Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

Sophia blinked, waiting for that devilish, teasing grin to appear. But it didn’t. He wasn’t teasing at all.

She hadn’t been under any illusions that he led a life of chastity. But for a shrewd tradesman, who lived his life by numbers and amounts, to lose count … the actual number must be great indeed. The man sitting across the table from her had bedded countless women, from every corner of the globe. The thought repulsed her and, in some shameful way, thrilled her. But most of all, it disappointed her. Regret stung her somewhere between the shoulder blades, and her spine stiffened.

“Well,” she said finally, unable to mask the bitterness in her voice. “It’s a miracle you’re not dead of the pox.”

“It’s not a miracle. It’s a combination of caution and sheepgut.”

“More to your credit, then. And here you’ve remained seemingly hale and stout, despite fifteen years of such strenuous exertion. A remarkable feat. No wonder you seem so proud of your exploits.”

“Do I?” His jaw tightened.

“With good health, you may have every expectation of de cades of further debauchery.”

“Sweetheart, that’s my greatest fear.”

“Which part? The good health, or the debauchery?”

“The de cades.”

Sophia studied his face. Fidgeting under her scrutiny, he lowered his gaze and scratched the thick growth of beard along his jaw. She’d been wrong, she realized. He did not take pride in his exploits at all. “What about love?”

He did not look up. “What about it?”

“The many sweethearts, the countless lovers … How many of them did you love, Mr. Grayson?”

He linked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Every last one of them, sweet. Every last one.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s the same as saying none.”

He shrugged and continued to stare up at the ceiling. “Is it?”

Another question perched on the tip of her tongue. Sophia hesitated, then asked it anyway. “And did any of them love you?”

He leveled a cool gaze at her. “Only the fools.” There was such pride there in his eyes, mingled with such pain.

Then, suddenly, his fist crashed to the tabletop. Sophia jumped in her seat.

“I think it’s time I asked the questions, don’t you?” He rose to his feet and began pacing the cabin. “I know your name already, Miss Jane Turner.”

Sophia had the impulse to interrupt, to correct him. But she couldn’t. Guilt pinched in her chest. He’d just bared his life to her. Why hadn’t she the courage to do the same?

“What is your age, then?”

“I am twenty.” At least that was the truth.

“Twenty,” he repeated, in a tone of dismissal. “Only twenty. So young. What can you know of the world?”

“More than you would credit. What can you know of me, to draw such a conclusion?”

He swung around and leaned a hand on the table. “What can I know of you, indeed. How much of the world have you seen, then, Miss Turner?

From whence do you hail?”

He loomed over her, his bulk and strength intimidating. But the intensity in his eyes was more disquieting by far. “Kent.”

He laughed and stood erect again. “Oh, Miss Turner hails from the wilds of Kent, does she? Known for its savage garden parties, Kent. Are your parents living?”

“Yes, both.”

“Have you siblings?”

“One sister.”

“What a charming little family.” Sophia began to interject, but he spoke over her. “Brown bread or white?”

“White.”

“White bread. But of course. Nothing but the best for Miss Turner. I suppose I can skip the next question, as well. I’m well aware of your taste for rum.”

Sophia bristled at the malice in his voice, and the brutal way in which his hand sliced the air. “Actually, I prefer claret.”

“Claret.” He smirked. “Well, I’m sorry I cannot accommodate your tastes, Miss Turner, to offer you white bread and claret at every meal.”

“You know I’ve no such expectation.” Pressing her hands to the tabletop, she rose to her feet. “Why are you behaving in this fashion?”

He leaned over the table, placing his hands flat to mirror hers. “In what fashion would you like me to behave? I can’t be other than I am, sweetheart. You’ve known from the start, I’m no gentleman. I’m a liar, a thief, a libertine … and worse.” He leaned closer, and she swayed forward, as if pulled by a thread. His face was but a handsbreadth from hers. Close enough to kiss.

His gaze fell to her lips, his voice distilling to a rough whisper. “You say you have no expectation of white bread and claret? Sweet …” The word swirled over her lips, and Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut. “You would do well to form no expectations at all.”