Rules of Surrender (11 page)

She placed her palm to her chest as if to contain her heart. He liked to think because she thrilled to see him, but he considered it more likely he had frightened her.

Sounding faintly breathless and looking annoyed, she asked, “My lord, what assistance can I render you?”

If he told her the truth, she would chide him. “I thought it would be good if we discussed our plans without the restrictive presence of my mother.”

“Our plans?” Charlotte sounded alarmed.

“Where we should meet, how much we should do, how late we should remain together…” Faced with her wide-eyed horror, he had to relent. “For the lessons in English manners which you will give me.”

“Oh!” She glanced around at the paintings that lined the walls as if they could speak and get her out of this predicament. “I knew what you meant.”

Offering his arm, he said, “Shall we walk?”

Obviously, she didn’t want to place her hand on his arm, but what could she do? Be rude and say
no!
He’d discovered just that afternoon that maneuvering Charlotte required only a subtle mind and the judicious application of courtesy.

She stepped just close enough for her ungloved fingers to flit onto his sleeve.

“Your hand settles as lightly as a butterfly.” He pressed his hand over hers. And like a Dutterny, you are shy and unaware of the jeweled beauty of your femininity.“ Before she even absorbed the compliment, he started pacing along the wall. ”I want to meet in the old nursery. Do you know where that is?“

”Um.“ She cleared her throat delicately, and again like a butterfly, her fingers fluttered beneath his. ”On the third floor?“

”The second. It was my nursery when I was a child. The furniture has been removed, which I find much more to my taste than the overrigged chambers of modern society. Chairs, sofas and tables enough so a man can’t move without banging his shins! Drapes and tassels in every conceivable color! And every surface covered with gewgaws.“ He slid a glance toward Charlotte.

With her eyes downcast and her hair pinned up, she might have been the perfect lady. Except she was smiling.

He pounced on that. ”Ah. You agree with me!“

”I myself prefer a plainer style than is currently fashionable.“ That she admitted anything about her preferences told him she was indeed under the influence of the brandy. ”But I don’t allow myself to be caught in a criticism of anyone’s taste.“

It almost seemed a shame to take advantage of her intoxication. Almost. ”Nor do I. I would share my thoughts only with one such as you, whom I know to be compatible.“

She stiffened again, overreacting to the mere suggestion of their affinity. Yes, good. She was far too aware of him and unable to hide her discomfort. Just as he was far too aware of her, and the sight and scent of her brought an ache to his groin. Because he had been too long without a woman, yes. But also because… she was Charlotte.

”Is that not the right word—‘compatible’?“ he asked in feigned misgiving. ”I meant only that you and I think in a like manner.“

”You most certainly used the word correctly.“ She gave assurance easily. ”I don’t know that I would agree.“

”But you must!“ he protested. ”You believe that the education of my children is the most important task facing this household.“

”Absolutely.“

”So do I.“ The portraits moved slowly past as he led her along the gallery. ”For that reason only did I ask you to remain when you humiliated me today.“

She tugged at her hand. ”You didn’t ask me to remain, and I did not humiliate you.“

”I agreed to lessons which must be given after a long day in London and a punishing ride home.“

”My day is long, too.“

”I promised to pay you many pounds when already you receive lodging and food while under my care.“

Coming to a halt, she jerked her hand violently enough to pull it from beneath his. ”I am not under your care. I am an independent woman.“

He stopped, too, and faced her. ”And I did not yell when my daughter demanded I marry you.“

He couldn’t tell in the dim light, but he thought she blushed. ”That was not my fault!“

”You did not tell her to intercede on your behalf?“

”I beg your pardon, sir.“ She placed her hands on her waist and glared at him balefully. ”I most certainly did not!“

He took one long step toward her. His legs pressed against her skirt, and he held himself very tall, very imposing. ”Are you sure you did not tell her?“

”Am I sure? Of course I’m sure.“ Then her gaze ran over him, taking in his height, his breadth, his foreign clothing and his stern expression. She swallowed. ”How could I forget making such a suggestion?“

He allowed his face to droop. ”That saddens me.“

”Wha… what?“

He had her full attention now. ”At my daughter’s cradle, the eldest of the tribe lifted her and laughed, and prophesied Leila would be wise and strong, gifted in matters of the heart, and she would bring luck to her family and honor to her husband. I had hoped that Leila heard what your heart could only dream.“

”What?“

”This is not so?“ He pressed closer yet.

Charlotte took a step back toward the wall. ”I never… she never… such a thought never crossed my mind.“ She added hastily, ”Or my heart.“

”You will think on it now.“

”It would be better if I didn’t.“

”I would like you to.“

She so didn’t want to ask. If she could, she would have turned tail and scurried away. But the wall was behind her, he stood before her and she had had enough to drink to doubt her ability to escape but not enough to comprehend the very real danger she faced. ”Why?“ She voiced the single word tentatively.

With the dint of good acting, he managed to look shocked. ”I do not think you would do well as my mistress!“

Her horror was not in the least bit feigned, nor was it flattering, but he now knew she was aware of him in a physical sense. Her eyes were big and dismayed, and she kept her gaze fixed on him without blinking, as if vigilance would help her out of this disconcerting situation. Her nostrils quivered as she breathed in his scent—a scent he knew to be clean and masculine since
he
bathed every day, something no English dandy did. And his voice he took care to keep at a low hypnotic rumble, for he’d found it possible to say almost anything as long as he said it in a soothing tone.

”I wouldn’t… dream of… doing something so… improper,“ she said haltingly.

”Exactly.“ He beamed. ”I’m glad you agree with me. So you will think about all these things.“

”No. I… no.“ Putting her hand out to the side, she touched the chair rail and used it as a guide as she sidled away.

”Lady Miss Charlotte, before you go…“ He extended his hand, palm up.

She looked at it, then at him. Once again he had discarded the facade of the foreign simpleton, and allowed himself the freedom to demand. More, she understood that demand, and she feared the results if she refused.

With halting uneasiness, she placed her hand in his. He wrapped his fingers around hers and held them, feeling the warmth, the delicacy, the pure femininity of her slender digits and the fine-grained skin. He was used to women with calluses from hard daily work, women who labored alongside their men to scratch an existence from the desert. He admired those women. He had thought English ladies would benefit from such a dose of reality, and he had never thought to understand why any man would want a useless woman.

But when he held Charlotte’s hand, he wanted to preserve its softness. He wanted to lift Charlotte above her struggle to survive. He wanted to give her the life she was meant to live—one of ease and pleasure. Much, much pleasure.

She was changing his thinking, and he didn’t like that. Yet he had learned one thing in the desert. Sometimes destiny held him in its grip. He could fight this attraction. He could keep his thinking. But then he could not have Charlotte. And she he would have.

What was Charlotte thinking as she stared at their clasped hands? Did she want him to provide for her? Did she imagine her life as his wife?

Or was she a woman caught in the turmoil of confusion?

No matter. He had done what he wished. She would think of him in a new way now.

Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it, a slow, tender kiss pressed into the palm. Carefully, he folded her fingers over the kiss, and released his grip.

She looked at her hand as if, should she decide to open her fingers, his kiss would fly away. She lifted her gaze to his in bewilderment, and when he smiled mildly, she seemed to come to her senses. She walked away—perhaps a little more quickly than usual. Perhaps with a little less steadiness.

But he was pleased to see she hid her hand in the fullness of her skirts. He knew why. She still held his kiss.

CHAPTER 11

The next evening, Charlotte still nursed a slight headache as she walked toward the old nursery. In the future, Adorna could drink her brandy alone, for Charlotte was convinced she would not be making this journey to meet Wynter if she’d had her wits about her-.

Tutor a grown man, indeed! And a man such as Wynter, especially. What could Charlotte do with him? There was more to becoming a civilized man than knowing when to wear gloves.

How to wear shoes, for instance. Resolutely she turned her mind away from the memory of his arched feet.

Or not to sneak up on young women as they walked darkened corridors. And certainly not to make personal comments about becoming a man’s mistress. Or his wife.

His wife! Charlotte fought a compulsion to snort just as Wynter had done.
Leila
had the excuse of ignorance when proposing marriage between her father and her governess.
Wynter
had only the excuse of lechery.

Oh, yes. It had taken some thought, but Charlotte understood his nefarious plan. This extraordinary man didn’t want marriage. He wanted the same thing every other gentleman thought he could get from any halfway attractive woman living under his roof.

Well, he wasn’t getting anything from Lady Charlotte Dalrumple. She had already proved to everyone she would not sell herself. A shame Wynter didn’t know the story.

A shame? She shook herself. She didn’t ever want him to know her story. He was so uncouth he would question her, and she tried never to talk about that painful episode.

Uncouth. Yes. Lady Ruskin didn’t realize what truly separated a gentleman from a chimney sweep. It was demeanor. Wynter had the wrong demeanor. He acted as if, given a battalion of men, he could conquer the world. Such arrogance was bound to grate on those Englishmen who had no experience with wild seas and golden deserts and fierce fighting warriors.

Stopping for a moment, she leaned her hand against the wall and fought her nonsensical tendency to romanticize Wynter’s adventures. Obviously, she’d been reading too many adventure stories to the children. In truth, the sight of Wynter in his djellaba fueled her imagination. The garb was improper to the extreme, of course. Loose and free, without the constraints of enlightened nations’ costumes.

When at first she’d seen the djellaba, she had been stunned, unable to form a coherent thought. After that initial jolt, she’d found her mind wandering. How would it feel to be shed of her corset? To have only material flowing over her body? After that, it had been a short step down the slippery road of sin, for she’d speculated on what undergarments one would wear under the garb. And when she’d looked at Wynter, she’d thought… well, never mind what she’d thought. Such a vision could only be explained as the fever produced by strong spirits.

No, no more brandy for her.

Straightening her shoulders, she again moved toward the old nursery where she had been instructed to meet Wynter.

She knocked lightly, and when no one answered she poked her head inside. The large, airy chamber was empty and dim except for an island of light by the fireplace. There flames crackled on the hearth and candles flickered on a long, low table. A clean white cloth draped it, some square cushions were strewn about in brightly colored stacks and wool blankets were folded nearby. Beneath the sparse furnishings rested a carpet glowing with gold, green and scarlet tangled into an intricate design.

But no lordly figure lounged about, challenging her with his insolence, so she called, ”Lord Ruskin?“

From behind an almost closed door in the back wall, his voice replied, ”Welcome, Lady Miss Charlotte.“ He said her name warmly, each syllable lovingly wrapped in the faintest of accents. ”Come into my humble abode and grace it with your most exquisite presence.“

His tone made her forget that she was a lowly governess and he was a viscount and her employer. She instead became mindful of her femininity and his admiration, and knowing such awareness was dangerous only made it all the more attractive.

This man could seduce her if she was not wary. ”My lord, if, as I suspect, these are your personal apartments, it is improper for me to be alone with you here.“

”My personal apartments? This is the old nursery!“

His amazement was faint but definite. ”I will be only a minute. Be comfortable.“

”Humph.“ She didn’t quite believe him, but she felt she had made her point—that she was no fool, and she didn’t wish to be alone with him.

Now, how to make herself comfortable in a room with no chairs? She contented herself with wandering toward the table, so low it came no higher than her knees, and examining the tray containing a loaf of bread, a small round of cheese and a bowl overflowing with purple grapes. There were no eating utensils, she noted, nor any place to sit, and she wondered uneasily if her suspicions about Wynter’s intentions would prove true.

She could smell the scent of spring wafting up from the fruit. Leaning down, she inhaled, taking in the fresh smell rising from the clusters and, beneath that, the homey odor of bread.

The sound of Wynter’s voice made her straighten hastily. ”Please, Lady Miss Charlotte, take some.“

He stood in the doorway, the light shining from behind him, and to her relief he was dressed in a proper gentleman’s garb—except for his feet, which were bare. ”No, thank you, my lord, I’ve already partaken in supper.“