Sweet Surrender (10 page)

He scoffed.  "Tell me the truth."

At being caught in a lie, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. 

"Eighteen."

"An adult by most standards."

"An adult by
any
standard," she countered.

He frowned with suspicion, as if she was playing a trick, then he nodded.  "All right.  I’d be delighted, Eleanor."

She waited on tenterhooks, expecting him to offer the same courtesy.  When he didn’t speak up, she asked, "May I call you Duncan?"

"I suppose, but don’t try it in front of your sister.  She’s extremely ferocious.  I wouldn’t want to end up on her bad side because of you."

"Don’t worry about Grace.  I have her wrapped around my little finger."

"Really?"

"Yes, really.  She assumes she knows me, but she doesn’t."

"Why is that?"

"For the past ten years, I’ve been in boarding school."

"Ah, fresh out of the schoolroom, are you?"

"No," she fibbed.  "I’ve been out for ages, so Grace hasn’t lived with me since I’ve…matured.  She hasn’t a clue how I might behave in any given circumstance."

He was staring at her as if she was silly and young, so she placed special emphasis on the word
matured.

She’d spent a decade surrounded by females, and she hardly ever crossed paths with men.  Most of her knowledge about them had been gleaned from her friend, Portia, whose mother—as a debutante—had been seduced by a notorious London libertine.  Portia was the result of that wicked liaison. 

Portia’s mother had never been sorry for the scandal.  She’d been disowned and disavowed by her parents, banished to the country forever to hide her shame and, of course, Portia’s father had turned out to be married.  Once her mother’s condition had been revealed, he’d abandoned her.

Yet her mother was still in love with the bounder, and she hoped Portia would have a similar amour.  Her mother insisted it was the only time she’d ever been genuinely happy.

Portia had regaled Eleanor with stories of her mother’s romance.  Eleanor was eager to walk down the same road Portia’s mother had traveled, but she had to pick a better man.  She needed a rake who could be tamed, who might fall for a very pretty, very charming girl who was willing to do anything. 

Eleanor had been a stellar student, and when she’d finished her education, the headmistress had offered her a job at the stuffy, regimented school.  But the notion of passing her days, trailing after a gaggle of giggling adolescents, was too depressing.

She wasn’t like Grace.  She wasn’t steady and constant and true.  She craved stimulation and variety and excitement.

With Grace’s financial troubles, Eleanor was a burden to her sister, and she was terrified her conscience might propel her to accept the tedious post at the school.  But before she succumbed to reality, she’d furiously work to secure a different conclusion. 

If no grand passion could be found, and she was forced into the safe, responsible choice, she wouldn’t return to the school without first having a wild and inappropriate adventure.

Could Duncan Dane be the answer to her prayers?

"Are you drinking brandy?" she asked.

"Whiskey."

"May I have a sip?"

He scowled.  "Of my whiskey?" 

"Yes.  May I?  I never have."

She reached for his glass, and she’d shocked him.  He studied her dangling hand, then her again.  Finally, he gave it to her.

She tipped it up, eager to down a hefty gulp, and he grabbed her wrist.

"Don’t overdo," he warned.  "It’s quite potent."

He guided the rim to her lips, holding it while she managed a small swallow.  She gazed at him, refusing to look away, making sure he didn’t, either.

"Now that you’ve tried it," he said as she drew away, "what is your opinion?"

She wrinkled her nose.  "It’s not how I’d imagined it would be."

"What had you
imagined
?"

"Well, when people imbibe, they grow very animated and merry.  I assumed it would taste like
fun."

"But it doesn’t."

"No—unfortunately."

"Have you often pondered liquor?"

"Liquor and many other vices I haven’t had the chance to experience."

He took the glass from her and downed the contents.  Then he tossed it over the balustrade, and it landed out in the grass with a dull thud.

There was a steely gleam in his eye, and he scrutinized her in a cruel way.

"You want something from me," he snapped.  "What is it?"

"Why would you suspect that I want something?"

"Let’s just say I’ve rowed this boat a few more times than you."  He shifted away.  "You’re being awfully forward, which annoys me when I don’t know what game you’re playing."

"I’m not playing a game," she huffed.

"Then what are you doing?"

"My sister and I will be staying at Milton Abbey for several weeks."

"So I heard."

"Will you be staying, too?"

He shrugged.  "Probably."

"You seem like such a worldly fellow.  It must be boring for you out here in the country."

"It can be."

"You must miss the entertainment in town."

He snorted at that.  "Not particularly."

"I thought we could be…friends."

"I never strike up friendships with girls.  My preferences run to females who are a tad more sophisticated than you."

"I’m a quick learner," she hastily said.  "If I had a good teacher who could impart of bit of knowledge, I’m certain I could be very…interesting to the right sort of person."

"You do, do you?"

"Yes."

"And you believe
I
could be that person?"

"There aren’t any other choices.  I’m willing to settle for whatever I can get."

He chuckled.  "I can’t decide if I’ve been flattered or insulted."

He leaned into her, his body pressing her into the wood of the bench. 

His torrid gaze dropped to her mouth, and she was positive he was about to kiss her.  She’d never been kissed—not in her entire eighteen years—and her heart raced with anticipation.

Yet to her profound dismay, he didn’t proceed. 

"We’ll see, little girl," he hurled like a threat.  "We’ll see what happens."

He stood and strolled away.

DC

"Honestly, Percival, stop it."

"I wasn’t doing anything."

"You’re tapping your foot.  The noise is bothering your grandmother."

Beatrice Scott frowned at her daughter-in-law, then at her grandson. 

They were in the parlor of her London house—Percival’s house, she supposed she should say—and trying to have their afternoon tea.  Susan kept interrupting by chastising Percival.

Susan was a terrible mother and had no maternal instincts, but Beatrice could hardly complain.  She, herself, hadn’t had much patience with her own sons.

Beatrice had been stern and unbending, while Susan had completely abdicated any responsibility for Percival’s upbringing.  She permitted rude remarks and a snide attitude that should have been drummed out of him years earlier.  

Beatrice glowered at Percival.  "Don’t sass your mother."

"I wasn’t sassing," Percival dared to reply.  "She thought I was tapping my foot, but I wasn’t."

"If a grown-up speaks to you," Beatrice fumed, "it is not your place to quarrel over any comment."

"Sorry, Grandmother," Percival mumbled.

She whipped her livid attention to Susan.  "You must take him in hand, Susan.  He can’t behave however he pleases.  How many times must I explain this to you?  You have an obligation to instill manners."

"He never listens to me."

"You must
make
him listen." 

Susan was such a beautiful woman:  white-blond hair, curvaceous figure, and big blue eyes.  She was so attractive that people stared when she passed by.  She was also cunning and smart, so Beatrice couldn’t comprehend how she’d given birth to a child like Percival. 

He was plump and ungainly, and he wasn’t interested in the activities other boys enjoyed.  He didn’t like to run or kick a ball or swim or ride.  Most days, he sat in a corner by himself, his nose buried in a book. 

He had no friends, but who would want to befriend him?  He was glum and morose and never had a clever word to say.

With that red hair, freckles, and clumsy physique, he was so different from dashing, extraordinary Edward.  When Beatrice had arranged the match between Edward and Susan, there had been no indication of prior low breeding, so how had they ended up with Percival? 

Evidently, there had been a bad bloodline, and she blamed the situation on Susan’s side of the family.  Edward had been possessed of every splendid trait, so he couldn’t possibly be culpable, and Beatrice had no idea how Percival would manage as earl once he was an adult. 

He had none of the qualities required for successful leadership, and she truly despaired for the future.

If Edward had named her as executor at his death, she could have deftly administered Percival’s estates and fortune.  But no, the insane man had put his brother in charge. 

She still couldn’t fathom what Edward had been thinking when he’d drafted his will.  Jackson was the most rash, reckless male who’d ever lived.  They hadn’t seen or heard from him in over a decade, but she didn’t imagine time or distance had improved his character or curbed his worst impulses.

Edward had chosen him—without notice or warning—so she and Susan were at his financial mercy.  She’d already suffered many sleepless nights as she’d wondered how he would act toward them.

All those years ago, when she’d ordered Edward to marry Susan, she’d been aware of Jackson’s silly infatuation.  Beatrice had presumed he’d get over it, but he hadn’t.  He’d never forgiven Edward and Susan.  Or Beatrice.

Now Edward—obedient, malleable, likeable Edward—was dead, and Jackson controlled the earl and his purse strings.  The prospect of how he would treat her and Susan was alarming, and they had to seize the offensive, but she wasn’t sure how.

Jackson had been in England for weeks, but he’d refused her command that he visit her in town.  The fact that he’d ignored her edict was unnerving and insulting, and she yearned to rage about his discourtesy, but she didn’t dare.  He held all the cards, and she had to tread carefully.

"Percival!" Susan snapped again.

"What, Mother?"

"Stop tapping your foot!"

Beatrice had had enough of Susan’s sniping, and she intervened. 

"Percival, you’re annoying your mother.  Go outside and play in the garden."

"I don’t like to play, Grandmother.  You know that, and I break out in hives when I’m in the sun too long."

"Go outside, Percival!" 

Her notorious temper bubbled up.  Why couldn’t he learn that it wasn’t appropriate to talk back?

"Yes, ma’am," he grudgingly said.  He set his plate on the table and trudged off. 

As he passed by, she noted that he had cake crumbs staining the front of his shirt.  She could have scolded him, but why bother?  It was a waste of breath.

Once he’d left, Susan asked, "Have you heard from Jackson?"

"No.  Have you?"

"No, but I wouldn’t expect to."  Susan fidgeted in her chair.  "Why hasn’t he come to town?"

"He’s proving a point."

"How can he be proving a point if we have no idea what it is?"

"He’s in charge, and he wants us to realize that he is."

"Realize it!  I’ve thought of nothing else since the day Edward’s will was read."

They’d both staggered out of the meeting with Edward’s attorney, reeling with shock over Edward’s last wishes.  Jackson was in control of the money, and if Edward had still been alive, Beatrice would have murdered him for being so foolish.

"I’ve made a decision," she told Susan.

"What is it?"

"We shall travel to Milton Abbey."

Susan frowned.  "Are you sure we should?  What if our arrival upsets him?"

"How can he complain?  It’s Percival’s home and Jackson his guardian.  There is no reason
not
to go."

Susan actually shuddered.  "I can’t imagine waltzing in unannounced."

Beatrice rolled her eyes with disgust.  "Grow a spine, Susan.  You remember what we discussed, don’t you?"

"Yes."

"How can you carry out your part of the bargain if you’re scared of your own shadow?"

They’d agreed to join forces against Jackson, with the easiest solution being for Susan to seduce Jackson and marry him.

If Susan was his wife, her and Beatrice’s financial jeopardy would be significantly reduced, with Jackson less inclined to retaliate for old wounds.