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

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen a man like him before. Many of England’s best families kept Negro servants in their employ. In fact, black footmen were quite the fashion in the ton—their presence hinted at lucrative foreign holdings, and ebony skin made an aesthetically pleasing contrast with a powdered wig.

But this man’s skin was not ebony. Rather, the tone of his complexion more accurately matched the warm gloss of a ripe hazelnut, or strong tea lightened with a drop of milk. He wore no wig at all, but a tall gray hat. And beneath the hat, his brown, tightly curled hair was cropped close to his scalp. His dark-blue greatcoat was as well-tailored and elegant as any dandy’s. Golden-brown eyes regarded her from a fine-featured face. He was handsome, and—to Sophia’s further confusion—handsome in a vaguely familiar way.

“Miss Turner.” Mr. Grayson stepped forward, shrinking the triangle. “Allow me to present Captain Josiah Grayson.”

She slid her gaze from the black man just long enough to shoot him a sharp glare. “You said you were Mr. Grayson.”

Both men smiled. Sophia set her jaw.

“I am Mr. Grayson. And this”—he clapped a hand on the black man’s shoulder—“is Captain Grayson.”

She looked from one man to the other, then back again. “You share the same name?”

Their smiles broadened.

“But of course,” Mr. Grayson said smoothly, that thin scar on his chin curving up to mock her. “Brothers usually do.”

Gray watched with satisfaction as a blush bloomed across those smooth, delicate cheeks. Perhaps he was enjoying Miss Turner’s confusion a bit too much. But damn, ever since he’d lifted Bains off her in the tavern, he’d been enjoying everything a bit too much. The way the circumference of her waist so perfectly filled his crooked arm. The feel of her soft, fragile body pressed up against his in the rowboat. The clean, feminine scent of her—hints of powder and rose water and another scent he couldn’t quite place. Something sweet.

And the way she kept staring at him. Bloody hell. It heated his blood, made him want things that even he recognized as less than respectable. So it was a relief now, to let her blink up at his brother for a bit.

“Brothers.” She looked from Gray to Joss and back again. Her gaze sharpened, seemed to refocus somewhere behind him. Gray fought the urge to turn and look over his shoulder.

“Yes of course,” she said slowly, tilting her head to one side. “I ought to have seen it at once. The squared-off tip, the little notch above the lobe …”

He exchanged an amused glance with Joss. What the devil was this about notches and tips?

“You have the same ears,” she finished, a smile tipping the corner of her mouth as she made a smooth curtsy.

Gray paused a beat, then gave a soft laugh. There was a self-assured grace to her movements that he found oddly entrancing, and now he understood why. This was a gesture of satisfaction, not deference. She curtsied not to please, but because she was pleased with herself. In short, the girl was taking a bow.

And damned if he wasn’t tempted to applaud. She hadn’t been destined for employment, he would stake the ship on that. Gentle-bred, certainly, despite those deplorable garments. From a wealthy family, he surmised, fallen on hard times. Those fine gloves were only a subtle clue; it was her bearing that made the confession. Gray knew how to discern the true value of goods beneath layers of spit and varnish, and Miss Turner … Miss Turner was a quality piece.

She straightened. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Captain Grayson.”

“The honor is mine,” Joss replied with a smooth bow. “You travel alone, Miss Turner?”

“Yes. I am to be employed, near Road Town.”

“She’s to be governess to George Waltham’s whelps,” Gray interjected.

“Needless to say, I attempted to caution her against taking such a thankless post.”

“Miss Turner.” Joss’s voice took on a serious tone. “As captain of this vessel, I must also question the prudence of this journey.”

Miss Turner foraged in her cloak. “I … I have a letter, from Mr. Waltham.”

“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” Joss said. “It’s not your employment I’m concerned for, it’s your reputation. We have no other passengers aboard this ship.”

No other passengers? Gray cleared his throat.

Joss shot him a look. “Save my brother, of course. A young, unmarried woman, traversing the Atlantic without a chaperone …”

Gray shuffled his feet impatiently. What was Joss on about? Surely he didn’t intend to refuse her passage?

“Perhaps you would do better to wait. The Peregrine sails for Tortola next week.”

Hell. He did intend to refuse her passage.

“No,” she objected. “No, please. Captain, I appreciate your concern for my reputation. Had I any prospects other than this post, had I any family or friends who would take exception … I might share your concern. As matters stand, I tell you with complete honesty”—she swallowed—“there is no one who will care.”