Temptation and Surrender (12 page)

T
en minutes later, Jonas sank onto a bench in the dim corner of the tap and took a long draught of the pint of ale Edgar had drawn for him.

He’d trailed Em back to the Red Bells. Head high, she’d swept in, looked around, then sought refuge in her office.

Rather than follow, he’d sought refuge in the shadows.

Intentionally or not, she’d flung another gauntlet his way. Posed another challenge—a hurdle he would have to clear if he wished to continue his pursuit of her.

Specifically she’d asked him to define said pursuit, to explain what exactly he wanted.

It was, he had to admit, a fair and reasonable request.

She’d implied—and presumably believed—that his lack of an immediate answer meant he wasn’t serious, but he was—deadly serious. Totally serious. He simply hadn’t followed his intentions to their logical end and defined his ultimate goal. That omission didn’t mean he wasn’t intent on securing said ultimate goal—he just hadn’t yet put it into words.

That last wasn’t easy, not least because, where he and she were concerned, what was evolving between them didn’t seem to have all that much to do with logic. Or rationality. He could analyze all he wished, but their interaction, increasingly at every level, was driven by feelings and emotions, and even more by their reactions to those—and such unruly manifestations defied logic at every turn.

Slumping back against the wall, he stretched his legs out before him, sipped his ale—and as the afternoon wore on watched Emily Beauregard flit about his inn, doing innkeeperly things and occasionally shooting narrow-eyed glances his way.

What did he want of her? From her, with her?

He knew various elements of the answer. He wanted her in his bed, wanted her to confide in him—for some reason felt compelled to lift all worldly cares from her slim shoulders. Associated wants grew clearer in his mind—he wanted to protect her, to share her life, and have her share his.

Encompassing all of those, what did he ultimately want with her? What was the real position he wanted her to fill?

And was he sure, beyond doubt, that that was what he needed?

By the time he rose and returned the empty pint pot to the bar, then headed for the door, he had the answers to his questions as well as hers.

He’d defined his ultimate goal.

Now all he had to do was steer her to it. And convince her to agree.

T
he next morning, fingers tapping the blotter, her gaze fixed unseeing across the room, Em sat in her office and tried to decide how best to further her quest for the treasure. Learning the age of Ballyclose Manor before mounting any sortie to raid its cellar remained the most sensible course, even if that road appeared strewn with obstacles.

Her irritation with Silas Coombe remained, but beneath that lay a restlessness, a feeling of dissatisfaction, that troubled her more.

Ignoring both, she spent long minutes searching for a way forward, but no novel avenue spontaneously presented itself.

The morning was winging; there were things to be done. With a sigh, she resolutely put her quest aside—even more resolutely banned Jonas Tallent from her thoughts—and turned her mind to meeting the expectations her revival of the Red Bells had engendered in its now loyal patrons.

Increasingly the villagers, of all ages, genders, and conditions, flocked to the inn. Breakfast, morning tea and snacks, luncheon and afternoon tea were all well patronized, while they would have to institute a booking system for the tables at which they served dinners.

After consulting Hilda over the weekly order for Finch and Sons, and checking the stocks of ale and beer with Edgar, Em retreated once more to her office to reconcile her accounts.

She was thus engaged when a clearing throat and a light tap on the open door had her glancing up.

Pommeroy Fortemain stood in the doorway, his gaze scanning the tiny room. “I say.” He brought his gaze back to her face. “This is a bit of a broom closet, ain’t it? When Edgar said ‘office’ I imagined something along the lines of Cedric’s lair at the manor.” Pommeroy glanced about again. “I’d bring this to Tallent’s attention if I were you, Miss Beauregard. Hardly fitting, what?” Pommeroy looked down at her and beamed. “No fitting frame for such a lovely flower, heh?”

Em found it easy not to fall into raptures. She acknowledged the sally with a slight, tight curve of her lips, a faint frown in her eyes; two columns she was adding didn’t match. “Can I help you with something, Mr. Fortemain?”

With a wave, Pommeroy advanced into the room. “No sense in formalities, my dear Miss Beauregard. Pommeroy’s m’name, and I make you free of it.”

She merely inclined her head. After Silas Coombe, she had no intention of smiling on those she didn’t wish to smile upon; no sense in courting further misunderstandings. “Is there something you wanted, sir?”

“As to that”—Pommeroy beamed—“I come bearing an invitation from m’mother.” Reaching into his coat, he drew out a card and presented it with a flourish. “Party—with dancing—at Ballyclose next Saturday evening. We hope you and your sister will attend.”

Em stared at the ivory card, then reached out and took it. Attending parties was definitely not what she’d expected to be doing while engaged in their treasure hunt. However, as she and Issy had all their worldly goods with them, they did have evening gowns, albeit outmoded ones.

Although their uncle Harold had used them as his unpaid staff, outside his house he’d been immensely careful to keep up appearances, which had of necessity meant escorting herself, and later Issy, too, to various local ladies’ entertainments; it had been that, or suffer untold calls from said local ladies intent on finding out how his nieces were.

Their gowns were outdated, but would pass muster. However…she was the innkeeper. Invitations such as this left her feeling she was straddling some uncomfortable divide—or should be, would be, if the locals weren’t so intent on treating her and Issy as the young ladies they truly were.

Pommeroy had been studying her face, clearly puzzled by her lack of enthusiasm. “All the local gentry will be there, of course. Everyone attends m’mother’s events—the done thing, you know.”

Em nodded absentmindedly, her gaze locked on the card. There was nothing she could do about the locals’ determination to invest her family with a status close to what they in reality possessed. And once they found the treasure, they would revert to being the Colytons of Colyton, and resume the social position the name commanded.

There seemed little point in clinging to her charade of being “nothing more than an innkeeper” when everyone was intent on behaving otherwise.

And
—she was trying very hard not to let her danger-loving, reckless Colyton side loose—there was the undeniable fact that if she wanted to search through the books on Ballyclose Manor, those she’d learned were now residing in the library there, then a party—with dancing, no less—would create the perfect opportunity.

One too good to miss.

She looked up, met Pommeroy’s eyes, and smiled. “Thank you, sir—please convey my compliments to Lady Fortemain. My sister and I will be delighted to attend.”

“Good-oh!” Eyes alight, Pommeroy saluted her. “First waltz is mine, what?”

Em stopped smiling. “Possibly—we’ll see.” Her expression cool, she inclined her head. “If you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my accounts.”

Still beaming, Pommeroy waved and departed.

She stared at where he’d been, sighed, then got back to her recalcitrant figures.

B
y Saturday evening, she was champing at the bit, ridden by impatience to push ahead with her search. She might lecture the twins on not rushing into things recklessly, but exercising the same caution herself—worse, having willingly condemned herself to six days of getting nowhere—had sorely tried her self-control.

As she let John Ostler hand them down from one of the carriages the inn kept in its stable, then, with Issy beside her, fell in with the other guests climbing the Ballyclose Manor front steps on their way to the ballroom, instead of dreaming of waltzes, Em could barely wait to see the library.

Given the strength of the compulsion to slip away, she tightened her grip on her reckless Colyton self. Still, looking into a library during a party was a lot less risky than breaking into and searching the cellar.

Draped in blue muslin with embroidered ribbons at neckline and hem, her blond hair in gentle curls framing her face, Issy leaned closer to whisper, “I take it you didn’t find even a hint in those books?”

“No.” She spoke softly so no others could hear. “There were sections on all the major houses, Ballyclose included, but nothing to say that any of them were in existence prior to the eighteenth century.” She looked at the façade above the main door. “I need to know when this place was built.”

Issy frowned. “You’ve been doing everything. I can’t let you slip away alone. I’ll come, too, and keep watch.”

Closing a hand about Issy’s wrist, Em gently shook it. “Nonsense. I told you, I’ll wait until the middle of the evening when everyone’s absorbed. Filing told you he’ll be here—there’s no reason you shouldn’t spend as much time with him as is permissable. Neither of us is so young we can’t converse with gentlemen without a chaperone. Take advantage of the moment.”

They broke off to nod and smile at the Courtneys, a family they’d met at the Ballyclose afternoon tea.

“And besides,” she continued, voice low, “Filing will keep his eye on you regardless, so it’s too dangerous for you to come with me. If you do, he’ll likely follow, and then where will we be?”

Issy responded with a grimace. After a moment of shuffling forward in the reception line, she murmured, “If you’re sure.”

Smiling at another acquaintance, Em nodded. “I’m sure. Don’t worry. What possible danger could be lurking in a gentleman’s library?”

They eventually reached the head of the line, curtsied to their hostess and Jocasta Fortemain, Cedric’s wife, then moved on into the large ballroom, which was reassuringly full. “See?” Em strolled into the throng. “It’ll be easy to disappear for a while in such a crowd. No one will miss me.”

Issy murmured noncommittally. Em followed her gaze and saw Filing’s fair head moving purposefully through the sea of others toward them. Suppressing a delighted smile, she obligingly halted.

“Miss Beauregard.” Reaching them, Filing bowed very correctly to her.

She gave him her hand and an encouraging smile. “Sir. It’s a pleasure to see you in more convivial surrounds.”

Filing smiled. “Indeed.” At last he let his gaze swing to its lodestone. His smile softened as he bowed. “Miss Isobel.”

Issy colored, glowing in a way Em had never seen, and gave him her hand. “Sir.”

Em could barely restrain her smile; neither Issy nor Filing were dab hands at concealing their feelings. Their eyes were literally all for the other; she doubted anything less than a sharp prod would remind either of the world about them.

She touched Issy’s arm, nodded to Filing. “I’ll leave you two to chat.”

Moving into the crowd, she wondered how long it would be before Filing asked for Issy’s hand. Although her joy for her sister might be tinged with regret that, at twenty-five years old and with the twins and Henry to care for, she’d been forced to set aside all thoughts of marrying herself, her delight in Issy’s blooming happiness was genuine and deep enough to make her feel like dancing.

It therefore seemed God-sent when the musicians, tucked away in the gallery at the far end of the room, played the opening chords of a waltz. It had been so long since she’d waltzed.

Jonas saw Em glance around as the music started, as if looking for a partner. As she’d arrived only minutes before and had spoken to no gentleman other than Filing, the position should be vacant; his feet were taking him in her direction before he’d completed the thought.

She looked…delicious. Fresh and crisp in a green silk gown with her brown hair gleaming under the light thrown by the chandeliers. For once she’d worn her hair in a knot on the top of her head, allowing the short curls she usually fought to restrain free rein to cluster about her face, a bobbing, living frame.

The silk clung lovingly, revealing her neatly rounded figure, delicate feminine shoulders and graceful arms, full rounded breasts, a waist a man’s hands would easily span balanced by lush hips, and, despite her relative lack of height, surprisingly long legs. A pocket Venus was the description that sprang to mind.

Certainly his mind.

It took only a moment to reach her, to reach out and capture her hand.

An “Oh!” on her lips, she spun to face him.

Raising her hand, he brushed his lips over the backs of her fingers—and watched color rise in her cheeks. He smiled. “Well met, Miss Beauregard.”

She drew in a breath, and nodded, trying to make her expression severe. “Mr. Tallent.”

“Jonas, remember?”

She looked away, across the room—toward the dance floor. Through his hold on her fingers, he could sense her impatience to join the couples heading onto the cleared expanse. To whirl. She was like a well-bred filly reined in, but quivering to be off.

“Might I beg the indulgence of this waltz, Miss Beauregard?”

Her gaze snapped back to his face.

At sight of the consideration filling her bright eyes, he smiled. “I promise not to bite.”

She hesitated for an instant longer, then nodded. “Thank you. I would like to waltz.”

An understatement he felt sure. Setting her hand on his sleeve, he led her through the crowd—only to have Pommeroy Fortemain step into their path.

“Miss Beauregard!” Pommeroy looked faintly shocked. “You must have forgot—you promised the first waltz to me.”

“Good evening, Mr. Fortemain.” Em recalled her words clearly. “With regard to this dance, if you recall I did not accept your suggestion that the first waltz should be yours. There seemed no reason to make such a decision at that time.” She smiled politely. “If you’ll excuse us?”

She’d hoped Tallent would take the hint and lead her on. Instead, he stood rooted, looking at her curiously.

Giving Pommeroy time to protest. “But I say…expectations and all that. I thought…”

Em looked at Jonas, willing him to rescue her. Amusement was dancing in his dark eyes. All he did was raise a questioning brow.

Leaving her to make an issue of choosing him over Pommeroy. She ought to change her mind, but…there really was no choice. Choosing Pommeroy to deny Jonas would be cutting off her nose to spite her face. She didn’t know for a fact that Jonas could waltz well, but he’d spent time in London—of course he could waltz. Pommeroy on the other hand…

She met his gaze. “I regret, Pommeroy, but I made no promise.”

He started to pout.

If she and Jonas didn’t get to the floor soon, the whole question would be moot. She drew in a breath. “Perhaps the next dance.” Which almost certainly wouldn’t be a waltz.

Pommeroy looked glum. “Oh, very well, then. The next dance it’ll be.”

She fabricated a smile.

With a nod to Pommeroy, Tallent consented to escort her on—to the dance floor where other couples were already waltzing.

He turned and drew her into his arms.

Distracted by Pommeroy, she went without thinking, without steeling herself against the sudden onslaught of sensations. She stepped into Jonas’s arms, and very nearly gasped, felt her eyes widen as they started to twirl. She stiffened—as if that could hold back the tide, could stop her senses, her wits, from crazily whirling.

He seemed not to notice, but masterfully swept her into the dance.

Into the lazy revolutions.

And she was floating on air; her toes barely touched the floor as he effortlessly whirled with her in his arms.

“You dance very well, Mr Tallent.” The compliment was on her lips—plain fact that it was—before she’d thought.

He looked down at her, smiled. “Thank you. It helps to have a partner who isn’t trying to lead.”

She normally did; normally she danced so much better than her partners that she could rarely refrain. But with him…she hadn’t consciously thought of it, but there was plainly no necessity. He knew what he was doing.

He demonstrated by expertly steering her through a tight turn, then once more, in perfect physical accord, they settled into the looser revolutions as they traveled up the long room.

“I do have a complaint, however.” Again trapping her gaze, he arched a brow. “He gets to be Pommeroy, but I’m Mr. Tallent?”

There was weight—that weight she was, heaven help her, growing far too accustomed to—behind his dark gaze. She met it, tried to hold firm…pulled a fleeting face at him. “Oh, very well. Jonas, then.”

He smiled brilliantly, and her breath lodged in her chest. The first thought to seep back into her temporarily blank brain was one of fervent gratitude that he hadn’t smiled at her like that before.

Her eyes were still trapped in his; his gaze was too piercing—too perceptive—for her peace of mind. Shifting her gaze so it fell above his left shoulder, she tried to think—of something, anything, that wasn’t Jonas Tallent.

That wasn’t about what it felt like to be lightly caged in his arms, whirling so freely down the floor. About how it felt to be constrained, yet not, to be led, dictated to, yet to feel so responsive, so attuned.

To feel so much two halves of a whole, moving as one.

She’d waltzed often enough in the past, yet with no other man had it felt anything like this.

Anywhere so pleasurable.

She could still feel his gaze on her face, but didn’t dare meet it. She felt so alive, so aware of him—of his chest mere inches from her breasts, of his long, strong thighs as they pressed between hers through the turns, of the strength in his arms, in all his lean frame as they checked and whirled around the room—she felt sure, if she looked at him, he’d be able to see her heightened sensitivity in her eyes.

He didn’t need any encouragement. He was still pursuing her; although he’d made no move to further engage her through the last few days, that, she knew, would be part of his plan. He’d probably reasoned that after their last argument, where she’d pointed out his lack of an honorable goal, giving her space and not pressing her would make her more receptive to his next advance.

As it had. If she’d had any sense at all, she’d never have agreed to this waltz, let alone refused Pommeroy to claim it.

But she’d wanted to waltz, and, despite all, she’d wanted to waltz with him. With Jonas.

She inwardly frowned. She would have liked to tell herself she’d wanted him because she’d guessed he would be an excellent partner, but she couldn’t delude herself; that hadn’t weighed heavily in her scale.

Which meant something else—some idiot impulse she hadn’t yet tamed—had sneaked past her well-honed defenses and guided her.

Her Colyton nature had reared its head.

She would need to guard against it—and if he was what the adventurous side of her had fixed its reckless sights upon, she would need to guard against him.

It was with real regret that she heard the closing bars of the dance. He swirled her to a halt; she stepped back, out of his arms, and curtsied.

Rising, she inclined her head. “Thank you. That was…pleasant.” Distracting was more like it, and now she felt something akin to loss at being no longer so close to him, held within the cage of his arms.

He smiled as if he knew.

It occurred to her that, beyond that first sally, he hadn’t spoken—or rather, he’d kept his tongue still and let his dancing, and her too-aware senses, speak for him. She started to narrow her eyes at him.

“Ah—Miss Beauregard. Ready for the next dance?”

She turned to see Pommeroy, bright-eyed and waiting, heard the calling chords for a cotillion.

Here was penance indeed. Plastering on a smile, she held out her hand. “Mr. Fortemain.”

Taking her hand, he patted it as he led her back to the floor. “Pommeroy, my dear. Pommeroy.”

Resigning herself to calling gentlemen by their first name, she surrendered to fate, and to the next measure.

Jonas watched her go, then set off to hunt down Phyllida, who he’d earlier spotted whirling in Lucifer’s arms.

His sparrow was trapped for the moment, and all was well with her; no dangers were permitted in Lady Fortemain’s ballroom. He had time to hunt up his twin and see whether she’d learned from her husband which books he’d lent Em, and whether from that they could deduce anything more about her goal.

And after that, he’d claim another waltz.

She’d felt like thistledown in his arms, unbelievably light on her feet. There wasn’t that much of her—her head didn’t clear his shoulder—but her vibrant eyes were matched by the vibrance, the sheer vitality she held within her. He knew she’d enjoyed waltzing with him, but the dance had definitely been a shared pleasure. He’d been thoroughly grateful that she wasn’t one of those females who had to fill every silence with prattle; he’d been able to simply enjoy the dance, and the satisfying pleasure of having her in his arms.

Not that he was satisfied—not yet—but he would be. Now he knew his goal—had finally put into words and accepted as truth that he wanted her as his wife—he would be dogged and relentless. As he’d warned her, he was a determined and patient man.