Free Sweet Surrender by Cheryl Holt Page B

gallantly replied.  "Please join me."
    They were on the verandah behind the house.  It was dusk, the sun having set, so very soon, she’d be alone with him in the dark, which she deemed the perfect situation. 
    She plopped down beside him, with no space in between, sitting so near that her skirt touched his trousers.  She was never forward or brazen, so her advance was out of character.
    From the first instant she’d seen him in the driveway the prior morning, she’d been thinking about him.  She’d wandered the halls of the mansion, hoping to discover his whereabouts so she could engineer a chance encounter.
    And now, here he was, drinking and smoking a cheroot and looking every bit as dashing as she recollected.  His blond hair was too long, curled to his shoulders, and his blue eyes reflected the colors of the fading sky, making him appear delectable and too handsome for words.
    Grace claimed that Mr. Scott was a scoundrel, but Eleanor suspected the actual rogue on the premises was probably Mr. Dane.  There was mischief in his gaze, and he exuded a magnetism she couldn’t resist.
    "You may call me Eleanor if you’d like," she boldly stated.
    He assessed her, his intense attention roaming down her body, then back up.
    "How old are you?" he inquired.
    "Twenty."
    He scoffed.  "Tell me the truth."
    At being caught in a lie, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 
    "Eighteen."
    "An adult by most standards."
    "An adult by any standard," she countered.
    He frowned with suspicion, as if she was playing a trick, then he nodded.  "All right.  I’d be delighted, Eleanor."
    She waited on tenterhooks, expecting him to offer the same courtesy.  When he didn’t speak up, she asked, "May I call you Duncan?"
    "I suppose, but don’t try it in front of your sister.  She’s extremely ferocious.  I wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side because of you."
    "Don’t worry about Grace.  I have her wrapped around my little finger."
    "Really?"
    "Yes, really.  She assumes she knows me, but she doesn’t."
    "Why is that?"
    "For the past ten years, I’ve been in boarding school."
    "Ah, fresh out of the schoolroom, are you?"
    "No," she fibbed.  "I’ve been out for ages, so Grace hasn’t lived with me since I’ve…matured.  She hasn’t a clue how I might behave in any given circumstance."
    He was staring at her as if she was silly and young, so she placed special emphasis on the word matured.
    She’d spent a decade surrounded by females, and she hardly ever crossed paths with men.  Most of her knowledge about them had been gleaned from her friend, Portia, whose mother—as a debutante—had been seduced by a notorious London libertine.  Portia was the result of that wicked liaison. 
    Portia’s mother had never been sorry for the scandal.  She’d been disowned and disavowed by her parents, banished to the country forever to hide her shame and, of course, Portia’s father had turned out to be married.  Once her mother’s condition had been revealed, he’d abandoned her.
    Yet her mother was still in love with the bounder, and she hoped Portia would have a similar amour.  Her mother insisted it was the only time she’d ever been genuinely happy.
    Portia had regaled Eleanor with stories of her mother’s romance.  Eleanor was eager to walk down the same road Portia’s mother had traveled, but she had to pick a better man.  She needed a rake who could be tamed, who might fall for a very pretty, very charming girl who was willing to do anything. 
    Eleanor had been a stellar student, and when she’d finished her education, the headmistress had offered her a job at the stuffy, regimented school.  But the notion of passing her days, trailing after a gaggle of giggling adolescents, was too depressing.
    She wasn’t like Grace.  She wasn’t steady and constant and true.  She craved stimulation and variety and excitement.
    With Grace’s financial troubles, Eleanor was a burden to her sister, and she was