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

He caught her wrist in his grip. Her breath caught in her throat.

“Well,” she said, “I’d imagine you know how the rest progressed.”

“I’d imagine I do.” He released her wrist, and something flickered in his eyes. The beginnings of belief. “So you’re telling me this is the reason you’re bound for Tortola, to become a governess. You were ruined.”

Sophia gave a tiny nod. How considerate of him, to do half the lying for her. Her words gained momentum, tumbled forth into the stagnant air. “We became too reckless. Once Gervais gave me a taste of paradise, nothing could keep us apart. I escaped my chaperone whenever I could, stole out to meet him in the middle of the night. The closets, the carriage house, even a hackney cab—our trysting knew no boundaries. Gervais even came to see me in Kent, during one of our house parties.”

“A house party?” He wagged a finger at her. “I knew you came from quality. I knew you were not bred to be a governess.”

She threw him a saucy look. “I was not bred to be a wanton, either. But so I became.”

“A wanton. You.”

Sophia searched her memory, mentally flipping through the chapters of The Book. Details, she told herself. Details would convince him.

“We agreed to meet in the stables. It was too risky for Gervais to be seen near the house. I stole a dairymaid’s costume and tucked all my hair under a straw cap with a wide brim. So long as I kept my head down, no one could recognize me. When I arrived in the stables, he startled me from behind the door. Without a word, he grabbed me up in his arms and carried me into the loft. There he had lit a dozen candles, and strewn rose petals and blankets over a bed of sweet-smelling hay.”

“A dozen lit candles in a stable full of dry hay? You’re lucky you survived the experience, sweetheart. You could have been tinder.”

Sophia raised her eyebrows and stiffened her posture. “Our love was an inferno. I thought I would go up in flames, so glorious was our pleasure that night.”

He covered his eyes with a hand and laughed, loud and long. “What a vivid romantic imagination you have.”

“It’s not imagination. I’m telling you the truth!” Panic gnawed at her stomach. If she couldn’t convince him now, she would certainly lose him. His opinion of her would be confirmed, and he’d only think her more naïve than ever. Desperate, she approached him steadily until they stood toe-to-toe. Perhaps physicality could persuade where words could not.

“Don’t you believe me?” Crossing her arms, she framed her bosom for his appraisal. His eyes took the bait. Then, in a choreographed fit of pique, she whirled away. Men preferred to give chase, Sophia knew. She might be a virgin, but she understood how to draw a man to her side. Her pounding heartbeat filled the humid silence. The room had grown dark. So curious here in the tropics, how night fell like a thunderclap. No lingering dusk, no mystic hour of twilight. Just light, and then dark.

“Rose petals.” His voice dropped, and she counted his slow footfalls as he moved to stand behind her. She felt his breath whispering against her nape, his gaze burning a trail along her neckline. Then he leaned in, hovering inches from her shoulder as he drew a slow, deep breath through his nose. A low, seductive growl rumbled from his throat and reverberated down her spine. “I believe the rose petals.”

Slowly, he brushed a wisp of hair from her shoulder. His finger never grazed her skin, but the sensation of the silken lock gliding over her neck had Sophia quivering. She shut her eyes, feeling the feather-light caress everywhere.

“Did you love him?” he asked. “This Gervais?”

The last question. She should have been expecting it, but it took her completely by surprise. “Yes, of course,” she blurted out, unthinking. She slowly turned to face him in the dark. Mr. Grayson battened his reaction before she could gauge it, but Sophia knew she’d made a misstep. If he’d been thinking of sharing her bed tonight, he was now thinking twice. How ironic, that there was nothing to cool a man’s ardor like the mention of love.

And what would he ask her now? Their little script was at an end. Sophia waited breathless in the dark, hoping some question, request—or kiss—would fall from his lips.

The cabin door scraped open, and a lamp threw flickering light between them. He took a step back.

Stubb shuffled in, struggling under a heavy tray. “Here’s dinner,” he announced, hanging a lamp on a hook above them. “Sorry it’s late, but it’s been a busy day.”

Mr. Grayson nodded. “I’ll leave you to your meal then, Miss Turner.”