Surrender To A Scoundrel (6 page)

“I’m not a prize to compete for,” she told him, raising her shield again with a willful aloofness, because she did not wish to end up like Penelope or all the other heartbroken women littered in his path. “You can dance with me if you like, but there is no point wasting your time. It won’t get you anywhere.”

He straightened. “You think my dancing with you would be a waste of my time? Have you never lived for the moment, Mrs. Wheaton?”

Evelyn swallowed uncomfortably, then felt the color leave her cheeks. “No, I have not,” she said, and turned to leave. She did not like the question.

“You
should
,” he called after her, “because that’s
what life is. A series of moments. Nothing more. We must endeavor to enjoy every single one. Forget about the past and future. They have no place in the present.”

But Evelyn did not turn back, nor did she respond, because in her opinion, life was much more than a series of moments—for all moments had consequences, and consequences could bring pain.

And pain could not simply be “forgotten.”

She supposed he didn’t know that. He had probably never cared deeply enough about anything to be hurt by it.

He said one last thing, however, before she reached the door. “I would think that
you
, Mrs. Wheaton—of all people—would understand the significance of that.”

She stopped suddenly, and felt a strange heaviness settle in her chest. “Why?”

“Because if I recall, you once had a very harrowing moment—the kind that makes a person think twice about life. Do you remember?”

Her mouth fell open as she contemplated what he was speaking of. Was it possible? Did he actually remember?

She turned to face him. “What are you talking about?”

“That winter day on the lake years ago.” When she made no reply, he added, “Do you not recall how thin the ice was?”

She stared at him in stunned silence.

“I…didn’t think
you
remembered that,” she said at last, squeezing her beaded reticule.
Did
he? Had he
always
remembered?

Something in his eyes changed. His head drew back a little. “I do.”

The clock on the wall seemed to be ticking very loudly—a testimony to the length of time neither of them spoke.

“Did you always know it was me?” she asked, striving to keep her voice steady.

“Yes. But I was under the impression
you
did not know it was
me
, because you certainly never thanked me.”

Had she not?

But her mother had, and others, too. She herself had been too shaken that day, and in the years following, too shy and withdrawn.

Good God, had he resented her all this time for that? Then she recalled the way she had treated him that day at the train station—as if he were no better than a bug under her shoe—and she colored fiercely with regret.

Swallowing hard, she pushed her spectacles up her nose while searching for the proper thing to say. “I was grateful to have your assistance that day, Lord Martin.
Very
grateful. Thank you.”

He acknowledged her gratitude with a nod. “Well, it’s about time.”

She felt her stomach whirl with butterflies
again. “I must go now,” she said at last, raising her chin and awkwardly pointing toward the door. “Lord and Lady Radley are waiting for me outside. Good evening.”

“Good evening,” he replied in a quietly seductive voice.

She turned and headed outside, feeling as if the earth had just shifted upon its axis, because Martin remembered and had probably thought her an ungrateful shrew all these years. If he did, she certainly deserved it because she had never once exhibited any kindness toward him. If anything, she had treated him with disdain.

Then she stopped on the street outside the door as she realized something else. With her famously cool reserve, she had grown into an exact replica of another person whom she had always resented for that very aspect of his character. Her father, God help her. Her cold, unfeeling father, who had rejected her all her life at every opportunity.

It was not a welcome realization, but it was an accurate one, and she wondered with some distress if it was not too late to change the woman she had become.

T
he 290-foot steamer,
Ulysses
, was the height of opulence, boasting dark, walnut-paneled walls, shiny chandeliers, and velvet upholstery, all laid out in the Renaissance Revival style. The room smelled of new varnish, Havana cigars, perfume, and champagne, and was alive with laughter and conversation.

Belowdecks in the main ballroom, Evelyn spent the whole of the evening dancing with a number of different gentlemen. They were all polite and respectful, though she could sense which ones were seeking to impress her because they had designs on her inheritance. They had a certain aura about them.

She wondered in turn about her own aura—the chilly disposition she was most known for. Had she hurt and rejected many young men over the years because she slighted them or ignored them completely? For all she knew, she probably had, though she’d never intentionally meant to hurt anyone. She’d only ever meant to avoid being hurt herself. She certainly hadn’t imagined for a moment that her affability—or lack of it—would even
matter
to any of those gentlemen. But perhaps it had. It had mattered to Martin, because he remembered.

Another set ended, and her dance partner—a congenial baron from Norfolk—returned her to Lord and Lady Radley, who were enjoying the strawberries and chocolate.

“My dear, you have been danced off your feet this evening,” Lady Radley said, extending a hand.

“Yes, it seems I have,” Evelyn replied. Feeling warm, she clicked open her fan and cooled her cheeks.

Lord Breckinridge joined them and handed her a glass of champagne. “I see you have been dancing every set,” he said. “I do hope you’ve at least allowed yourself time to catch your breath.”

She was breathing rather quickly in fact. “It’s been a wonderful evening so far,” she said, resolving to sound cheerful and open and approachable.
“The baron told me that his family has just discovered a—”

Breckinridge interrupted. “I
myself
have been conversing with Jack Seaforth, the owner of this steamer. Did you know she has a forty-five-hundred-horse power steam plant, and can do eighteen knots and cross the Atlantic in seven days?”

“No, I didn’t,” Evelyn politely replied, trying not to reveal her frustration at being cut off midsentence.

“Indeed. You are dancing on twenty-four-hundred tons of pure luxury. Every man’s dream.” He raised his glass.

Lord Radley raised his glass as well, and Evelyn took a sip of the expensive champagne. Breckinridge then spoke more about the dimensions of the ship, so she gave up on her story about the baron, who had found some ancient Viking tools in the ground on his estate.

Meanwhile, Lady Radley seemed distracted, gazing across the dance floor, swaying in time with the music.

“Have you danced yet this evening?” Evelyn asked her.

“Not yet. I’ve just been watching all the young people.” Her eyes shifted back to the dancers.

Evelyn followed Lady Radley’s gaze and saw the object of her interest—Lord Martin, moving
around the floor with a pretty blond woman in a yellow gown. Lady Radley’s eyes were damp and dreamy, and she was tapping her foot to the music.

Evelyn, too, felt strangely dreamy, watching the two of them swirl smoothly around the room, chatting and smiling at one another, looking completely absorbed in their conversation.

He really was a charmer, she thought. He was handsome and sociable and charismatic. She and Martin were complete opposites in fact. He loved women and enjoyed making them feel sensual and desirable, while she made men feel daunted and unworthy of her attention. She could no doubt learn a great deal from him.

Watching him over the rim of her glass, she took another sip of the deliciously effervescent champagne. Just then, he and his partner waltzed around to the corner where she and Lady Radley stood, and their eyes met. His partner was giggling about something, but he found an opportunity to smirk at Evelyn as if
they
were partners in some secret scheme.

Lady Radley placed a hand on her arm. “Did you see that smile? He looked at you, darling. Did you not notice? Oh, surely you did. What I wouldn’t give…”

Evelyn leaned closer to Lady Radley and spoke in a hushed tone. “You think he’s very handsome, don’t you?”

Lady Radley sighed. “Oh, yes, he is, but it’s so much more than that. There’s something dark and mysterious about him boiling underneath all that charm. Have you ever noticed that? But I suppose it runs in his family. Do you not remember the stories about his brother, the duke, before he married that rich American heiress?”

“What stories?” Evelyn asked.

“I suppose you’re too young to remember.” She glanced around and lowered her voice to a whisper. “People used to say their castle in Yorkshire was haunted, and that all the Wentworth dukes had black hearts. Martin’s own father was a beastly man who drank himself to death, and his grandfather did himself in as well, quite violently they say. They were a very unhappy lot.”

“I had heard their castle was rather dismal,” Evelyn said, “but I never heard any of this.”

Lady Radley touched her arm and continued to whisper. “A few years ago, no one saw or heard from Lord Martin for a long time, then he suddenly reappeared crashing boats. Most people insist he had merely been traveling abroad, but some who remember the history of his family wondered if he had gone mad and spent time in an asylum or something of that nature. Which I am
convinced
is not true. That was all utter nonsense. Either way, the rumors have been laid to rest now. The present duke is a most charismatic gentleman and from what I hear, has a happy home with a beautiful
wife and darling children, and the ghosts, evidently, have stopped howling.”

Watching Martin dance, Evelyn twirled a loose tendril of hair around her finger.

“All that unhappiness must be in the past,” Lady Radley continued, “for young Lord Martin has a
wonderful
heart, don’t you agree? He makes a woman feel beautiful. Even a woman like me.”

That much was true at least, because for a brief time in the hotel corridor earlier, Evelyn had felt beautiful, too—though not just physically. She’d also felt vibrant and adventurous and had become aware of a vitality she didn’t know she possessed. She’d been coy and playful, and it had been a rare and welcome feeling, so unlike how she usually felt. She wanted to feel that way again. “Did he not ask for a spot on your card when we spoke on the lawn this afternoon?” Evelyn asked.

“Yes, and he did not forget. We’ll be dancing next.” She straightened and laughed self-consciously. “Oh, but at my age…What a foolish woman I am.”

She quickly sipped her champagne and glanced up at her husband, who was deep in conversation, completely oblivious to the thoughts and dreams of his wife.

The orchestra finished the piece, and the dancers stepped apart and engaged themselves in conversation. Lady Radley squeezed her arm. “Here he comes,” she said.

Martin approached and delivered his greetings. “And I believe I have the honor, Lady Radley? I’ve been looking forward to it all evening.”

He held out a gloved hand, and Lady Radley giggled, swept away by the flattery. “Oh, Lord Martin, you are such a charming young man. The honor is all mine.”

Leading her onto the floor, he inclined his head at Evelyn, meeting her gaze briefly as if to say it was her turn next, and there was no escape. Her palms became instantly clammy inside her gloves.

For the next few minutes, she watched Martin lead Lady Radley around the floor and speak words that made Lady Radley’s cheeks flush with color and her eyes sparkle with delight. Lord Radley seemed unaware of his wife’s pleasures, while Breckinridge went on continuously about the races he had won over the summer.

The dance soon came to an end, and it was Evelyn turn to be flattered and treated like a beauty. As she watched Martin approach with that alluring, masculine swagger, she became aware of her pulse quickening.

He escorted Lady Radley back to her husband, then turned to Evelyn. “The last dance of the evening, Mrs. Wheaton. I believe I have the honor. Unless, of course, you have danced your fill.”

Evelyn’s lips parted in surprise. Was he giving her the opportunity to refuse him? Did he
want
her to?

She began a reply, but Lord Breckinridge interrupted again. “Indeed, Mrs. Wheaton has barely caught her breath, Lord Martin. It’s been far too warm in the ballroom, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

Martin turned to him and spoke firmly. “Has it? Then I shall escort her onto the deck for some much-needed fresh air.”

The two men stared fixedly at each other for a few seconds, and the dynamic was not lost on Evelyn. Again this was not about her. It was about the competition. She would do well to remember that.

She would also do well to decide for herself what she wanted and not permit Lord Breckinridge to speak for her by interrupting.

She turned to Martin. “That is very considerate of you, Lord Martin. I am certain fresh air is just what I require.”

Martin’s charm did not falter as he offered his arm. “Shall we take the companionway then?”

His eyes glimmered with pleasure when he met her gaze, as if he believed she was the most fascinating woman in the room—the
only
woman, in fact. She linked her arm through his, and when he covered her gloved hand with his own, she felt its warmth all the way down to her toes and became caught up in the raw magic of his appeal. She felt lost in a fiery rush of physical awareness.

Her pulse quickened again, and she looked
away as she always did, across the room as if there might be something or someone more interesting to behold there.

There was not, of course. Nothing was more interesting than Martin at her side, leading her to the passageway that would take them to the companionway and up to the promenade deck to a perfect view of the stars. She was merely trying to hide the pleasure she experienced from his flattery. She did not want him to know how deeply she was affected by it because she feared that if he sensed her desires, he would eventually refuse them, as gentlemen always did, and she would be humiliated and hurt.

She thought of her father suddenly and her many appeals for his affection or approval, answered only by his blatant demonstrations of aversion.

She
hated
that he could still affect her life in this way, even from beyond the grave. She could not let him continue to do this to her. Nor did she want to be the person
he
had been.

So she gathered her skirts in a fist to climb the steps and gave Martin the most dazzling smile she had ever given any man in her life.

It was a proud moment—her first noble rebellion against the inhibited person she had become. And she was most pleased when he returned her smile with a dazzling one of his own.