A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(54)

Emotion thickened his throat. “Sir Lewis . . . I don’t know what to say. I don’t how to thank you.”

That was a lie. Bram knew exactly how to thank the man—and that was by keeping his head on straight, doing his duty, drilling a militia to pin-sharp precision, and staying the hell away from Susanna Finch.

A clock on the wall chimed eight.

“Can I interest you in dinner, Rycliff?”

Bram’s stomach answered for him, loudly. “I appreciate the invitation, but . . . I’m not properly dressed.”

“Neither am I.” Sir Lewis laughed and indicated his own disheveled attire. “We don’t stand on ceremony in this house, Rycliff.”

“If that’s the case, I wish you’d just call me Bram.”

“Bram it is.” The older man untied his apron and laid it aside. Then he clapped Bram on the shoulder. “Let’s go find something to eat, son.”

The old man ushered him out of the workshop, down the corridor, and up a half flight of stairs.

As they wound through the house, rich, dark paneling welcomed Bram from room to room, and the collective warmth of dozens of candles seemed to seep into his bones. Not since his infancy had he resided in a house like this. For years now, he’d slung his campaign-weary bones in tents and barracks and officers’ quarters. Then hospital beds and finally, in London, simple bachelor’s rooms. He’d always avoided family residences such as Summerfield, purposely. Because they were more than houses. They were homes, and they weren’t for him. They made him feel out of place, and strangely achy inside.

“Susanna will be pleased to see us, no matter what we’re wearing,” Sir Lewis said. “Most evenings I don’t make it to the dining room at all. She’s always after me to eat more, take care of myself.”

Bram drew a deep breath and exhaled it slowly, trying to purge all improper thoughts of Susanna from his mind, body, heart and soul. Dinner was perfect. A completely civilized, chaperoned setting in which to see her, converse with her, and learn how to act like a normal human in her presence, rather than a slavering beast. His behavior over the last few days had been reprehensible. Beneath this warrior’s coat, he was a gentleman by birth. He’d lost sight of it somehow in all those freckles, but unless he meant to throw away this chance at redemption and Sir Lewis’s goodwill, it was time to start acting the part.

“Here we are.” Sir Lewis led Bram around a turn in the corridor and through a set of paneled double doors, announcing loudly, “We have a guest tonight, Susanna. You may wish to order another table setting.”

Here they went, Bram thought. He would eat dinner. He would use the correct forks. He would engage her in conversation that did not include the words “skin,” “lick,” or “powder keg.” He would thank her for her kind hospitality and helpful ministrations. Then he would kiss her hand, take his leave . . .

And never lay a finger on Susanna Finch again. On this he was absolutely, irrevocably resolved.

Until he turned the corner.

Bram halted midstep. His vision blurred at the edges. He felt certain he would faint. And his light-headedness had nothing to do with his recent head injury or his famished state. It had everything to do with her.

Hideous bathing costume and men’s breeches aside, he’d yet to see her wearing anything besides a simple muslin day dress. Tonight she was dressed for dinner, clad in a sumptuous violet silk gown with beaded brocade trim. The crystal wine goblets on the table took the candlelight and honed it to luminous arrows, shooting brilliance in all directions. Picking out every seed pearl sewn into her sash, every ribbon weaving through her shimmering, upswept hair. As she bent to smooth a wrinkle in the tablecloth, artfully curled tendrils framed her face and caressed the pale slope of her neck.

“Lord Rycliff.” Straightening, she gave him a shy smile.

He couldn’t speak. She looked . . .

Beautiful, he supposed he should say. But “beautiful” wasn’t a strong enough word. Neither was “dazzling,” “breathtaking,” or “devastating”—though that last came a bit closer than the rest.

Her outward appearance was only part of the effect. What called to him was the invitation implicit in her posture, her voice, her lovely blue eyes. She looked as though she’d been waiting on him. Not just tonight, but every night.

She looked like home.

“I’m glad to see you awake,” she said.

“Are you?”

“You brought my father to the dining table, only five minutes past eight. In this house, that’s a small miracle.”

Sir Lewis laughed. “And now that I’m here, I must beg you to excuse me for a moment.” He raised work-streaked hands. “I’ll just go wash before dinner.”

The older man quit the room, and the two of them stood there, regarding each other.

She cleared her throat. “Are you feeling well?”

“I don’t know,” he answered. It was the truth. He wasn’t sure of anything at the moment, except the fact that his boots were now carrying him forward. All his chaste resolutions and respect for Sir Lewis aside, he simply couldn’t do otherwise. Whatever this was between them, it commanded his loyalty in a forceful, visceral way. To deny her pull would seem a dishonor all its own.

He watched her blush deepen as he drew near. It was some comfort to know that he affected her, too. He reached for her hand, where it rested atop the damask tablecloth.