Temptation and Surrender (13 page)

E
m had had no idea she would be in such demand. After the dance with Pommeroy ended, he gave every sign of intending to monopolize her. His increasing attentiveness set her nerves flickering; she was casting about for some way to escape him when to her relief his brother, Cedric, strolled up to convey a summons to Pommeroy from Lady Fortemain. Openly chagrined at being denied her company, Pommeroy nevertheless grudgingly left. Cedric remained chatting to her; she debated innocently inquiring as to the age of his house, but decided to explore his library first. Then he surprised her by claiming her hand for the next dance.

After that, she danced with Filing. Separated from Issy, who was dancing with Basil Smollet, Filing shamelessly picked her brains about her sister’s likes and dislikes. Em laughed and answered readily; quite aside from approving of Filing as a suitor for Issy’s hand, she honestly liked the man.

He seemed to like and approve of her, too. They spent some time discussing Henry and the twins, then Issy returned to Filing’s side, and Em took herself off—only to fall victim to the second most handsome man in Colyton. He, too, solicited her hand for the next dance, which happened to be a country dance, but one that allowed them to converse.

“Why Lucifer?” She had to ask. “You couldn’t have been christened that.”

He laughed. “No, indeed. It’s a nickname from my earlier days.”

“As in being a devil?”

His grin widened. “No. As in being a dark, fallen archangel.”

It took a moment for her to digest that. She fixed him with a mock-censorious look. “I take it it wasn’t gentlemen who gave you that name.”

“It was the ladies of the ton, if you must know.”

She held up a hand. “I believe I know enough. No need for further details.”

“Just as well—I seriously doubt Phyllida would approve of me revealing further details.”

“I daresay. So—” She paused while they twirled around each other, then came together again. “How are your sons?”

“In their usual rude health. Tell me, were those books I found for you of any particular interest?”

She opened her eyes wide. “Yes, indeed—I’ve been poring over them.” She’d spotted Jonas speaking with his sister and Lucifer; she could now make an educated guess as to the topic of conversation.

Given she was now so close to learning if Ballyclose Manor was indeed their “house of the highest,” with luck there would no longer be any reason to pursue information via books from Colyton Manor.

She smiled. “One thing you can tell me.”

Lucifer’s dark brows arched; his deep blue eyes sharpened. “Yes?”

“Miss Sweet is such a dear—has she been with Phyllida for long?”

His lips tightened. She wasn’t at all sure he believed her innocent expression, but then his features eased. “She’s not a native of the village. She came as a governess for Phyllida and Jonas when they were three, and became part of the family.”

From that beginning, it wasn’t hard to ask about all the other older people in the village. Her inquiries had nothing to do with her search; she was simply interested.

She parted from Lucifer and found Basil Smollet waiting to escort her to his mother.

Old Mrs. Smollet had taken a keen interest in Em, her family, and the resurrection of the inn. She was one of the oldest inhabitants and demonstrated as proprietary an interest in village affairs as anyone.

“Keep it up, dear”—the old lady patted her hand—“and you’ll have our undying gratitude. You’re restoring village life to what it should be.”

Em felt the compliment warm her heart. It wasn’t the first she’d received that evening; others had paused beside her to tender their thanks for the inn’s transformation. The most frequent comment was that now it was a place the ladies, women, and their daughters could use, too.

After conveying her own thanks and parting from Mrs. Smollet, Em rejoined Issy. Filing was dealing with one of his parishioners off to one side of the room; Em seized the moment of privacy to repeat the comments made to her.

“I feel rather chuffed, truth be told,” she confessed. “I had no idea we would make such an impression, or achieve something that clearly means so much to so many—not from what was initially merely a means to an end.”

Issy smiled her soft smile. “Perhaps, but in the circumstances I’m not sure it’s truly all that surprising that, intentionally or not, we’d seek to make things better for the village—we are the Colytons of Colyton, after all, even if the rest of the village don’t know it.”

Em raised her brows. “Very true. Perhaps helping Colyton and caring for the village truly is in our blood.”

Filing returned, and after a few exchanges, Em strolled on.

Despite all distractions, she’d kept one eye on the clock and the other on the partying throng. Now she circulated, gauging the moment. One more dance and it would be time to slip into the shadows. From idle comments made at the afternoon tea, she’d deduced in which wing the library lay; if she had it right, it was off the same main hall as the ballroom, but on the opposite side.

Another series of dances was about to commence. The first would be a waltz. Hugging the walls, she circled the room, making for the door to the hall. Given she wanted to slip away, she didn’t intend to participate.

“There you are.”

A large hand closed about hers and made her jump. Not from shock, or even surprise. Pure sensation jolted up her arm, telling her more clearly than her eyes or ears who was so cavalierly appropriating her.

“Mr. Tallent!” She swung to face him.

He was smiling at her—that same brilliant smile with a touch of rogue about the edges. “Jonas, remember?” Winding her arm in his, he turned toward the dance floor. “It’s time for another waltz.”

She sucked in a huge breath. “Jonas—we’ve already waltzed once.”

“Indeed. And as it was such an enjoyable experience for us both, there’s no reason we shouldn’t repeat the exercise.”

“Yes, there is,” she muttered, trying to keep her Colyton self restrained. “People will talk.”

“People are already talking about you. If you don’t want the world to speculate, you shouldn’t present it with such a contradictory mystery.”

She frowned up at him as he turned and drew her into his arms; she instinctively raised hers, letting him grip her right hand, putting her left on his shoulder, and then she was whirling—while still trying to puzzle out his last comment. “I’m not a mystery, let alone a contradictory one.”

“Oh, yes, you are. A young lady who sets herself up as an innkeeper, but who remains very much a young lady, and insists her whole family keep to the same social line. ‘Why?’ is what everyone wants to know.”

“But…I thought they’d all assume we were gentry fallen on hard times—which we are.”

He bent a mock-disappointed look on her. “My dear Em, permit me to inform you that ‘gentry fallen on hard times’ do not possess silk evening gowns, nor do they wear pearl combs in their hair”—he looked pointedly at the comb anchoring her unruly curls—“nor do they hire tutors for their brothers with the stated aim of preparing said brothers to enter Pembroke College.”

His dark brown eyes held hers. She looked into them, and wondered anew. Pommeroy Fortemain set her nerves flickering in clear warning. Jonas set them flickering even more, but in exactly the opposite way.

And, drat him, the attraction between them wasn’t any longer purely physical. Beneath the undeniable glamor, there was something very
steady
about Jonas Tallent. Something that appealed to her in a way that almost scared her.

She could feel it like a physical tug, the growing impulse to tell him, to confide their Grand Plan to him and let him help. If that impulse had arisen from needing his help, she might already have told him and asked for it, yet although he probably could help, she was confident they’d succeed in finding the treasure on their own; she didn’t need to tell him to find the treasure—at least not at this point.

The reason she wanted to tell him, what fed the impulse to do so, had more to do with sharing, with telling him who she really was so they could hunt the treasure together. Uncovering her family’s treasure would unquestionably be one of the major adventures of her life—and because of that reason she couldn’t quite define, she wanted to share that adventure with him.

She’d been alone for more than a decade, in charge of her siblings for all that time. All alone. Just herself. To suddenly feel the compulsion to include someone else shook her, unnerved her.

More than anything else, it confused her.

She wasn’t sure she was capable of thinking clearly when in Jonas Tallent’s arms.

Certainly not while waltzing with him.

Especially not when his dark gaze grew warmer, more mesmerizing; especially not when he drew her closer, his large hand on her back burning through the silk of her gown.

She was floating again, barely touching the earth, and in that altered state could sense, feel…could almost believe…

The music ended, he swirled slowly to a halt, and she fell back to earth.

To the reality that he was her employer, and she was the keeper-manager of his inn.

He might scoff at her charade, yet she was still that; in taking the position she’d stepped off the pedestal of ladyhood, and that was something not even he could deny. She couldn’t believe—would be foolish to believe—that he was thinking in terms of anything more than an affair.

She turned, scanned the room, in reality avoiding looking into his eyes—eyes that where she was concerned too often saw too much.

He didn’t release her hand, but closed his more firmly around her fingers. “Em—”

“Here’s Mrs. Crockforth, with her daughter.” Em smiled encouragingly at the matron who had chosen that moment to approach. The next dance would start in a few minutes, and she and Jonas had already waltzed twice; she wouldn’t be dancing with him again that night.

Innkeeper or not.

Jonas perforce had to bow and smile, and shake the young lady’s, Tabitha’s, hand.

Em had to tug surreptitiously to get him to release her hand, but with that achieved, she joined forces with Mrs. Crockforth to ensure her Tabitha shared the next dance with the patently reluctant, but incapable of being impolite, Mr. Tallent.

Delighted, Em watched the pair head for the dance floor, then parted from Mrs. Crockforth with mutual commendations. She remained watching until Jonas turned the other way, then stepped back into the crowd and slipped from the room.

The library was where she’d thought it would be, and helpfully deserted. Somewhat to her dismay, it was on the large side and lined with bookcases, all of which were crammed with books.

Lots and lots of books.

She didn’t have time to waste grumbling; she started with the bookcase nearest the door. She quickly discovered there was a system to the shelving; she started to scan the shelves, checking the spine of the first book on each.

She’d progressed down one long side, and down one short side of the room, when finally in the corner behind the huge desk she came upon the books on local history—which included two books specifically on Ballyclose Manor!

Her fingers all but tingling with excitement, she pulled both books out. Setting one atop the other, she opened the cover and started to read.

She rapidly learned a great deal about the house—except what she wanted to know. She’d flicked through half the book without finding any reference to the date the house was built, when her nerves flickered—in alarm.

She looked up.

A puzzled frown on his face, Pommeroy was advancing around the desk, his footsteps muffled by the thick rug. “What are you doing?”

“Ah…” She bludgeoned her wits into order. “I…think I might have mentioned I have an interest in local architecture. Especially of old houses. It’s my hobby.”

Pommeroy’s puzzlement vanished at the word “hobby.” He gave a silent “Oh,” and nodded.

Then he looked at the books in her hand—tipped his head to check the spines—and frowned again. “Ballyclose?” Surprised, he met her eyes. “Wouldn’t think it merited any serious consideration—well, it’s nice and all that, but it’s hardly old.”

She blinked. “Old? You mean…it isn’t old?”

Smiling, Pommeroy shook his head. “Not old at all—built by my grandfather about fifty years ago.”

“Fifty?” She shut the book. Mentally scrambled. She’d been so sure Ballyclose was their target. “But…perhaps it was built on some older structure.” She fixed Pommeroy with a hopeful look. “Many old houses are like that—new, but with older sections, or incorporating old walls, or foundations, even cellars.”

Smiling smugly, Pommeroy shook his head. “Big family secret—or at least the family never let it be said. M’grandfather built this place on top of an old farm cottage after it crumbled to rubble.”

It was Em’s turn to frown. “But Fortemains have lived in the village for centuries—I know that much. So where did your family live before Ballyclose?”

Pommeroy rocked on his heels, patently enjoying being the focus of her attention. “Wasn’t the same family—or, leastways, not the same branch. M’grandfather hailed from near London. He moved here when one of his cousins died and left him the farm—the Ballyclose lands. That’s when he built the house.”

She drew closer, willing Pommeroy to give her the critical information. “Where did that cousin live—do you know?”

“Just in one of the cottages near the inn.”

None of which were sufficiently grand to have ever been termed “the house of the highest.”

She sighed and drew back.

Pommeroy raised his brows. “I could show you around the house, if you like. Better than returning to the party, what?”

She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I’m only interested in older houses—ones that date from centuries ago.” Remembering the books she still carried in her hands, she turned back to the shelves and returned the volumes to their place close by the corner.

Straightening, she swung around—into Pommeroy’s arms.

“Pommeroy!” She tried to push him away, but he had his arms locked about her. And, as she discovered with her first attempt to break free, he was a lot stronger than he looked. She started struggling in earnest. “What are you
doing
?”