A Night to Surrender Read Online Free PDF Page B

together.
    After excusing herself to hurriedly tame her disheveled hair and exchange her torn, muddied frock for a fresh blue muslin and matching gloves—in the process, speaking more sharply to Gertrude than the poor maid deserved—she joined Lieutenant Colonel Bramwell’s companions in the Red Salon.
    As she entered, she stole a quick glance in the hall mirror. Her appearance was repaired, as much as it could be. Her composure, on the other hand, remained splintered in a thousand jagged pieces, all of them rubbing and chafing within her. Some jabbed at her pride. Others stirred up the familiar well of dread that always opened whenever Papa and black powder were mingled. The rest made her prickle all over with awareness. It wasn’t a nice feeling.
    And it was all his fault. The beastly, teasing, handsome sheep-bomber. Who was the man, and what did he want with her father? Hopefully just a polite social call. Though she had to admit, Bramwell didn’t seem the type for polite social calls.
    The downstairs maid brought in the tray, and Susanna directed her to place it on a rosewood table with legs carved in the shape of long-whiskered goldfish.
    “Tea, gentlemen?” she asked, pulling her gloves snug as she reached for the pot. Pouring tea was just what she needed right now. Such a civilizing force, tea. She would nip sugar with little silver tongs. Stir milk with a tiny spoon. Tiny spoons were incompatible with a state of sensual turmoil.
    The thought comforted her. Yes. She would give the men tea, and perhaps a nice dinner. Then they would be on their way, and the world would return to rights. At least her corner of it.
    The formerly half-dressed gentleman—Lord Payne, as she now knew him—had located his coat and cravat, and smoothed his hair. He made a suitably aristocratic ornament, at home among the lacquered cabinets and glazed green vases.
    As for the officer—a corporal, she’d gathered from his patches—he stood near the plate window, the picture of unease. He glared suspiciously at the dragon-emblazoned carpet, as if expecting the embroidered beast to strike. If it did, she had no doubt he’d kill it handily.
    “Will you take tea, Corporal?”
    “No.”
    It occurred to her this might have been the first—and only—word she’d heard from his lips. He was the sort of man one knew, just from looking at him, had an interesting story to tell. She also felt, just as certainly, he would never tell it. Not at knifepoint, much less over tea.
    She handed Lord Payne a steaming cup, and he took an immediate, reckless draught. A devilish smile curved her way. “Gunpowder tea? Well done, Miss Finch. I do enjoy a lady with a sense of humor.”
    Now this one . . . he was a rake. It was written all over him, in his fine dress and flirtatious manner. He might as well have had the word embroidered on his waistcoat, between the gold-thread flourishes. She knew all about men of his sort. Half the young ladies in Spindle Cove were either fleeing them or pining for them.
    Susanna flicked a glance at the closed door to her father’s library, wondering what could be keeping him so long. The sooner these men left, the easier she would breathe.
    Payne reclined in his chair, tilting his head to regard the brass chandelier. “This is quite a room.” He indicated a display case mounted on the wall. “Are those . . .” His head cocked. “What are those?”
    “Rockets, from the Ming dynasty. My father is an avid collector of antiquities. He takes a particular interest in historical weaponry.” Pouring her own tea, she explained, “Summerfield has an eclectic theme. This room is in the chinoiserie style. We have an Austrian morning room, an Ottoman parlor, and an Italianate terrace. My father’s study takes inspiration from Egypt and the great library of Alexandria. His medieval collections are housed in the long hall. Oh, and there’s a Grecian folly in the garden.”
    “Sir Lewis must be a great traveler.”
    She