are hardly the only impoverished widow in Cornwall. You will surely find a way into a better fortune.”
She wet her lips, shaken by the realization that their discussion would soon be over—and she would not have achieved his help. “But those heirlooms are very valuable, and I am prepared to offer you a very fair share,” she said quickly.
“A share?” He laughed. “I am always paid in advance, Countess. And how would you do that?” His smile vanished. His stare hardened. It slipped down her robe and nightgown. Then he turned away, his expression grim. His head down, he began to pace, wine in hand.
She trembled, watching him. She must focus now. When they had fled France, she had paid him with rubies—in advance. Now, she had very little jewelry left. She could not imagine using her last pieces now.
“Clearly, you are in some financial straits,” he said, finally looking at her. “Unfortunately, it is a common practice to take payment in advance—and it is good business. I am not interested in ‘fair shares,’ after the fact.”
She stared, dismayed. Of course he wanted an advance payment—what if he went to France and failed to retrieve the gold? Or was hurt during the voyage? So much could go wrong, preventing him from attaining a successful conclusion.
But she could not pay him in advance. So now what was she to do? The only thing that Evelyn was certain of was that she could not give up.
“Can you not make an exception?” Evelyn finally asked slowly. “For me and my daughter? We have fallen on terrible times, which you can see. I am desperate—because I am a mother! If all went well, you would be handsomely rewarded, just not in advance, and I am vowing it!”
He slowly turned and looked at her, his gray eyes dark. “I am not prepared to risk my life for you, Countess.”
Her mind raced frantically, as he was denying her—denying Aimee. “But I can promise you that there will be just compensation—I give you my word! Surely you have the heart to make an exception now, not for me, but for my daughter!”
He lifted his wine and finished it. “Do not try to use your daughter to play me,” he warned.
She didn’t mean to do any such thing—but he was about to walk out her door—she simply knew it! She was desperate, and impulsively, she moved to stand in front of him—to bar his way. “Please, do not dismiss my proposal. How can I convince you to at least consider it?”
He looked very directly at her now. “I have considered it.”
She trembled, taken aback as never before. A terrible silence fell. It was thick with tension—and his relentless stare never wavered.
Couldn’t she convince him to help her? Men were always rushing to her side, to help her across the street, to open doors for her, to see her into her carriage. She had never paid much attention to her power as a beautiful woman before, but she was not a fool—Henri had fallen in love with her because of her beauty. It was only after he had become further acquainted with her that he had loved her for her character and temperament.
Greystone hadn’t recognized her, but she was certain of his interest. When he looked at her directly, it was a glance any woman would recognize.
Her heart lurched. Henri was surely turning over in his grave now! Going into this man’s arms would be the last recourse! “Mr. Greystone, I am desperate,” she said softly. “I am begging you to reconsider. My daughter’s future is at stake.”
“When I set sail, I not only risk my own life, I risk those of my men,” he spoke, now seeming impatient.
She could barely breathe. “I am a widow in great need, without protection, or means. You are a gentleman. Surely—”
“No, I am not.” He was abrupt and final. “And I am not in the habit of generously rescuing damsels in distress.”
Did she have any other choices? Aimee’s future was at stake, and he did not seem about to bend. She had to get that gold; she had to secure a bright future for her daughter! Evelyn lifted her hand; somehow, she touched his jaw.
His eyes widened.
“I am in mourning,” she whispered, “and if France is as dangerous as you claim, then I am asking you to risk your life for me.”
His thick, dark lashes lowered. She could not see his eyes, and another silence fell. Evelyn dropped her hand; it was trembling. He slowly lifted his lashes and looked at her.
“Aren’t you curious, Countess? Don’t you want to know why I came here?” he asked very softly.
She felt her heart slam. “Why?”
“You have a reputation, too.”
“What does that mean? What reputation could I possibly have?”
“I have heard it said, often enough, that the Countess D’Orsay is the most beautiful woman in all of England.”
It was suddenly so silent, that she could hear the rain, not just pounding over their heads, but running from the gutters on the roof. She could hear the logs and kindling, crackling in the hearth. And she could hear her own deafening heartbeat.
“And we both know that is absurdly false,” she said thickly.
“Is it?”
Evelyn wet her lips, oddly dazed. “Surely you agree… Such a claim is absurd.”
He slowly smiled. “No, I do not agree. How modest you are.”
Evelyn did not know what to do, and she couldn’t think clearly now. She had never been in any man’s arms except for Henri’s—and he hadn’t been young or good-looking or sensual. Her heart raced more wildly. There was alarm and confusion, there was even some dismay, but mostly, there was excitement.
She hesitated. “I was sixteen when I married my husband.”
He started. “What does that have to do with anything?”
She had been trying to tell him that she wasn’t really experienced, but now, it didn’t seem to matter. Jack Greystone was the most attractive man she had ever come across, and not just because he was so handsome. He was so utterly masculine, so brazen and confident, and so powerful. Her knees were buckling. Her heart was thundering. Her skin prickled.
She had never felt this way before.
Evelyn stood up on her tiptoes and as she prepared to kiss him, their gazes locked. His was wide, incredulous. But then it blazed.
Her insides hollowed in response and she brushed her mouth once upon his. And the moment their lips met, a shocking sensation of pleasure went through her.
Standing there with her mouth open was like being on fire!
He gripped her shoulders and kissed her. Evelyn gasped, because his mouth was very firm and even more demanding; he began kissing her with a stunning ferocity.
And Evelyn kissed him back.
Somehow, she was in his arms. Her entire body was pressed against his, enveloped by his, her breasts crushed by his chest. For the first time in her life, she realized she was in the throes of desire. It was maddening—senseless.
And then he stepped back and pushed her away from him.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
He looked at her, breathing hard—his gray gaze on fire.
Evelyn clutched her robe to her body. She reached for the sofa so she could continue to stand upright. Had she just been in his arms? The arms of a veritable stranger? And since when did anyone kiss that way—with such hunger, such intensity?
“You are trouble, Countess,” he said harshly.
“What?” Evelyn cried. Some sensibility was returning, and she could not believe what she had just done!
“I am sorry you