She looked down at the water and saw Lord Martin and his first mate on the beach. Lord Spencer was carrying a young lady over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes to the water’s edge, and she was kicking and screaming. They were all laughing, and Evelyn wished with all her heart that she were down there on the beach with them instead of sitting here on the bench under the Umbrella Tree with her back stiff as a board and her gloved hands folded primly on her lap.
Lord Spencer set the screeching lady down and began chasing Martin. Still dressed in his evening formalwear, Martin escaped into the water and dove in headfirst with a resounding splash.
Evelyn gasped and covered her mouth with a hand, as Lord Spencer dove in behind Martin. Within seconds, they were both laughing and splashing each other, while the others on the beach were howling with glee.
“
Disgraceful,
” Breckinridge said, standing up and offering Evelyn his arm. “Please allow me to escort you back to your hotel and spare you this embarrassment.”
Still watching in disbelief, she feigned the disapproval he expected of her. “Disgraceful indeed.”
She allowed Lord Breckinridge to escort her back—not because she was horrified, however, but because she couldn’t bear the wistful longing that squeezed at her heart while she was forced
to sit with a stiff, overformal earl and pretend to disapprove of the others, who were frolicking without restraint down on the beach.
What would it take to no longer feel like an outsider to joy like that? she wondered with a sigh as she strolled politely across the grass on Lord Breckinridge’s arm. Nothing more than an invitation from a scoundrel, she supposed, which she’d already received, hadn’t she?
They stepped onto the paved walk and started back to the hotel in silence, while Evelyn reconsidered that invitation and wondered with great impetuosity when the opportunity to accept would arise.
A short time later, Martin stood in the corridor outside his door, digging into his trouser pocket for his key and dripping water everywhere. He had left the beach almost immediately after seeing Evelyn leave the Esplanade with Breckinridge because the thought of her with the earl—when he himself wanted another opportunity to talk and flirt with her—had taken all the joy out of the evening.
He glanced over his shoulder and listened for a sound from inside her room. Was she there? Or was she still with Breckinridge?
Just then, her door creaked open, and Martin exhaled with a smile. He waited a few seconds, then turned around and spread his arms wide,
attempting to explain the palpable smell of seaweed in the hall.
“I tripped.”
She folded her arms over her delightfully ample bosom and leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb, looking disapproving under those thick spectacles, which he found absolutely adorable. Here was the woman who never failed to challenge him, and seemed to enjoy it, too.
“You most certainly did not,” she replied. “I was watching you the entire time.”
His mood suddenly buoyant, he sauntered across the hall, closing the distance between them until he stood only a few inches away from her. “Were you indeed?”
He removed his bow tie and wrung it out in front of her. She looked down at the water dripping on the floor, stared at it aghast, then looked up at him again with the reproachful expression that he sensed was becoming a recurring joke between them.
“Are you going to get me in trouble for that?” he asked with a grin.
“I should,” she replied, but with a hint of playful rebellion in her eyes that surprised him in some ways, but not in others. “I should call the hotel authorities right this instant,” she added.
He took another step closer until his lips almost touched her pretty nose. “But you’re not going to, are you?” He felt her suck in a breath.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
Her blasé tone was a most commendable effort, he thought. She deserved a prize.
“And what can I do to convince you to let me get away with it?” he asked.
She inclined her head and raised an eyebrow. “It’s salt water, you know. It’s going to leave a mark.”
His voice was low, casual, suggestive. “Maybe we can get down on our hands and knees and scrub it clean together.”
Her lips parted slightly with alarm, but then she located her cool, composed façade, and scoffed. “I’m not getting anywhere near the floor with
you
,” she said.
Martin wanted to laugh and applaud her recovery, but he resisted the urge because he understood moments like these and knew they required a rather delicate finesse.
“What are we going to do then?” he asked. “Perhaps there’s a way I can bribe you to keep quiet?”
With any other woman, he would have touched her cheek at that point and slowly backed her into her room, but she was not any other woman. She was allegedly impossible to flirt with, Sir Lyndon had said.
Martin was quite sure he had already proven that claim grossly inaccurate. And after speaking with her on the ship to night, he was beginning to see the inaccuracy of many other things as well—
his own previous impressions of her included. She was not a cold fish. She was simply repressed, with her lid on too tight, and in great danger of boiling over.
He wondered why. Did she not
want
joy? Did she think it wrong?
“Perhaps there is something,” she replied.
He drew his head back in surprise. “You don’t say.”
“I do. I’ve been thinking about our conversation earlier, and I’ve changed my mind. I would in fact like to try sailing. I would like to see what all the to-do is about.”
Martin swallowed, attempting to hide his astonishment. “Well,” he said matter-of-factly, “there certainly is a great deal of
to-do
, but let me make sure I understand this correctly. You want
me
to take you?”
She cleared her throat and dropped her hands to her sides, and he could see she was almost afraid to be asking. He knew better than to tease her with it, however, because he had a feeling she might bolt back into her room and change her mind again if he did. Or God forbid, ask Breckinridge to take her. So he waited quietly for an answer, taking it all very seriously.
Finally, she nodded.
He grinned in response. “I think something can be arranged.”
“And can I trust you to bring me back safely?” she asked, sounding rather uncertain.
He experienced a momentary rush of guilt, knowing he was going to answer in the affirmative when he knew all too well that contrary to his confidence at the helm of a sailing vessel, sometimes a man was powerless to keep people safe.
He kept that notion to himself, however, and spoke with an outward show of confidence—because he
would
bring her back safely. He would.
“Absolutely.”
She wet her lips, still seeming unsure. “I don’t wish my reputation to be compromised.”
“I understand that,” he said, “but rest assured, I can be most discreet. No one will even know we are gone.”
She bit her lower lip. “That’s not exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking that perhaps you could invite a few others. Lord and Lady Radley for instance?”
She was looking far too hopeful. “That would make it all very proper, wouldn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, it would.”
He tapped a finger on his chin, pondering the suggestion. “Let me see. Inviting others on your first sea voyage. Um,
no
.”
“No! You expect me to go alone with you?”
“Yes.”
“On a yacht? Just the two of us? You’ve lost your mind.”
With that, she backed up and shut the door in his face.
Martin tried not to laugh, and remained where he was standing, because somehow he knew she would be back.
Sure enough, a minute later, she opened her door and peeked out. When she discovered him still standing exactly where she’d left him, she jumped, apparently startled.
“What are you doing, still standing in my doorway?”
“What are you doing peeking out at me?”
Rolling her eyes in frustration, she opened the door all the way and folded her arms again over that gorgeous bosom.
“I thought you’d be gone,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“I can see that.”
They both stood facing each other, until Martin ran a hand over his wet hair. “Look, I’m soaking wet, and I’m getting a chill. I’ve got to take these clothes off.” He shrugged out of his wet jacket and waistcoat, right there in the hall.
Her eyes widened in shock. He had to admit, he did enjoy shocking her prudish sensibilities. Hell, it was time
somebody
shook the apples off her tree.
“So are we going sailing tomorrow or not?” he asked directly.
“Tomorrow?” she replied, sounding as if she might still change her mind.
“Yes. Seven o’clock sharp.” He turned to let himself into his own room across the hall and turned the key. “I’ll have the launch waiting for you at the pavilion at the far end of the Green. There won’t be anyone out that early in the day. Wear something warm and don’t be late.” He pushed his door open.
“I didn’t say yes,” she blurted out.
He entered his room, then stuck his head out. “No, but you wanted to, so I said it for you. See you at seven.”
Without a second’s hesitation, he shut his door and listened.
She remained in her doorway for a moment or two, obviously waiting to see if he would peek out at her as she had done, but he wasn’t about to do anything so foolish. He didn’t wish to give her another opportunity to say no.
He continued to listen for a few more minutes until at last her door clicked shut. Then he chuckled, stripped off his shirt, and rang for some hot water.
T
he next morning at 7:00
A.M.
sharp, wearing a navy-and-white-striped yachting dress with a white sailor’s hat and a three-quarter coat, Evelyn left the hotel alone and crossed the parade. A cold, wet fog loomed over the Solent, and she felt the mist on her cheeks.
She walked quickly along the waterfront, ignoring the sensible part of her brain, which was telling her to turn around and go back to her room because this was utterly inappropriate. It was something her impulsive friend Penelope would do. But she did not turn around, because she wanted this adventure. For once in her life, she wanted to be carefree like Martin had been on
the beach the night before. She wanted to learn to be like those women and laugh out loud, not caring what others thought about it—others like Lord Breckinridge. All night long, she had not been able to get Martin’s words out of her head.
Don’t you ever want to try new things? To explore and feel truly alive?
Yes, she did. She was tired of being the proper, reserved, unsmiling widow. She had been alone with her quiet, humorless life for too long. She wanted a home filled with laughter and conversation. It was time she learned to behave that way herself.
Arriving at the pavilion, she slowed her pace. Martin was there as promised, standing on the beach at the water’s edge, wearing a foul-weather jacket and looking outward. The fog was thick all around him.
She watched him for a moment. He seemed distracted, or perhaps entranced by the water, then he turned.
Their eyes met, and she sucked in a breath. He looked rugged and dangerous, with his coat open in front and a sheath knife in his belt. He looked nothing like the son of a duke. He looked more like a dangerous gunslinger out of one of those pop u lar American novels.
But then he smiled and waved, and started up the beach to greet her, and he became his charming, aristocratic self again. She stepped off the
walk and onto the shifting pebbles to meet him halfway.
“I knew you would come,” he said with a smile. “But don’t change your mind now.”
“What makes you think I would change my mind?” she asked, walking beside him to the small rowboat at the water’s edge.
He simply raised an eyebrow and gave her a knowing look, as if he’d heard every word of the noisy debate that had taken place in her mind on the way here. She gave a resigned sigh.
When they reached the boat, he offered his hand. “Madam?”
Evelyn accepted his assistance, and felt the rough calluses on his hand, even through her gloves. They were not the hands of an idle gentleman. These were the hands of a champion yachtsman.
She stepped in and seated herself on the bench near the transom. Martin pushed the boat over the pebbles and hopped in at the last second before it began to float. It rocked precariously for a few seconds until he settled himself on the bench facing her.
“It’s not far,” he said, picking up the oars and turning them around.
All of this was like a strange dream, she thought, watching him row them into the dense fog. She could barely believe she was here, sitting in a rowboat with Martin Langdon, about to spend the day
alone with him. She would never have believed it if someone had described this moment to her ten years ago.
“Here we are,” he said, slowing them down and bringing the launch up next to the yacht at the stern. He secured the oars and tied the launch to the mooring, then reached for a sack, which he tossed up onto the boat.
Evelyn was becoming increasingly uneasy, because she had no idea how she was going to get herself out of the launch and onto the bigger boat, as there was no gangplank. “This looks challenging,” she said.
“I’ll show you what to do.” He grabbed hold of a brass rail, raised a foot over the back beam, and hoisted himself up and over. He disappeared for a few seconds, then returned and fastened a rope ladder over the side. “It’s a bit of a stretch, but you’ll be fine. Take my hand.”
Evelyn stood, and the little boat rocked and bobbed up and down. Her instincts told her to keep low.
“That’s it,” Martin said. “Now put a foot right here and hold on to this, then step up and over.” He hauled her up and in a flash she was standing on deck with her gloved hands upon his shoulders, his huge
un
gloved hands wrapped tightly around her waist. “That wasn’t so difficult, was it?” His deep blue eyes glimmered.
Unsettled by his nearness and the excitement
she felt at his touch, she took a hasty step back. “No, it was much easier than it looked.”
He eyed her intently, then turned. “Allow me to show you around. This is the cockpit, and up front is the foredeck.”
Everything was bird’s-eye maple, gleaming with new varnish. The tall mast was wood as well. She followed him to a small hatch, which he unlocked and opened, then climbed down a companionway to the cabin below.
Evelyn paused up on the deck, looking down at him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” she said hesitantly, seeing that it was a cozy-looking cabin with a small galley area on one side and a cushioned bench along the other.
He inclined his head at her. “You can’t stay up there all day. You’re going to need to get out of the wind eventually, and I promised to be a gentleman, remember?”
When she still made no move, he held out his hand again. His expression became serious, as did the tone of his voice. “Don’t worry, Evelyn, you can trust me. I won’t ravish you. Unless, of course, you want me to.”
He should not have made such a wicked remark, nor should he have used her given name, but much to her surprise, she didn’t dissolve into pieces from either impropriety. She did as he asked and climbed down the companionway.
“This is where we prepare our meals,” he ex
plained, gesturing to the galley. “And we eat over here.” He lowered a table that was fastened to the bulkhead. “Two men can sleep here as well, but these are the preferred accommodations—the master’s quarters.”
He led her to the private V-berth at the front of the boat—a small, enclosed space with a mattress and bedding, large enough for at least two people. She imagined what it would be like to sleep there, so hidden away from the world.
“It looks very comfortable,” she said.
“It is, and quiet, too, when you’re anchored at night. Would you like some coffee?”
She paused. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“It’s too foggy at the moment, and there’s no wind. Things should improve in an hour or so, if you don’t mind waiting.” His blue eyes were friendly and open, and she slowly managed to relax her reservations.
“In that case, coffee would be very nice.”
He went to light the stove. While he started the coffee, Evelyn wandered around the cabin and paused to look at a photograph tacked to the bulkhead over the table—of Martin and his crew holding the Cowes Cup.
“Was this taken last year?” she asked.
He turned from the coffeepot. “That was two years ago. We are definitely in need of a more recent photograph.”
“Then you’ll just have to win the race again at
the end of the week.” She studied his exuberant smile in the picture.
Martin left the coffee to brew. “That is my ambition of course, but you must have heard the predictions about Lord Breckinridge’s boat, the
Endeavor
.”
“I’ve heard
him
say it’s fast,” she replied.
He sat down at the table and gestured for her to join him. She took the seat opposite.
“I’ve seen the boat for myself,” he explained. “She is indeed a winner.”
“Are you worried?
You?
The famous, unflappable champion?”
He narrowed his gaze at her but maintained a mischievous smirk. There was always playfulness in his eyes, she had discovered.
“Are you making fun of me, Mrs. Wheaton? I’ll have you know, sailing is serious business.” He leaned forward over the table. “Perhaps you’ll change your opinion at the end of the day, after you’ve experienced it for yourself.”
Evelyn had to give in, because what did she know about sailing after all? “Perhaps I will.”
He seemed pleased she didn’t argue the point, then leaned back again and rested an arm along the back of the cushioned bench. “So tell me,” he said with a faintly inquisitive look in his eyes, “what have you been doing since that day I saw you at the train station ten years ago, when you
told me I needed to put myself on the straight and narrow?”
She was surprised he could so quickly retrieve the exact number of years since they’d last seen each other, and remember something so specific about what she’d said. “I was married, as you must know.”
“Only for a brief time, I understand.”
“Three months.”
His voice bore genuine compassion. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
She wet her lips. “Thank you.”
“It must have been especially difficult so early in your marriage when you were barely out of your honeymoon.”
She squeezed her reticule on her lap. “The vicar and I didn’t take a honeymoon.”
“No? Nevertheless, whether you traveled or not, the first few months of marriage are usually…How shall I put it?
Exciting,
in some form or another. It’s a new life after all.”
Evelyn shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he was referring to something more specific than just the “new life” that marriage represented. She suspected he was, and felt an uncomfortable heat rush to her cheeks, for it was not something she wished to speak about. That aspect of her marriage had been very awkward.
“It was a different life,” she replied, struggling
to sound at ease when she was the furthest thing from it. “But looking back on it, the marriage was so brief, sometimes it feels as if it never happened. There were no children, and it was just a brief flash of time really, gone forever now. All I can do at this point is move forward and try to start again.”
He lowered his gaze, and when he lifted it, his eyes were somber. The expression surprised her. It was different from what she was accustomed to seeing and made her think of what Lady Radley had said about him the night before, about something dark and mysterious boiling beneath his surface. There was so much she did not know about him, she realized.
Suddenly he tapped a finger on the table, seeming anxious to change the subject. “So go ahead,” he said, “ask me a question about sailing. It’s what we’re here for after all.”
“All right,” she replied, struggling to get her mind around a new topic. “Do you sail the
Orpheus
year-round? Even in the winter?”
The light in his eyes returned. “I take her out of the water for the colder months, and it’s always a joy to sail her again for the first time in the spring.”
The coffeepot was gurgling, so he rose and set two tin cups on the stove. “How do you like your coffee?” he asked.
“Black, please.”
He poured both cups and brought them to the table. “When did you learn to sail?” she asked, after he sat down again.
“I took it up after I returned from America. My brother was—”
“You went to America?”
Her question silenced him. He sat motionless for a moment, then flexed his hand around the cup and continued speaking. “I spent four years there, and upon my return my brother was eager to see me do something that would engage me. He commissioned my first yacht not long after I got back.” He sipped the coffee and set down his cup. “Speaking of which, do you feel that?”
She set her cup down as well. “Feel what?”
“Movement. There’s a breeze.”
Indeed, she felt it, too—a gentle undulation—though it was so faint she was amazed he had noticed.
“Is there enough wind for us to sail?” she asked.
“Let’s have a look.”
He carried his coffee cup to the companionway, then hoisted himself up onto the third step to look outside. “The fog is moving out. We can at least get started, though we won’t set any records.” He downed the rest of his coffee in a few gulps and descended with swift, eager steps. “You can wait here if you like, while I get us away from the mooring, but I would prefer to have your assistance.”
“Assistance?”
“I’ll need you to hold the wheel steady for me once or twice.”
That didn’t sound too difficult, so Evelyn agreed and finished the last of her coffee. He locked the cups away, then led her up on deck and gestured to the bench near the wheel.
“Take a seat right there,” he said.
She did as he asked, and he immediately set to work moving around the boat, rigging the mainsail and jib. She enjoyed watching him work, admiring the swift grace of his hands as he tied knots and fed lines through blocks and cleats.
He moved past or around her a number of times as he went from one end of the boat to the other, and she leaned forward or back to stay out of his way.
“There’s a good breeze now,” he said, hopping down onto the deck directly in front of her. He bent to pass under the boom and stepped up onto the foredeck on the other side. He set about hoisting the mainsail, doing everything very quickly.
A few minutes later, they were free of the mooring, and he was standing at the wheel, glancing up at the sails and down at the water. As soon as they were under way, he reached for Evelyn’s hand and pulled her deftly to her feet.
“I’ll need you to take the wheel now,” he said.
“Just for a minute while I raise the jib.” He slid his hand around her waist and guided her to stand in front of him.
“I don’t really know what to do,” she told him.
“You don’t have to do anything. Just hold it steady right here.”
His large, warm hands wrapped around hers and he showed her where to grip the spokes. She could feel his firm chest against her back, and the contact upset her balance. She adjusted her stance while she fought to suppress the feverish excitement in her belly.
His lips brushed against her ear, and she felt the moist heat of his breath when he spoke. “That’s it,” he said. “You might feel it tugging, but don’t let it turn. Keep it in this position.”
She held it firmly and tried to keep her breathing under control. When he seemed sure she was comfortable, he let go. “I’ll just be a moment.”
Though she did not feel altogether confident, she nodded and watched him go to the forward sail. Again, he moved quickly and skillfully, his body straining as he pulled on the ropes to hoist it. Before she knew it, he was hopping down into the cockpit again and sliding up next to her, taking over the wheel. His nearness caused the passionate fluttering in her belly to return.