Surrender To A Scoundrel (4 page)

M
artin was well aware that the back lawn of the Royal Yacht Squadron had become the heart and soul of Cowes the week of the race, and sitting in the wicker chairs were likely to be princes, ambassadors, dukes and duchesses, and many of the most beautiful, fashionable women from both sides of the Atlantic. He could not deny that he’d enjoyed the little garden’s “splendors” on many occasions in the past, and today would be no different. He would talk about sailing, and he would charm a widow—two of the things he did best.

With the sun shining brightly overhead, he and Spence meandered through the crowd, attracting
considerable attention, handshakes and votes of confidence, which was nothing new. But for the first time, he could sense whispers of another nature from specific cliques. People were leaning their heads together. He heard the
Endeavor
mentioned a number of times, and someone said the
Orpheus
would lose. A hushed debate ensued over by the back fence.

“It appears,” Spence quietly said, “there’s some difference of opinion over who will take the trophy. But it’s good to see we still have some supporters.”

“Yes,” Martin replied. “Is our opponent here?”

“Over there.” Spence gestured toward the other side of the lawn. “Standing in the shade of the tree.”

Martin stopped and evaluated the
Endeavor
’s skipper. He wore the usual yachting attire—crested navy blazer and white trousers. He was holding a cup of tea on a saucer and leading the conversation with what appeared to be a lengthy anecdote. Tall and fair-haired, he looked to be in his midthirties, was fit and unfashionably tanned by the sun, which suggested he’d spent a significant amount of time on the water recently. This was not a good sign.

There were three others with him—an older couple and a young woman, most likely the widow. She had her back to Martin and was nodding. He couldn’t tell much about her except
that she wore a conservative gown of chocolate brown serge with broad puff shoulders and box pleats to the hem. On her head she wore a small straw hat with quills, and her brown hair was tightly knotted.

She could do with some color, he thought, and fewer sharp quills…

“Introduce me to Breckinridge if you will,” he said.

“I had every intention of it.” Spence led the way through the crowd. “Breckinridge, good to see you old fellow.”

The earl acknowledged Spence with a slightly disdainful smile, but turned to allow them to join his group. “Greetings, Lord Spencer.” Breckinridge pumped his hand. “And Lord Martin, it is a pleasure indeed. How is it possible we have not crossed paths before now?”

Despite his polite words, the earl’s tone was condescending at best. He was looking at Martin as if Martin hadn’t a hope in hell of winning the race and would soon be on a very long list of nobodies.

Refusing to accept defeat just yet, Martin gave the earl a courteous nod and shook his hand. “It is indeed a wonder, since I’ve been hearing great things about that yacht of yours. Well done, sir.”

“I gather no introduction is necessary,” Spence interjected pleasantly.

“None at all,” Breckinridge replied. “Lord Martin’s reputation precedes him.”

Martin detected a hint of sarcasm in the man’s voice. He was undoubtedly referring to Martin’s other reputation—the one that gained him entry into some of the most prestigious boudoirs in London.

“But I do suppose further introductions are in order,” Breckinridge said, instantly casting aside his smugness as he turned his attention toward the others. “Lord and Lady Radley, may I present Lord Martin Langdon and Lord Spencer Fleming?”

Lady Radley, a small, round woman who appeared to be in her late fifties, smiled up at him. “Lord Martin, it is wonderful to meet you at last. We’ve heard so much about you, and a very good friend of mine—Mrs. John Tremont?—well, she met you at a ball in London. A few weeks ago, to be precise. She had the most wonderful things to say about you. Truly, she is a great admirer. As we all are.”

She giggled nervously, and everyone fell silent for an awkward moment.

Breckinridge pinched the bridge of his nose.

Martin, however, smiled down at her and placed a hand over his heart. “Lady Radley, you are most kind. And I do remember your friend, Mrs. Tremont. She was a delightful woman. Do
tell her I enjoyed our conversation immensely that evening.”

Of course he had no idea who he was talking about.

Breckinridge immediately resumed the introductions. “And this, gentlemen, is Mrs. Wheaton.”

Directing his smile to the widow, Martin bowed slightly, and it was not until his gaze lifted and he actually met her deep green eyes behind thick gold spectacles that he sensed a familiarity.

No, it was more than that. For some strange reason, those green eyes were like a punch to his gut. But why? Who was she? A former conquest he’d carelessly cast aside? No, that wasn’t it.

Then suddenly, he remembered.

But no, it couldn’t be. Could it?

Good God, it was. The wealthy prize widow was, of all people, Miss Evelyn Foster from his wildest days at Eton!

His first impulse was to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the coincidence, but naturally, he preserved his composure. He was having a hard time speaking, however, because he had not expected to meet a woman he had known once before, and certainly not the prudish young girl who had constantly ignored him. The same girl who had snuck into his dormitory and caused him to be suspended, then had the sanctimonious nerve to tell
him that
he
needed to put himself on the straight and narrow.

He’d never forgotten that day at the train station, or the way she persistently looked down her nose at him, as if he were a fly in her salad. She was the only girl in Windsor who had looked at him that way, and it had always, quite frankly, driven him around the bend, especially considering how he had once saved her life.

Nor had he forgotten the hellish month he’d spent with his aunt in Exeter straight afterward, when he’d been confined to his bedchamber for seven days straight, forced to write letters of apology to all his instructors, then copy them over and over until his fingers were callused and bleeding. He’d heard the word
failure
far too many times that week.

And here she was—Miss Foster—being touted as the second shiny gold trophy of the race.

Jesus.
He’d planned to flirt with her, hadn’t he?

Quickly recovering, he studied her face and noted how she kept her eyes on anything but him. Some things never changed, it seemed.

“Mrs. Wheaton,” he said with an immeasurable degree of charm. “What a pleasure. It is an honor indeed.”

He bowed to her again, wondering if she even recognized him. But of course she must. How could she forget?

She nodded and regarded him in typical
fashion—with a cool, condescending air before looking away.

All of a sudden, he remembered what Spence had said, that the widow would fall over herself in mindless infatuation when she saw him. He, too, had taken it for granted that she would adore him instantly, and as a result, he’d come here precisely to gain the mental advantage over his sailing rival. Charming the widow was supposed to be the easy part.

Ah, how the winds can shift,
he thought, with a sudden burst of determination, feeling far more intrigued by this second trophy than he had expected to be. Donning an inquiring gaze, he decided to prod her a bit. “Have we not met before, Mrs. Wheaton?”

Perhaps she’d recognize him if he took his shirt off and showed her his chest. Unfailingly moralistic indeed.

A muscle in her delicate jaw tensed, and she took another sip of tea, dismissing him entirely in that same haughty manner he remembered all too well. “I don’t believe so.”

“Are you certain? You look familiar.”

Her gaze shot up at last, and her eyes were sharp and assessing, brilliantly intelligent. He suddenly remembered she’d had a gift for science when they were younger, which was considered by some to be odd and inappropriate for a young lady of her station.
He’d
always found it rather intriguing.

Well, she still had brains. She seemed to know exactly what he was up to and was warning him to stop.

He smiled inwardly. She had spirit, too, he’d give her that. And by God, she’d grown lovely. He could not deny it. Those enormous green eyes were as disarming as ever. Even more so in fact. And her fuller figure…This was getting more and more interesting by the second.

“Perhaps we have,” she said, “but I do not recall.”

Spencer was probably thinking this race had just begun at a disadvantage, but Martin thought otherwise. He’d navigated waters far more treacherous than these before. This was quite a pleasant little puff of wind, in fact. And a very pretty one.

Feeling quite rejuvenated, he accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman carrying a tray.

“This is
just
the sort of thing,” he said, “that keeps one awake at night, tossing and turning while struggling to put the puzzle pieces together.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” Lady Radley replied. She nudged Mrs. Wheaton in the arm and caused her to spill a few drops of her tea. “Try to think, dear. Perhaps you met at a ball or an assembly?”

“I haven’t been to a ball in quite some time,”
Mrs. Wheaton said, sounding quite decidedly vexed by her companion’s unintentional duplicity.

“Oh, that’s right,” Lady Radley replied with an uncomfortable grimace, obviously regretting the pushy question, for they all knew the widow had been in mourning for the past two years, and before that, she’d been married to a devout country vicar, however briefly.

“Wait just a minute!” Martin said. “I think I have it. It was years ago at Eton.”

The widow boldly raised her chin and glared at him, as if she were daring him to pull the proverbial trigger and be done with it.

He had no intention of publicly embarrassing her, of course, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to inspire more of that spirit no one else seemed to recognize.
Lacking a spark,
someone had said? He thought not. All she needed was a little heat to get her started.

“But in what circumstance?” he asked, tapping a hand on his thigh. “Did I dance with you once at an outdoor picnic?”

“No,” she said.

“You’re right, that’s not it.
Wait…
” They all waited on tenterhooks while he paused and pretended to search his mind, then he shook his head. “No, that’s not it either. But don’t worry, I’ll think of it. Trust me.”

He smiled devilishly at her, and when she
glared back at him with tight lips, he was quite utterly certain it was the most fun he’d had all day. All year, for that matter.

The discussion then turned to the race, and Breckinridge asked Martin’s opinion on the wind velocity over the past few days, and if he thought the fine weather would continue.

Martin answered the question, then posed one of his own. “Now that the races are about to begin, Breckinridge, would you be willing to reveal the name of the
Endeavor
’s designer? I’ve seen her keel, and I’m guessing it was an American.”

The earl grinned at him, as if their entire conversation were part of a game with clever strategies and hidden agendas. “I’d been keeping it secret before now,” he replied, “but since you’ve already seen what’s below her waterline, I suppose there’s nothing left to hide. You’re correct. It was indeed an American—a man by the name of Joshua Benjamin.”

Joshua Benjamin
. Martin knew of him. The man was gaining notoriety for designing boats with speed in mind and little else. “Ah yes. Mr. Benjamin,” Martin said. “What’s he like to work with? Does he listen to your ideas?”

Lady Radley slid her arm around Evelyn’s corseted waist and interjected. “He’s very handsome,” she said. “Even our Evelyn thinks so. As well she should. He proposed to her in London a week ago.”

Martin was momentarily staggered. “Proposed? You don’t say.”

Mrs. Wheaton cleared her throat uneasily, as if she didn’t appreciate others sharing the details of her personal life. “Yes, but
naturally
, I turned him down.”

He detected a hint of that self-important superiority again. “Why
naturally
?” he asked. “Do you have something against sailors, Mrs. Wheaton? Or perhaps Americans?”

She responded matter-of-factly. “No, Lord Martin, not at all. In fact, I seriously entertained his proposal for about two-and-a-half seconds, until I recalled that he already had a wife back home in Schenectady.”

Everyone fell silent.

“Evidently,” Mrs. Wheaton added just before taking one last sip of tea, “she was unaware of her husband’s propensity to enter his vessel in more than once race at a time.”

The others stared dumbfounded, as did Martin for a brief moment before he laughed out loud and nearly spit out his lemonade.

Breckinridge scrambled to change the subject. He turned to Spencer and asked about his parents.

Martin was more than happy to let Spencer take over the conversation, for it finally granted him an opportunity to observe Mrs. Wheaton—who had just achieved the impossible. She had
made him laugh. Truly, she was one of a kind. She always had been, he supposed, recalling again that day at the train station.

While the polite conversation continued all around him, he allowed his gaze to meander downward and was pleased to admire the alluring feminine curves “Miss Foster” had developed over the past decade, including a lush, generous bosom, which would fare quite nicely in a lighter gown with a lower neckline, he thought. Dressed as she was at present, she reminded him of a pleasure yacht with her sails trimmed too tight, rendering her incapable of moving freely at the speed she was built for.

He wondered suddenly how this aloof young widow would respond to a little wind in her sails and a skillful skipper like himself at her helm. Would he be able to bring the best out of her, like he did with the
Orpheus
?

Yes
, he thought with absolute confidence while he admired the grace of her gloved hand as she touched one finger to the corner of her mouth to dab at an errant drop of tea. He certainly could bring the best out of her, and also bring out that spark she kept hidden from the world. A marvelous, masculine satisfaction flowed through him at the thought of it.