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Quote by Julianne MacLean

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Surrender to a Scoundrel

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Julianne MacLean
Julianne MacLean

Julianne MacLean is a renowned author known for her romantic historical novels. Her works are typically set in 18th and 19th-century England, blending love, history, and adventure elements. more

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“My brother prefers to let other people put me on the straight and narrow." Evelyn felt a stab of pity for him suddenly, for he appeared without support of any kind, and she had heard some rumors about his home, Wentworth Castle, being a rather dark and dismal place. But then she reminded herself that he had brought all this on himself. He made his own decisions to misbehave. "Maybe you need to put yourself there," she told him flatly.”

“Directing his smile to the widow, Martin bowed slightly, and it was not until his gaze lifted and he actually met her deep green eyes behind thick gold spectacles that he sensed a familiarity. No, it was more than that. For some strange reason, those green eyes were like a punch to his gut. But why? Who was she? A former conquest he'd carelessly cast aside? No, that wasn't it. Then suddenly, he remembered. But no, it couldn't be. Could it? Good God, it was. The wealthy prize widow was, of all people, Miss Evelyn Foster from his wildest days at Eton! His first impulse was to laugh out loud at the absurdity of the coincidence, but naturally, he preserved his composure. He was having a hard time speaking, however, because he had not expected to meet a woman he had known once before, and certainly not the prudish young girl who had constantly ignored him. The same girl who had snuck into his dormitory and caused him to be suspended, then had the sanctimonious nerve to tell him that he needed to put himself on the straight and narrow.”

“A muscle in her delicate jaw tensed, and she took another sip of tea, dismissing him entirely in that same haughty manner he remembered all too well. "I don't believe so." "Are you certain? You look familiar." Her gaze shot up at last, and her eyes were sharp and assessing, brilliantly intelligent. He suddenly remembered she'd had a gift for science when they were younger, which was considered by some to be odd and inappropriate for a young lady of her station. He'd always found it rather intriguing. Well, she still had brains. She seemed to know exactly what he was up to and was warning him to stop. He smiled inwardly. She had spirit, too, he'd give her that. And by God, she'd grown lovely. He could not deny it. Those enormous green eyes were as disarming as ever. Even more so in fact.”

“In fact, I seriously entertained his proposal for about two-and-a-half seconds, until I recalled that he already had a wife back home in Schenectady." Everyone fell silent. "Evidently," Mrs. Wheaton added just before taking one last sip of tea, "she was unaware of her husband's propensity to enter his vessel in more than one race at a time." The others stared dumbfounded, as did Martin for a brief moment before he laughed out loud and nearly spit out his lemonade.”

“It was difficult to imagine anyone besting him on the water, or anywhere else for that matter. He was powerful and unstoppable, and from her vantage point, he was the force to be reckoned with. Especially when it came to that infuriatingly stubborn spark of desire in her heart, which simply would not die, no matter how hard or how long she tried to snuff it out.”

“So it seems we both have reputations," he said, "which means that we are similar creatures. Except that you are famous for being virtuous, and I am famous for... Well, quite the opposite." Evelyn tensed. "And I thought you were famous because of all your sailing trophies," she replied. "Foolish me." He smiled again, and it reached his eyes. "You? Foolish? I don't think so." But she felt very foolish at this moment, responding with lavish desire to the sensation of his hot breath on her face and the intoxicating nearness of his body. Heart pounding, she drew in a slow, deep breath, and remembered to whom she was speaking. Martin Langdon. Charmer. Thrill seeker. Heartbreaker. And she was Evelyn Wheaton. Pious churchgoer. Shy mouse. Ugly duckling.”

“I am going to the ball now, Lord Martin. Doubtless my dance card will be full. Do you still wish to reserve a spot?" So much for not being foolish. She should have just let him forget, which he surely would have done as soon as he saw all the other women in the ballroom. He crossed his wrists over the newel post at the top and leaned upon it. "Yes, I would like to reserve a spot. If I may have first choice, I'll take the last dance please." "Well, you had best hope I don't grow tired and leave early." He replied with smooth confidence. "You won't." She pursed her lips. "Don't be so sure." "How can I not be?" he replied. "Because I think you enjoy a good party, Mrs. Wheaton. More than you let on. Or maybe you don't even know it yet. Maybe you've never experienced a night that was truly exhilarating." He was gazing down at her with presumptuous assistance, as if he knew exactly what she was about, and it shook her inwardly, because curse him, he was right. She had experienced very little excitement in her life because she had witnessed the consequences of women who loved exciting men. She'd seen her mother's broken heart over her father's many disgraces with other women, and Penelope's heartbreak over Martin and others after him. Most importantly, she knew about rejection. She had been living with it all her life, since as early as she could remember, beginning with the most painful rejection of all- her father's. And later, her husband's. She knew how much it hurt and had learned to avoid it by never seeking attention. Instead, she was deliberately unapproachable. Her mask of contempt was her shield.”

“She remembered what he'd said in the hotel, that life was just a series of moments, and though she still did not agree with the idea that consequences played no part, she gave in to the possibility that there might be some wisdom in what he was trying to show her- that one had to enjoy life day by day and seize opportunities when they presented themselves, because one never knew when it could all end.”

“With any other woman, he would have touched her cheek at that point and slowly backed her into her room, but she was not any other woman. She was allegedly impossible to flirt with, Sir Lyndon had said. Martin was quite sure he had already proven that claim grossly inaccurate. And after speaking with her on the ship tonight, he was beginning to see the inaccuracy of many other things as well- his own previous impressions of her included. She was not a cold fish. She was simply repressed, with her lid on too tight, and in great danger of boiling over. He wondered why. Did she not want joy? Did she think it wrong?”