Surrender. Brenda Joyce
house, the front door closing. She felt a moment of relief, for, like a child, she disliked fierce storms. But now, the mare was settled and fed for the night, Laurent was on his way upstairs and the house was securely locked.
She removed the pins from her hair, which always made her head ache at this time of the day, letting it down. As she shook her hair out, she realized that she was exhausted. Undressing would be a chore, but she somehow removed her gown and underclothes, donning her white cotton nightgown. In France, the loose but luxurious garment with its puffed sleeves and lace trim was called a robe innocente.
She was just about to uncover the tray Adelaide had left for her and try to eat a morsel or two when she heard a movement downstairs. She stiffened, alarmed, until she realized that it was the sound of a shutter banging against the side of the house.
She was going to have to close those shutters—she would never sleep with all of that banging. Evelyn took the taper she had lit and hurried down the hall. Then she hesitated, and as the wind ceased, the rain became a quiet steady pitter-patter and the shutter was silent.
Thunder boomed.
She jumped, her heart skipping, and scolded herself for being a fool. Now she heard nothing but the gentle steady rhythmic rain.
She was about to turn and go back to her room when a light went on below her.
She froze, incredulous.
And then, as she inched closer to the top of the stairs, she realized that a taper had been lit in the salon.
Her heart thundered with alarm.
She stared down the stairs, across the entry hall and into the salon, which was in shadow, but clearly, a single light shone within.
Someone was in her salon.
She almost called out, hoping it was Laurent, but he had gone up to the room he shared with Adelaide—she was certain.
She needed a gun. She had a pistol under the mattress of her bed. Should she seize it, or should she get Laurent? And as she debated what to do she saw a man cross the salon.
Evelyn froze again.
His stride had been unrushed, indolent—familiar.
Every hair on her nape had risen. Now her heart slammed.
He came to the doorway of the salon, holding a drink in his hand, and looked up at her.
And even in the shadows, even as their gazes locked, there was no mistaking who he was.
“I hear you are looking for me,” Jack Greystone said.
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