Surrender To A Scoundrel (5 page)

The earl made an amusing remark just then about the currents in the Solent, and Martin smiled and laughed, but was aware that his laugh
was artificial, for he was distracted by the wonderful challenge of the woman standing across from him.

Breckinridge turned to her. “And will you attend the ball this evening, Mrs. Wheaton? The one on board the
Ulysses
?”

The
Ulysses
was a 290-foot steamship owned by a wealthy American businessman who had commissioned one of the yachts in the race but preferred the champagne at Cowes to the actual sailing.

“Yes, I’m looking forward to it,” she replied.

Lord Radley placed a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “Would you like to reserve a spot on her dance card, George? I suggest you reserve it now, because it will doubtless be full as soon as Mrs. Wheaton is announced.”

Martin watched the exchange with interest.

“Indeed I would,” Breckinridge replied. “If you would be so kind, Mrs. Wheaton?”

“I would be delighted,” she replied.

Martin casually jingled the ice chips in his glass before he downed the rest of his lemonade. “I’ll be there as well,” he said. “And I would be remiss if I did not also request a spot on
both
your cards—Mrs. Wheaton and Lady Radley?”

Lady Radley blushed ardently.

Martin smiled at her. She was a delight.

“And my dear aunt, you’ll save a dance for me as well?” Breckinridge added.

But it was too late. Martin had already taken
that
splendid point in the race.

“Yes, dear,” Lady Radley replied, sounding preoccupied because she was still gazing in a state of bemusement at Martin.

He gave her another congenial smile. “I’ll look forward to our dance, madam.” Then he turned his gaze toward the widow. “And Mrs. Wheaton, I will look forward to seeing you to night as well.”

Her reply was conspicuously cool. “Likewise.”

Then he and Spencer bid them all adieu and made their way off the Squadron property to go and prepare for the night ahead and the most excellent diversions on board the
Ulysses.

E
velyn stood on the back lawn of the Squadron with the hot sun beating down on her head, and watched Martin exit the gate.

She could not believe what had just occurred. He had teased her and toyed with her, yet despite all of that and despite her best efforts to remember that she was no longer a childish young girl infatuated with a charming but reckless young man, she was gazing after him in a numb stupor. His teasing had been so fantastically thrilling and electrifying, her heart was still pounding wildly in response.

She was also remembering the hero of her childhood dreams—the dark-haired, blue-eyed
boy who had dragged her from freezing-cold water and forced her to crawl across the ice to safety. She hadn’t spoken a word to him that day years ago. She hadn’t even known his name. She had been in shock, determined only to survive and reach her mother. But
he
had spoken. He had said one thing. He had told her to kick. She would never forget the sheer force of that command—compelling her to obey, no matter how impossible it seemed.

She felt the same urge to kick right now—to break free from the pressures of finding a husband in this opportunistic marriage mart even though she had convinced herself it was what she wanted and what was best for her. But seeing Martin again—feeling the excitement he aroused in her—made her doubt everything. She suddenly wished she hadn’t come.

Lord Breckinridge spoke then—quietly to his uncle—and Evelyn turned her eyes toward them.

“Lord Martin is worried,” he said. “Could you see it?”

“Absolutely,” Lord Radley replied, also in a hushed tone. “But how could he not be? The
Endeavor
is a force to be reckoned with. I’m afraid Langdon’s reign as Cowes champion is over.”

Evelyn merely listened while a footman refilled her cup with hot tea. She did not wish to join the discussion because she was afraid she might reveal how frazzled she was.

“You know I adore you, George,” Lady Radley said, also still in a bit of a besotted daze, “which is why I must warn you not to become overconfident even if you do have the fastest boat in the world. Lord Martin is reputed to be a great helmsman.”

The two gentlemen chuckled at her opinion.

“My dear wife,” Lord Radley said, “you’ve let that man’s notoriety deprive you of your common sense.”

“That’s right,” Lord Breckinridge added. “My first mate, Mr. Sheldon Hatfield, was acquainted with Lord Martin at Eton and knows the truth about him. He was a useless chump then—reckless and irresponsible—and nothing has changed. He has merely been lucky in the races the past two years because he has not had a worthy opponent.”

But after seeing Martin again today and knowing what she knew of him, Evelyn had to agree with Lady Radley. It was difficult to imagine anyone besting him on the water, or anywhere else for that matter. He was powerful and unstoppable, and from her vantage point,
he
was the force to be reckoned with. Especially when it came to that infuriatingly stubborn spark of desire in her heart, which simply would not die, no matter how hard or how long she tried to snuff it out.

That evening, Evelyn spent far too much time and thought on her gown for the ball. She restyled her hair three times, changed her shoes
twice, deciding quite positively that she looked hideous in blue.

In the end, she had no choice but to wear the blue disaster because the only other choice was the pink disaster, and there was absolutely no chance on earth she would be caught dead in such a frilly costume to night, for she did not wish to attract such attention to herself.

Oh, she really did not enjoy balls, and to night was worse because she was going to dance with Martin. Martin! Perhaps it wouldn’t even come to that. He might forget or change his mind. She should expect it, for he had always forgotten her in the past. She considered how she would feel if he did. She would
not
be disappointed. No. If she had any sense left in her head, she would be relieved.

Finally, when it was time to go, she left her room in the Royal Marine Hotel and ventured out into the corridor. She had just turned to lock her door behind her when she heard another door click open across the hall.

A notable few seconds of silence ensued before she heard a man speak. “What a delightful coincidence.”

Startled by the familiar voice, she turned around to find herself gazing upon Martin, of all people, standing in his own open doorway, his hand still upon the knob. He wore formal evening attire—a black suit with a white waistcoat and bow tie made of the finest silk money could
buy. His hair was thick and shiny black like wicked midnight, falling in attractive waves to his broad shoulders. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded and openly sensual.

Evelyn strove to maintain at least an appearance of calm by tilting her head slightly and letting out a cool, dejected sigh. “Delightful coincidence indeed.”

She hoped he caught the sarcasm in her tone.

He slowly closed the door to his room, locked it, then faced her elegantly. “Are you following me, Mrs. Wheaton?”

She squared her shoulders. “I was about to ask you the same question, right after I boxed your ears for what you did to me today.”

He chuckled, and his blue eyes sparkled like starlight. “You
should
have boxed them. Lord knows I deserved it. I was an absolute scoundrel.”

They regarded each other for a moment, then Martin pushed away from his door and approached. He sauntered toward her, then stopped mere inches away, forcing her to back up against her own door.

He leaned closer and rested an arm against the lintel over her head, while she struggled to subdue the fiery sensation heating her blood. She was not accustomed to this. Men did not do this sort of thing with her. And it was Martin.
Martin!

“I admit,” he said, “that for a moment this afternoon, I thought you might have forgotten our
acquaintance, but then I realized I was wrong. You
do
remember. Some of it, at least.”

She wet her lips and fought hard to slow her breathing. “How could I forget? You flirted with my best friend and led her to believe there was something between you, then you broke her heart. And you had the audacity to blame
me
when you were suspended from school.”

He grinned. Her eyes fixed upon his full, soft-looking lips, only inches away, and the strong line of his jaw. He was clean-shaven, but she could still see the dark shadow of manly stubble. She wondered how rough it would be under her fingertips after a day’s growth. Then she closed her eyes briefly to steer her mind away from such a thought. She did not need to know that.

“Water under the bridge, Mrs. Wheaton,” he said with a warm, silky voice.

She quickly shook her head at him in a defensive mea sure. “After all these years you still take no responsibility for it.”

“And neither do you apparently. And to think the world believes you to be unshakably virtuous. If they only knew the whole truth about the famous vicar’s widow.”

Evelyn reeled at his impudence. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

He smiled again, and she wondered where the bitter young man had gone. He was not like he had been at the train station years ago. To night
he was exuding more charm than any man had a right to exude—teasing her again, toying with her in a scandalously wicked manner.

This
was the young man Penelope had fallen in love with. The man all of En gland had fallen in love with, in fact. The carefree rake. The champion. The charmer.

But why was he suddenly charming Evelyn when he never had before? He’d always ignored her, looked straight through her, because she was not pretty.

Oh, what was she thinking? Of course she knew why he was paying attention to her now. It was the same reason other gentlemen were. Because of her inheritance. She was fresh out of mourning and brought new money to the marriage mart. She could not let herself be truly flattered by this.

Or maybe he just wants to triumph over his rival, Lord Breckinridge,
she thought, keeping her head out of the clouds and firmly upon her shoulders. She had seen the competition between them earlier.

Either way, his motives did not matter. Whatever they were—charm was charm, seduction was seduction—and she had to wet her lips again because her mouth had gone dry.

“So it seems we both have reputations,” he said, “which means that we are similar creatures. Except that you are famous for being virtuous,
and I am famous for…Well, quite the opposite.”

Evelyn tensed. “And I thought you were famous because of all your sailing trophies,” she replied. “Foolish me.”

He smiled again, and it reached his eyes. “You? Foolish? I don’t think so.”

But she felt very foolish at this moment, responding with lavish desire to the sensation of his hot breath on her face and the intoxicating nearness of his strong, attractive, virile body.

Heart pounding, she drew in a slow, deep breath, and remembered to whom she was speaking. Martin Langdon. Charmer. Thrill seeker. Heartbreaker.

And she was Evelyn Wheaton. Pious churchgoer. Shy mouse. Ugly duckling.

All at once her pessimism took hold. She raised a forefinger and pushed her heavy spectacles up the bridge of her nose, then placed her hand on his solid chest and slowly pushed him back. “You are correct on one point, Lord Martin. I have never been a foolish woman, so you would do well to remember that.”

She recognized the sudden look of defeat in his eyes, as if she had just thrown a glass of cold water in his face.

But then he smiled again, and it surprised her, for there was respect in his eyes, as if he thought she was very astute—a formidable opponent, so
to speak, which she most definitely was not. She was melting like hot butter right in front of him.

“How do you mean, Mrs. Wheaton?” he asked, feigning innocence.

She shook her head at him and was very aware of the cheeky tone in her voice when she spoke, which was completely out of character for her. She was not the cheeky type. At least she hadn’t been before this moment.

“I mean,” she replied, “I know
why
you are flirting with me—because like you, I am not famous for just one thing. Yes, I may be reputedly virtuous, but everyone also knows I am presently the wealthiest widow in En gland. You’re not the only man who has made overtures, you know.”

She was not about to tell him he was the only man who had made overtures like
this
. Sexual ones. Most gentlemen knew her reputation for being virtuous and used very different tactics. They talked about their flower gardens or how often they went to church. They occasionally quoted from the Bible with a faraway look in their eyes. It had become rather predictable.

Martin’s discourse, on the other hand, was a far cry from predictable or biblical. Fire and brimstone was coming to mind. It was a different approach, to be sure.

He raised a finger and wagged it at her, as if he
were conceding this match to her—that yes, she was right and had won the point.

“You’re going to be a challenge, aren’t you?” he said.

A challenge
? So there it was.

She eyed him shrewdly. “It’s at least nice to know what I am to you.” Then she pushed him farther back still and headed for the stairs.

He followed. “I won’t insult you, then, by acting the part of a suitor genui: close
[�l�h�s�q�7;re too clever for that.”

Evelyn kept walking as she pulled on her gloves. “It has nothing to do with cleverness, Lord Martin. I simply know you too well.”

But she did not really know him. They’d barely had two full conversations. She just felt as if she did, because she had been watching him from afar for so many years.

“And you know I am a flirt,” he said.

“I’m pleased to hear you’re not denying it.”

He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and walked with a casual, self-assured gait. “Denying it would be pointless, I believe, where you are concerned.”

“Indeed it would.” She started down the stairs.

This time, he did not follow. He remained at the top, watching her descend. She knew he was watching because she could feel his gaze burning at her back.

When she reached the bottom, she stopped and looked up at him. She didn’t know what had compelled her to do so. She should have just kept walking.

She raised an eyebrow. “I am going to the ball now, Lord Martin. Doubtless my dance card will be full. Do you still wish to reserve a spot?”

So much for not being foolish. She should have just let him forget, which he surely would have done as soon as he saw all the other women in the ballroom.

He crossed his wrists over the newel post at the top and leaned upon it. “Yes, I would like to reserve a spot. If I may have first choice, I’ll take the last dance please.”

“Well, you had best hope I don’t grow tired and leave early.”

He replied with smooth confidence. “You won’t.”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t be so sure.”

“How can I not be?” he replied. “Because I think you enjoy a good party, Mrs. Wheaton. More than you let on. Or maybe you don’t even know it yet. Maybe you’ve never experienced a night that was truly exhilarating.”

He was gazing down at her with presumptuous assurance, as if he knew exactly what she was about, and it shook her inwardly, because curse him, he was right. She had experienced very little excitement in her life because she had witnessed
the consequences of women who loved exciting men. She’d seen her mother’s broken heart over her father’s many disgraces with other women, and Penelope’s heartbreak over Martin and others after him.

Most importantly, she knew about rejection. She had been living with it all her life, since as early as she could remember, beginning with the most painful rejection of all—her father’s. And later, her husband’s. She knew how much it hurt and had learned to avoid it by never seeking attention. Instead, she was deliberately unapproachable. Her mask of contempt was her shield.

Yet here stood Martin, the first man courageous enough—or perhaps simply intuitive enough—to push that shield aside with the blunt truth.