Free Surrender by Brenda Joyce Page A

whom did you have this enlightening conversation?”
    “John Trim.” Was he worried about betrayal? “He admires you greatly. We all do.”
    His gray gaze flickered. “I suppose I should be flattered. Are you cold?”
    Her pulse was rioting but she was hardly cold—she was unnerved, undone, at a loss! She had forgotten how manly he was, and how his presence teased the senses. “It is raining.”
    There was a wool throw on the back of the sofa and, very casually, he retrieved it. She tensed as he approached. “If you are not cold,” he said softly, “then you are very nervous—but then, you are also very desperate .”
    For an instant, she thought he had inflected upon the final word—and that he recalled their first meeting, when she had been so desperate, after all. But his expression never changed as he laid the wool about her shoulders and she realized that he did not remember her, not at all. “I am unused to entertaining at this hour,” she finally said. “We are strangers and we are alone.”
    “It is half past nine, Countess, and you asked for this rendezvous.”
    It felt like midnight, she thought. And clearly, he was not shaken by their encounter, not at all.
    “Have I somehow distressed you?” he asked.
    “No!” She quickly, falsely, smiled. “I am thrilled that you have called.”
    He eyed her, askance. Thunder cracked overhead and the shutter slammed against the house. Evelyn jumped.
    He had just raised his glass and now he set it down. “It is incredible, that you live in this house with but one manservant. I will close the shutter.” He left.
    And when he was gone, she seized the back of the sofa, trembling wildly. How did he know that she lived alone with Laurent, her only manservant? Obviously he had made some inquiries about her.
    But he did not recognize her . It was unbelievable, that she hadn’t made any impression on him.
    He returned to the salon, smiling slightly, and shutting both doors behind them. Evelyn clutched the throw more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.
    He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”
    “Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.
    “I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers. ” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”
    “Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”
    He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”
    She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.
    “You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.
    “Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”
    “I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”
    She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”
    He shrugged off his damp wool coat. “I assume you do not mind? As the attire is so casual tonight?”
    Was she blushing yet again? Was he mocking her again? Somehow she walked to him and took the jacket. The wool was very fine, and she suspected the coat had Italian origins. “Hopefully this will dry before you leave,” she said, although the rain was pounding the house again.
    He eyed her, then removed a