Surrender To A Scoundrel (12 page)

“Look! There’s the
Orpheus
!” someone shouted, and Evelyn nearly fell backward out of her chair with her legs in the air.

Quickly collecting herself, she tried to appear blasé and turned her gaze to the west. Indeed there they were. The huge spinnaker was shooting the yacht forward on the final approach.

Others on the lawn clapped and cheered, though there was not much to applaud as it wasn’t a race, and for all they knew, the
Orpheus
could have just clocked the worst time on record.

“Shall we go greet the crew at the landing stage?” a beautiful young woman suggested, flapping her hands with excitement like some kind of bird.

Evelyn sat back in her chair and launched her parasol over her head.

“Do you want to go?” Lady Radley asked, leaning close and whispering conspiratorially.

“I don’t think so,” she replied.

“Why not? Everyone else is going to greet them.”

“That is precisely why we shall not.”

Lady Radley sighed with frustration and lifted her parasol, too, and they sat in silence while all the other young ladies on the lawn made a mad dash for the back gate.

Then Lady Radley eyed her shrewdly. “Ah, I see.”

“What do you mean, ‘
I see’
?”

“I see what you’re doing.”

Evelyn studied her for a moment. “And what am I doing, exactly?”

“You’re going to be the challenging one.”

Feigning indifference, Evelyn squinted out at the water. To be honest, she hadn’t actually thought of it that way. It had been her pride that kept her from chasing after him along with all the other silly, screeching girls.

Or perhaps not pride. Perhaps it was that old familiar refusal to even
try
to compete with the ones she knew were prettier than she.

Nevertheless, Lady Radley’s idea did have some merit. A challenge. He was a man who thrived on them, wasn’t he? “Well you know he
does
like to compete,” she said.

Her companion was quiet for a moment under the shade of her parasol, while they watched the
Orpheus
draw in its spinnaker. Then she leaned
in and raised a curious eyebrow. “Does this mean you’re going to have an adventure this week, Evelyn?”

She did not answer the question right away, because she was still not really sure of the answer. It was so far out of her realm of experience, and she wasn’t sure she could be courageous enough to risk her heart. So she chose only to smile and ask a question of her own. “Isn’t there an assembly for the competitors at Northwood to night?”

“Yes, there is, and it promises to be a fantastic crush.”

Evelyn continued to watch the boats while she basked in the sun’s warmth. “I wonder what I shall wear.”

Lady Radley patted her on the knee. “I know exactly what you should wear, dear. Something that shows off your brains.”

When Martin stepped onto the landing stage at the Squadron, he was greeted by a horde of giggling young women, all waving frantically at him. None of them looked a day over twenty.

Spence stopped on the slip and rolled his eyes. “Here we go.”

Martin was at least glad he and Spence had put last night’s quarrel behind them. Earlier that morning, as soon as they’d hoisted the mainsail, the challenges on the water had distracted them both from what ever hostilities remained. They
hadn’t discussed or resolved anything, but they had at least swept all of it under the carpet so to speak, as they so often did. That particular maneuver over the years had often freed them to continue their friendship and focus on what ever tasks were at hand.

“Lord Martin!” one of the ladies called out to him as he reached the end of the dock. “We were watching your magnificent run. We all think you’re going to win again, don’t we, ladies?”

She beamed flirtatiously at him. He stopped for a moment, wondering if—and how—he could get out of this, then finally gave up and approached them. The one who had spoken stared up at him with wide, awestruck eyes, and her mouth fell open.

“I appreciate the confidence,” he said, giving each of the girls a courteous nod.

“It’s our pleasure, Lord Martin,” one of the others said, her voice quivering as if she were experiencing some kind of tizzy.

Normally, in a situation such as this, he would know just what to say to make them all giggle and blush anew, but for some reason presently, he was at a loss. To be honest, he didn’t really care whether or not he made them giggle. He was very tired from the test run and wasn’t feeling like himself today.

In the end, however, he managed a chivalrous response, though he had to dig deep to pull it off.
“Ladies, I am heading up to the Squadron lawn for a cool drink of lemonade. You’ll all accompany me, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, yes!”

He smiled graciously and led the way up the drive to the back gate. Spence followed behind, striking up a conversation with one of the young women.

They entered the grounds, and Martin spotted all the mothers over by the fence. Politely, he extricated himself from the young ladies’ company, found a footman, and requested a glass of lemonade, then joined Sir Lyndon, who was socializing with a few of the older club members.

“Martin, we watched you come in,” Lyndon said. “Well done, my boy, well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to look around the crowded yard at all the laughing, gossiping guests, wondering who else was there, and perhaps wondering more specifically about one person in particular.

Then he spotted her.

She was sitting in a wicker chair with a lacy parasol over her head, wearing a dark crimson dress and matching hat that brought out the auburn highlights in her hair. She was listening to her companion, Lady Radley, who was gesturing expressively with her hands as she spoke.

Evelyn glanced in Martin’s direction, and their eyes met. She leaned forward slightly and smiled
at him. It was not a broad smile, but it was clever and knowing and faintly teasing, as if she found the obvious spectacle of giddy young girls both entertaining and ridiculous.

For a split second, he was immobilized with both relief and adoration. She was not the same woman she had been the other day when he’d first met her on the lawn with Breckinridge and the Radleys. She had been aloof and almost contemptuous that day, but this afternoon she was meeting his gaze directly and nodding with an open, mischievous countenance. She was practically glowing, outshining every other woman in view.

All at once, he felt a stirring of emotion from deep inside himself, as if he were looking at a flower that had just opened to the sun. He regarded her for a moment and forgot all about the race and didn’t hear a word Lyndon was saying. Perhaps he should go over there.

But then an unexpected surge of anxiety came out of nowhere and stopped him. He felt a tight knot of tension in his stomach and put a hand to it. It was the same knot he had felt the night before, after his argument with Spence. Disturbed by it, he turned back to face the men.

“What was your time?” Sir Lyndon asked, his eyes gleaming with curiosity.

Martin took a few deep swigs of his lemonade, then raised his glass and spoke with humor. “You
know better than to ask me that, Sir Lyndon, you cheeky devil. Only my crew and I are privy to that information.”

Sir Lyndon nodded, but with a hint of disappointment he could not hide. “You can’t blame a man for trying.”

The men started chatting again, but Martin was having a hard time listening. He did not feel himself.

He glanced uneasily over his shoulder and saw the group of young ladies standing under the elm tree, still staring at him, watching his every move, whispering to each other and giggling. They were
always
staring—they and countless other women just like them. Could he never have some privacy and space?

God, what was wrong with him? This was just the sort of thing he had been looking forward to when he’d sailed into Cowes a few days ago. He had longed for this superficial amusement and couldn’t wait to throw himself into a wicked good time.

He looked down at his foggy lemonade, then downed the rest of it in one gulp while Spence chatted with the other gentlemen in their group. He waited for a break in the conversation, then spoke up. “I must be off.” He set his glass on a tray as a footman walked by.

“But you just got here,” Sir Lyndon replied.

“My apologies, but I have a few important
matters to attend to.” He didn’t in fact, but there it was. “Good day, gentlemen.”

With that, he walked out, hoping that by nightfall he would be ready for frivolous revelry again. For frivolous revelry was much easier than this strange, unexpected discontent.

I
t was past ten by the time Martin and Spence arrived at Northwood House, a sumptuous Georgian mansion in the grand style, situated upon a grassy hillside overlooking the Solent. The host and hostess welcomed them into the Grand Salon and within seconds, they were holding champagne flutes in their hands and laughing with some of the other competitors in the race.

Martin eyed the buffet table because he’d slept through dinner and was ravenous; but as luck would have it, who was standing next to the tower of cream cakes but Evelyn—looking equally delicious in a stunning, pale yellow gown of light,
diaphanous fabric that seemed to flutter around her legs on a non ex is tent breeze.

And her bosom…Well, she looked delectable with pearls crisscrossing over her lush, alluring breasts.

He experienced a jolt of uneasiness suddenly, just as he had on the back lawn of the yacht club earlier that day. To night, however, he could not help but accept the more compelling reasons why he felt such discomfort—because he was experiencing a desire that went deeper than his usual superficial flirtations, and he had never intended for that to happen.

It was a milestone of enormous proportions, he supposed—that he could admit to himself that his feelings for Evelyn went beyond mere amusement for the sake of distraction. But despite the fact that he acknowledged those feelings now, he did not welcome them. He did not want to worry about where they could lead, because he did not want them to lead anywhere.

Besides, he had a race to win. That was why he had come to Cowes. He had not come to get himself tangled up in a romance that might pull him under.

Thus, he did what he always did. He repressed his troubles and forced himself to return to comfortable habits. He conversed and smiled, he flirted with beautiful women, he laughed and partook of a generous variety of diversions on
the buffet table, and even secured some sailing secrets, learning who planned to use what maneuvers on race day. Then someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he turned.

“Lord Martin! How long has it been?”

It was Sheldon Hatfield—Breckinridge’s first mate, the man who had despised him at Eton because of the girl on the horse. He had lost most of his hair and grown very round through the middle, Martin could not help but notice. And he was drunk.

Martin bowed slightly at the waist. “Hatfield, how are you?”

The man swayed unsteadily on his feet, sloshing his brandy to and fro. “I swear, if it weren’t for the drink in my hand, I’d think the ocean was still under me.” He slapped Martin hard on the shoulder. “But I won’t bore you with that. You’re back to defend your title, I see.”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.”

He pointed a finger. “But you had best brace yourself my friend. We made a good run today and set some records, so we’re going to make it very hard on you. You’ve seen the
Endeavor
?”

“I have. She’s a very impressive sloop.”

“Indeed. I helped design her, you know.” He raised his glass and took a drink.

“
Did
you?”

“Yes,” he replied. “I told that Benjamin fellow to paint her black, by golly.”

Martin raised his eyebrows. “Well done, Hatfield. She looks very sleek.”

“That she does.” He swung his glass through the air as he spoke. “I presume you’ve been cracking the whip with your crew? Getting them ready for the race? You can’t let them rest, you know. You’ve got to keep harping at them and let them know who is boss. You’ve got to make them work for their supper, so to speak; otherwise, they’ll do more harm than good.” He lifted his glass to take another drink, and spoke into the snifter. “Lazy bastards.”

Hands clasped behind his back, Martin looked over Hatfield’s shoulder, and saw Breckinridge approach Evelyn on the other side of the room. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

“Or maybe you’ve had enough glory as Cowes champion?” Hatfield continued. “I heard you’re more keen on the other trophy this week. Though I can’t say I understand it much myself. I’d hardly call her a trophy, and she’s certainly not up to
your
usual standards.”

Martin’s gaze shot back to Hatfield’s puffy face and bulbous red nose. “I beg your pardon?”

He swung his glass around again, gesturing toward Evelyn and Breckinridge. “You know…the holier-than-thou widow. Richer than the mint, they say. Maybe she’ll be your consolation prize when you lose the race, but my guess is
you’ll tire of her anyway as soon as you cross
her
finish line, if you grasp my meaning.”

“Hatfield…”

“You really ought to do the poor woman a favor and leave her to Breckinridge. He’ll at least put a ring on her finger, and she’ll be grateful for that.” He stuck his nose into his glass and started to tip it up. “Though
she’ll
have to foot the bill for the trinket, I daresay.”

Before the brandy even had a chance to drain into Hatfield’s open mouth, Martin struck the glass from his hand. Perplexed and appearing disoriented, the man blinked a few times.

“You’ve had too much to drink, Hatfield,” he said. “I suggest you call it a night.” He set the glass on a table beside him.

Hatfield glared indignantly at him. “You just want me to leave because you know I’m going to beat you in the race and because of that, I’m spoiling your fun to night.”

Studying Hatfield’s hazy eyes, Martin inclined his head to inform him that their conversation was at an end. “We’ll see about that,” he said.

Then he crossed the room to seek out a much more attractive and intelligent conversationalist—one who was in danger of being wooed by a man who had chosen a drunken fool for a first mate.

“And then he insisted that we pay for the chair,” Lord Breckinridge said, “regardless of the fact that we had changed the paint color of our drawing room, and the fabric no longer matched.” He gestured toward the back garden. “Shall we get some air?”

Evelyn smiled dutifully, hoping that a fresh breeze might breathe some life into their conversation. It would at least stimulate her brain with some oxygen. “Yes, thank you.”

They ventured outside onto the veranda and looked up at the moon. Evelyn could not help but compare it to the moon she had admired the night before, which had been clear and bright, surrounded by stars. To night there were no stars, only clouds passing across the sky.

“It’s a lovely night,” she said.

“Indeed. There is nothing so fine as a cool breeze.”

They stood side by side, looking out at the back garden, but Evelyn could see nothing, for it was pitch-black.

“I’m sure it is a beautiful garden in the daylight,” she mentioned, struggling to fill the awkward silence.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied.

They continued to stand on the veranda, not looking at one another. Evelyn chewed on her lower lip. She pushed her spectacles up her nose.

Breckinridge cleared his throat. He clasped his hands behind his back. “It’s a lovely evening,” he said, repeating her earlier observation.

“Yes, it is,” she replied, wondering if it was possible for a person actually to suffocate and die gasping from boredom.

They stood there for another agonizing minute or two, maybe more, then Evelyn glanced over her shoulder. Martin was standing just inside the open doors. His eyes met hers, and he stepped to the side to keep her locked in his gaze.

She smiled and faced the garden, then glanced back at him again. He rolled his eyes at her, as if he were making fun of Breckinridge’s bungling conversation. Evelyn fought not to laugh.

“Well, that was refreshing,” Breckinridge said. “Shall we go inside?”

Evelyn quickly cleared her throat. “I do beg your indulgence, Lord Breckinridge, but I would like to remain here alone a little longer if you don’t mind. It’s very peaceful.”

He hesitated, as if stumbling over what to say, then bowed slightly. “Of course. Enjoy the night, but I must beg your indulgence as well. Please allow me to take you back to your hotel at the end of the evening, Mrs. Wheaton, as my aunt and uncle have departed, and my uncle has entrusted you to my care.”

Evelyn looked inside. They had not told her
they were leaving. How could they have done such a thing? She supposed it was Lord Radley’s scheme to put her and his nephew together.

“Thank you,” she replied. “I would be most grateful.”

He bowed again and left her alone. She faced the garden, then tilted her head back to look up at the clouds. Less than ten seconds later, she heard slow footsteps, then a man’s voice.

“Are you wondering, like I am, why all the stars have disappeared?”

Every nerve in her body quivered with excitement. “They haven’t exactly disappeared,” she said, without lowering her gaze. “They’re merely hiding.”

Martin came to stand beside her. He looked up, too. “The moon is hiding as well. But look, there it is. Oops, gone again.”

She could not help but laugh. “Those shifty stratocumuli.” She glanced across at him with laughter in her eyes, but found him looking rather somber and contemplative. “What’s wrong?”

His voice remained quiet. “I must apologize to you, Evelyn. I was completely unsociable to night.”

She had indeed been very disappointed that he had flirted with every woman in the room except for her, but did not wish him to know that. “You were hardly unsociable,” she said. “You had the whole room at your feet.”

“But what good is that,” he asked, “when they
are all strangers, and none are as lovely as you?”

The tender compliment, delivered with such sincerity, warmed her blood in the most pleasant way, and any lingering disappointments faded into oblivion, along with her best intentions to be a challenge to him. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was speak from her heart and tell him exactly how she felt. She turned to face him more directly and spoke in a calm voice, without anger. Just truth.

“You say that, Martin, yet you avoided me like the plague to night. There was no need for it, you know. I’m not one of those young, lovesick admirers who will latch on to your coattails. Is that what you thought?”

His brow furrowed, as if he were baffled by her response. “That’s not how I see you.”

“No?”

“
No
.”

Wetting her lips, she relaxed slightly. “Well, it seemed a little that way.” At least she thought it had.

Someone dropped a glass inside, and the smash drew her attention. There was an abrupt silence in the assembly room, then a general murmur until a footman scurried to clean it up. A few seconds later, everyone turned back to their conversations.

Evelyn looked up at Martin again. He was staring down at her as if he had never looked away.

“I did avoid you to night,” he finally said, “but I also realized that I did so because I’ve become an expert at avoidance.”

She inhaled sharply. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re different from other women,” he said, “and I told you things yesterday—very private things—that I never tell anyone.”

“Are you referring to what happened when you were in America?”

He nodded.

She began to reason out theories to explain what he was trying to tell her. “Maybe you’ve come to a point in your life where you’re ready to talk about it.”

“No,” he replied. “It was because of you. No other reason.”

She felt a confusing mixture of excitement and apprehension. “What are you saying, Martin? Why did you come out here?”

He took a moment to articulate his thoughts. “I came out here to tell you I avoided you to night because you made me want you more than I’ve wanted any woman in a very long time, and I became spooked.”

She could feel her heart beating faster. “I was a little spooked, too,” she said, “because I had a wonderful time yesterday. Almost
too
wonderful.”

All at once, she wanted to step into his arms, to embrace him and feel the passion she had felt on
the beach the day before. To discover what was beyond it. She knew so little about love and desire and the workings of her body. She wanted to learn it all from
him
. From Martin. The only man who had ever truly stirred her passions.

She felt her cheeks burning with anticipation and need, and thought, surely, he must see it as plain as day.

“I wonder,” he said, “if perhaps you might consider—”

Just then, a shadow appeared in the doorway, and they both turned.

“Lord Martin, I didn’t see you come out here,” Breckinridge said, looking at both of them with displeasure.

Martin faced Breckinridge. “Ah, but it’s a glorious evening, is it not? I needed some fresh air, and whom did I find strolling on the veranda as well, but the most enchanting woman in the room—Mrs. Wheaton.” He bowed to her.

He was shamelessly flaunting his legendary charm. Evelyn recognized it, because it was not how he really was with her.

Breckinridge’s jaw clenched visibly. Evelyn suspected he was frustrated because he knew he could not compete. Not when it came to charm, at any rate.

Nevertheless, he bowed to her also. “An enchanting woman indeed. Mrs. Wheaton, my coach awaits.”

It was an impressive effort at chivalry, she had to admit, and she would give credit where credit was due. She smiled and inclined her head at him. “Thank you, my lord. I am obliged.”

Then she turned to Martin and inclined her head at him as well. “Lord Martin?”

He bowed. “Mrs. Wheaton.”

And because it was the proper thing to do, she went to Breckinridge and took his arm. She had agreed to let him escort her back to the hotel, after all, and she could hardly change her mind.

Besides, she had promised herself she would be a challenge to Martin, hadn’t she? She could not go begging
him
to escort her home. It was much better that he watch her leave, and perhaps wish that she had stayed.

Sheldon Hatfield leaned a shoulder against the wall in the back corner of the saloon and watched Breckinridge escort the widow out. His blurry gaze then swept to the open French doors and the veranda beyond, where Martin was leaning both hands upon the balustrade, still looking out at the back garden.