her plate, she sighed, set her utensils down and took a sip of wine. “That might be the best salmon I have ever had.”

“I told you,” he said, “my chef is exceptional.”

He resumed eating and she studied him, wondering at his tone, his searching looks. Did he think to seduce her after supper? Or was she the one consumed with illicit thoughts? Hadn’t he told her how beautiful he thought her—time and again? There was tension between them, she thought, and it was too much to ignore.

And if he did make advances, could she really refuse? Did she even wish to?

When he had finished his portion, and she declined finishing hers, their plates were removed.

“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.

She felt herself flush. “You seem to have every luxury here, when the island seems so desolate.”

He stared at her, and she suspected he knew those had hardly been her thoughts. “It is desolate. And that is why so many pirates and smugglers have used the island as their home.”

“Why is this island safe for them—for you?” she asked. “I would think it dangerous. You are isolated and so close to shore.”

He leaned back in his chair, one large hand on the table, his fingers sprawled out casually there. “When a ship is approaching, we can see it. And we can run.” He smiled at her, now lounging very informally in his chair. He had finished his wine, and a servant promptly poured him another glass.

In that moment, even so well dressed, he reminded her of a big panther sunning itself. His demeanor was changing, too. He was becoming more than relaxed, and his gaze was now trained steadily upon her.

“I always have two lookouts on watch. No one can land here without my knowing it.”

“Surely the authorities know you are here?”

“The deed is not in my name.”

Of course the deed was recorded to a friend or an alias. Otherwise the authorities would come looking for him. She thought about their recent voyage, taking a sip of her wine. “You hate running away.”

“Yes, I do.”

“You would have loved to have a gun battle with the French.”

He slowly smiled. “I would have loved nothing more.” Then his stare became direct. His smile vanished. “Almost.”

She met his gaze. Did that comment mean what she thought it did? And he was so serious now.

He glanced away, suddenly drumming his fingers on the table, as if restless. “I do not mean to be rude,” he finally said. “I am appreciative of your being my guest. I am enjoying your company.”

“You are not being rude.” But she was certain he had been thinking about the passion they had shared—and could still share. And because the silence was so tense now, she said, “Jack? I cannot understand why the French navy would purse you.”

He toyed with his wineglass, and for a moment, she thought he would not answer her, just as he had avoided doing so on board his ship. “This is a time of war,” he finally said. “Everyone is suspect. There are places in France where I can pass easily enough, but at other times, I am scrutinized as all passersby who are not the French navy are.”

She supposed that made some sense. “If you are risking your life to run the British blockade, that isn’t fair.”

He laughed without mirth. “Nothing is fair in a time of war, and when it suits me, I outrun the French blockades. Their navy is pitiful—and it is easy enough to do.”

She suddenly recalled a remark made by Trevelyan—that he was a spy, perhaps for both sides. She lowered her eyes from his scrutiny, quickly picked up her wineglass and took a sip.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

She was not going to ruin the evening, she thought fiercely, by accusing him of being a spy. “Will this war ever end?”

He gave her an odd look, clearly aware that she was changing the subject. “All wars end, sooner or later,” he said. “But the question is, who will triumph and who will be defeated?”

More plates were set down in front of them, this time containing lamb shanks, potatoes and vegetables. Mouthwatering aromas of lamb roasted with thyme filled the room. The timing was perfect, as talk of war could ruin the evening. This time, they ate in silence for quite a while.

When she was finished, incapable of taking another bite, she watched him. He finally set his utensils down and sighed. Then he looked at her and smiled.

Her heart turned over, hard. Would she ever be immune to his smile? “Do you like living here?”

“Is that a loaded question?”

“Am I prying?” she asked. “I am curious. This house is lovely. But it reminds me of Roselynd, as there are no neighbors nearby, and the island is so barren—just like the Bodmin Moor.”

“It is the perfect haven.”

He hadn’t answered her question. “I would be lonely if I lived here,” she said. “It is lonely living at Roselynd, even with Aimee, Bette, Laurent and Adelaide.”

He took a sip of wine. “I am not lonely, Evelyn.” His tone almost seemed warning. Then he smiled. “You do not like your wine? You have not even finished one glass.”

He was changing the topic, she thought. “I love it, but I will become foxed on one glass, after all that has transpired, if I am not careful.”

He lifted his glass and regarded her over the rim, leaning back in his chair again. “And then? Will you tell me all of your secrets?”

“You know most of my secrets,” she said, suddenly realizing that was true. He knew more about her than anyone, other than her deceased husband.

His stare was piercing.

She found it hard to breathe. Slowly she said, “And you? If you become foxed—will you tell me your secrets?”

“No.” And then his hard expression softened. “I have no secrets. I am an open book.”

* * *

T
HE
TABLE
WAS
BEING
cleared; supper was over. Evelyn looked down at her place mat, her heart skidding. It was getting late. The evening was about to end. They were going to leave the table, go upstairs and say good-night. But then what would happen?

She slowly looked up. Her heart was racing, as it had throughout the evening, and her cheeks felt hot.

Jack said softly, “I do not think I have ever passed such an enjoyable evening.”

She met his probing regard. She realized she felt the same way. Jack had asked her more questions about her childhood. She hadn’t minded sharing her memories with him of life at Faraday Hall. She had then learned a bit about his boyhood. Somehow, she had not been surprised to find out that he had been fascinated with smugglers from a very young age, especially in their battles with the revenue men. She had been surprised, though, to learn that he had helped unload cargoes and keep watch from the time he was a small boy of five; he had been a first mate when he was a boy of thirteen. No wonder he was so skilled and successful now.

“I am so glad you asked me to supper,” she said.

Jack lounged in his chair, his stare unrelenting. Its intensity was at odds with his posture, which was entirely relaxed now. But then, he had had a great many glasses of wine; she had had one. He did not seem inebriated, but one could not consume as much wine as he had and remain sober.

“I suppose there is no getting past the fact that supper is over,” he said. “Thank you for joining me, Evelyn.” He stood up, his actions unrushed, and slowly came around to the back of her chair. Briefly, she felt his hands brush her as she stood, but he then stepped back from her. “Can you find your way back to your chamber?” he asked, his gray gaze intent.

She was adamant. “Of course I can. It is at the end of the hall on the second floor.”

He gestured, and she preceded him from the room. “Good,” he said.

Evelyn was disbelieving. Did his question mean that he would not see her to her bedroom? They passed the salon, the stairs ahead. She suddenly realized that she expected a kiss good-night—and not a formal one.

Surely his heart was hammering as incessantly as hers was. Surely he was as stiff with the same tension.

She started up the stairs, holding the banister, Jack behind her. Her heart was now thundering, with both alarm and anticipation. They reached his suite of rooms and she turned abruptly. He sidestepped her, avoiding a collision. He did not reach out to steady her, as he had done earlier in the evening.

She wet her lips and smiled. “I suppose this is good-night, then.”

“I suppose so.” His gray gaze skidded past her shoulder. “Thank you again, Evelyn, and good night.”

Had he just bid her good-night? Why wasn’t he looking at her intently, as he had done all evening? She breathed and said, “I would not mind an escort down the hallway.” Had she really just said such a thing? “It is rather dark.”

He glanced at her once, and then glanced away. “There are sconces…you will be fine. Good night.”

Was his tone
firm?
Had he just
dismissed
her?

He stepped into his suite. She stared after him, glimpsing a large sitting room with red walls and burgundy appointments, accented with gold. He left the door ajar, crossing it and disappearing into what must be his bedchamber.

Jack had not tried to take her into his arms.
He had not tried to kiss her.