Brenda Joyce - Surrender

CHAPTER THREE

HE WASN’T SMILING as he spoke.

Evelyn seized the banister to remain upright. For an entire moment, one that felt like an eternity, she could not speak. She had found Jack Greystone—or, he had found her.

And he hadn’t changed. He remained so unbearably attractive. He was tall and powerfully built, clad now in a rather wet riding coat, fashionable lace cuffs spilling from the sleeves, a darker vest beneath. He also wore doeskin breeches and high black boots with spurs, now splattered with mud.

And his golden hair was pulled casually back, some of it escaping from its queue. But that only made his high cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw seem stronger. And his gray gaze was intent upon her.

Evelyn’s heart slammed another time—he was regarding her attire, rather thoroughly.

She knew she flushed. But she was dressed for bed, not for entertaining. “You have scared me witless, sir!”

“I apologize,” he said, and she could not decide if he meant it. “But I rarely go anywhere in broad daylight, and I never use the front door.”

Their gazes were now locked. She continued to reel, remaining stunned by his appearance in her home. He was referring now to the bounty on his head. “Of course not,” she managed.

He said wryly, as calm as she was not, “I have not misheard, have I? Half a dozen of my acquaintances have alerted me to the inquiries you have been, rather recklessly, making. You are looking for me, Lady D’Orsay?”

“Yes,” she said, suddenly very aware that he had just identified her as the Countess D’Orsay, not the Vicomtesse LeClerc. She had never corrected the misinformation she had deliberately given him—when they had parted company, four years ago, upon landing just south of London, he had still believed her to be Lady LaSalle, Vicomtesse LeClerc. “I am desperate to have a word with you, sir.” As she spoke, she recalled their first meeting, four years ago. She had been desperate then, and she had said so.

But his gaze never flickered; his expression did not change. It occurred to her that he did not recall that meeting—and that he did not recognize her.

But how could he fail to recognize her? Was it even possible?

His stare was prolonged. It was a moment before he said, “That is an attractive nightgown, Countess.”

He did not recognize her, she was now certain. It was shocking! She had remarkable features—everyone said so. She might be tired and pale, but she was still an attractive woman. Trevelyan had thought so.

She was flushing, uncertain of what he meant, and whether there had been mockery in his tone. She did not know how to respond to such a remark—or what to do about his failure to recognize her. “I was hardly expecting to find a visitor, within my home, at this hour.”

“Obviously.” He was wry. “If it eases you, I have two sisters, and I have seen a great many female garments.”

She felt certain he was laughing at her now. It crossed her mind that a great many of those female garments had not belonged to his sisters. “Yes, I had heard.”

“You have heard that I am accustomed to the sight of women in their nightclothes?”

“You know that is not what I meant.” But of course, it was probably very true! “I am going to get a robe—I will be right back!”

He seemed amused as he sipped his wine, looking up the stairs at her. Evelyn turned and fled, her disbelief growing. In her chamber, she threw on a cotton robe that matched her nightgown. Maybe he would recognize her once she stepped fully into the light. But just then, she was feeling oddly insulted.

Didn’t he think her attractive?

She forced herself to a calmer pace and returned downstairs. He was in the salon—he had lit several tapers, and he watched her as she entered. “How do you know about my sisters?” His tone remained bland. “Have you made inquiries about them, too?”

She was trembling, and her pulse was racing but she stiffened, instantly sensing that she was venturing into dangerous territory. He was, she thought, displeased. “No, of course not. But they were mentioned in the course of a conversation.”

“About me?” His stare was relentless.

She shivered. “About you, sir.”

“And with whom did you have this enlightening conversation?”

“John Trim.” Was he worried about betrayal? “He admires you greatly. We all do.”

His gray gaze flickered. “I suppose I should be flattered. Are you cold?”

Her pulse was rioting but she was hardly cold—she was unnerved, undone, at a loss! She had forgotten how manly he was, and how his presence teased the senses. “It is raining.”

There was a wool throw on the back of the sofa and, very casually, he retrieved it. She tensed as he approached. “If you are not cold,” he said softly, “then you are very nervous—but then, you are also very desperate.”

For an instant, she thought he had inflected upon the final word—and that he recalled their first meeting, when she had been so desperate, after all. But his expression never changed as he laid the wool about her shoulders and she realized that he did not remember her, not at all. “I am unused to entertaining at this hour,” she finally said. “We are strangers and we are alone.”

“It is half past nine, Countess, and you asked for this rendezvous.”

It felt like midnight, she thought. And clearly, he was not shaken by their encounter, not at all.

“Have I somehow distressed you?” he asked.

“No!” She quickly, falsely, smiled. “I am thrilled that you have called.”

He eyed her, askance. Thunder cracked overhead and the shutter slammed against the house. Evelyn jumped.

He had just raised his glass and now he set it down. “It is incredible, that you live in this house with but one manservant. I will close the shutter.” He left.

And when he was gone, she seized the back of the sofa, trembling wildly. How did he know that she lived alone with Laurent, her only manservant? Obviously he had made some inquiries about her.

But he did not recognize her. It was unbelievable, that she hadn’t made any impression on him.

He returned to the salon, smiling slightly, and shutting both doors behind them. Evelyn clutched the throw more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.

He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”

“Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.

“I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers.” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”

“Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”

He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”

She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.

“You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.

“Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”

“I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”

She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”