Sweet Surrender (7 page)

But not
her. 
Not Grace Bennett.

She glared at the spot where he was clasping her arm, then she raised her incensed gaze to his.  He was impaled by her beautiful green eyes, and the strangest shiver raced down his spine.  She was too perceptive, and she seemed to see things she had no business seeing.

He shook off the peculiar sensation, disturbed that she could rattle him.  He wanted to unsettle her in return, but he had no idea how.

"Do you hate all men," he asked, taunting her with a reversed version of her own prior, ridiculous question, "or is it just me?"

"Yes, I hate most men," she blithely replied, "but I believe I hate you most of all.  Goodbye."

She jerked away and moved toward the door, but before she could begin her haughty escape, she stumbled, her knees giving out.

He’d always had quick reflexes, and if he hadn’t reached for her, she’d have collapsed at his feet.  To his stunned surprise, she’d fainted—when she was hardly the fainting type. 

He picked her up and carried her to the sofa.  As he was easing her down, her eyes fluttered open.  Clearly confused as to her whereabouts, she gaped around, trying to get her bearings.

"What…happened?" she stammered.

"You swooned."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I’ve never swooned in my life," she huffed but without much vigor.

"There’s a first time for everything."

He was hovered over her, his arm tucked under her back.  The unusual positioning meant they were very close.  He could see every detail of her flawless skin, her perfect brows, and rose-bud lips, and it dawned on him that she was very, very pretty.

She’d been so busy aggravating him that he hadn’t noticed, and he grew even more aggravated.  He didn’t want her to be pretty; he didn’t want to notice that she was.

Her cheeks had paled so she looked fragile and weak and in need of protection, and to his utter disgust, his masculine instincts surged to the fore.  For a fleeting instant, he was eager to offer any sort of assistance she might ultimately require, which was patently absurd.

He didn’t know much about her, and what he
did
know, he didn’t like.  From the moment she’d entered the Abbey, she’d been a nuisance, and he didn’t expect that increased acquaintance would change his attitude or her conduct.

But still—when he should have drawn away—he stayed where he was. 

"Guess what I think, Miss Bennett," he softly murmured.

"I don’t care what you think."

"I
think
you’re not quite as tough as you pretend to be."

"I never claimed to be tough."

"When was the last time you ate?"

She scowled, pondering.  "Yesterday?"

"Yesterday…" 

He was suffering from the strongest urge to scold her.  He felt as if he’d known her forever, as if they were on intimate terms and he had every right to chastise.  His feelings of fond association were so potent that—if he’d been informed she was a sorceress who cast spells—he’d readily admit that he’d been bewitched.

What was wrong with him?

"I am duty-bound to inquire," he said, "why you haven’t eaten since yesterday."

"We don’t have any money left.  I spent every penny bringing Michael to you.  I bought supper for him and Eleanor but…"

Her sentence trailed off, and he finished it for her.  "You told them you weren’t hungry so they could have more."

"I might have done that," she groused, and she glanced away.  "Would you…ah…would you let go of me?"

He was loathe to release her, so he didn’t immediately comply.  As if he was a magnet, and she was metal, his arm was attached to her and too heavy to lift.

"Look at me," he murmured, but she shook her head.  "Grace, look."

"I don’t give you permission to use my Christian name."

"Haven’t you realized that I’m not the type who will listen to a word you say?"

"Yes, I have realized that."

She turned slightly, and he studied her eyes, her lips.  She was so near, and he was burning with the oddest need to kiss her. 

He couldn’t understand the peculiar feelings shooting through him.  If he was stupid enough to proceed, he was certain he would receive—and would thoroughly deserve—a slap in the face for being too forward.

"We’ll get this figured out," he said.

"Yes, I suppose we will," she agreed.

"We’ve met in awkward circumstances."

"You’re a master of understatement."

"I’m a better man than you’ve imagined me to be," he lied, for he was every bit the wretch she assumed.

She snorted.  "I’m sure you’re marvelous."

He smiled, and she smiled, too.

"I want you to remain here while I investigate."

She frowned.  "I don’t know what’s best."

"You have to remain at the Abbey," he repeated.  "Swear to me that you will.  Your situation is quite dire, and I’ll worry if you leave."

"No, you won’t."

"Yes, I will, and I refuse to constantly chase after you.  You must promise you’ll stay, and in return, I will promise to fairly and quickly resolve this issue."

She scrutinized him, and he was so attuned to her that he could practically read her mind.  She was taking his measure, assessing his veracity and reliability.  She’d be a fool to trust him—no one ever did—but she wasn’t aware of his low reputation for honesty or sincerity. 

He battled against her probing gaze, his expression blank so she couldn’t discern his thinking.  He was determined that Michael be sequestered at the Abbey, that Jackson be in control of him until Jackson could decide the appropriate course of action.

No matter what he learned in Cornwall, the conclusion would be awful.  What if he found out she was lying?  How would he react?  Or what if he discovered the opposite?  What if her story was true?  What then?

He required an interval for prudent thought so he could devise a suitable result.  In the meantime, while he fretted and stewed, he’d keep her close.  He’d keep her fed and sheltered and out of trouble.

If he experienced a silly thrill at the idea of her being at the Abbey, he tamped it down.  She affected him in a strange manner, and he had to be cautious, lest he involve himself with her in ways he didn’t intend. 

Finally, she sighed.  "All right, we’ll stay.  I promise."

"Thank you."

Though he knew he shouldn’t, he reached out with a finger, laid it on her forehead and traced it down her nose, across her mouth and chin, and he slipped it down her throat, stopping at the neckline of her dress.

For the briefest instant, he wondered what she’d look like naked.

She was very still, holding her breath, anxious about what he planned—when he wasn’t certain himself.  Gradually, reluctantly, he pulled away and stood.

"I’ll have a maid bring you a tray of food," he said.

"I don’t need any special treatment."

"Yes, you do, so be quiet and let me pamper you."

She sighed again.  "As you wish."

"After you’ve eaten, I’ll have someone show you to your room."

"My room!  You’ve had a room prepared?"

"Yes, for you and for Michael and your sister in the south wing of the house.  You can rest all day, and we’ll talk tomorrow."

She opened her mouth as if she might argue, and he whipped away, forestalling any comment. 

She was too bossy, too sure of herself, too used to having her own way.  He was possessed of the same obnoxious traits, so they were very much alike.  He suspected they would always butt heads and bicker.

"Mr. Scott?" she said.

"What is it, Grace?"

"Don’t send in a maid.  I can take care of myself."

"No, you can’t."

"Just point me toward the kitchen, and I can find it."

She raised up on an elbow, as if she might try to stand, but she didn’t appear to have garnered any new energy. 

"Don’t move a muscle, Grace, and be silent.  You’ll enjoy a hearty meal, then you’ll relax, and I’d better not see you out walking the halls."

"Or what?"

"Or you’ll learn about my temper."

She scoffed and flopped back down.  "You’re being ridiculous."

"Not ridiculous.  I’ve simply decided what I want and that’s how it will be.  Don’t fight me.  You can’t win."

He strolled out, refusing to let her have the last word.   

CHAPTER FOUR

"It’s much too quiet here all of a sudden."

"Well, lack of a harem can definitely alter the mood."

Jackson glared across the dining table at Duncan. 

Once he’d arranged for Miss Bennett and her two charges to stay in the house, they’d become
guests,
and Jackson had had to conduct himself accordingly.  

His first order of business had been to rid himself of the doxies who’d visited from town.  Then he’d locked the liquor cabinet, being determined to have a clear head in his dealings with her.  She was smart and shrewd, and if he wasn’t careful, she’d best him before he even realized they were competing.

Finally, he’d cancelled the servants’ holiday, and they were scurrying about, repairing the condition of the place, which was a mess due to his unrelenting parties.

The cook and her crew were the most welcome.  They’d produced a fine buffet, and Jackson had eaten heartily the moment the butler had declared it ready.  But it was near eleven o’clock, breakfast having been served hours earlier.  The kitchen staff was eager to clean the leftovers, but he was waiting for Miss Bennett or the children to come down.

He wouldn’t have pegged her for a late riser, but then, she had been incredibly weary.  If she slept for a week, he wouldn’t be surprised.

Still though, he’d sent a maid to check on her, to mention that breakfast was served.

"I liked you better," Duncan complained, "when you were focused on pleasure."

"You’re the one who forced me to contend with Miss Bennett.  When she initially accosted me, I chased her off, remember?  She’s only back because of you."

"I should have kept my mouth shut."

"I certainly wish you had."

He was being surly, not positive he meant the comment.

While he’d spent the past decade hating Edward, as a boy, he’d worshipped his brother.  Edward had been magnificent:  handsome, dashing, funny.  At times, he’d seemed larger than life, like a Greek god.

Their mother Beatrice had worshipped him, too.  Their father had died when Edward was five, so he’d been earl at a very young age.  Beatrice had envisioned such a grand future for him that she’d never noted his penchant for mischief or misadventure.

Jackson and Edward had gotten into plenty of trouble, but Beatrice never blamed Edward for any offense.  Jackson was the one who was punished, who went to bed without his supper, who was locked in his room, who was whipped until he couldn’t sit down. 

But he hadn’t minded.  He’d have done anything for Edward, a sound thrashing being the least of what he was willing to endure. 

If Miss Bennett was being truthful, as Duncan insisted she was, then Michael was Edward’s son.  To find that Edward had left them another child—who looked just like him and acted just like him—it was as if angels had flown down from heaven and dropped a gift in Jackson’s lap.

"What is your plan for them?" Duncan asked.

"I haven’t decided."

"Miss Bennett is lucky your mother wasn’t here when she arrived."

"Yes, she was."

"What will you tell Beatrice?  What will you tell Susan?"

"Nothing for now.  They’re in London, and I’d considered riding to town next week for a visit, but I’ll put it off until I’ve heard from my man in Cornwall."

After a lengthy silence, Duncan murmured, "She’s not a fraud."

"Who?  Miss Bennett?"

"Yes."

"What do you know?  You’re a cheat and a gambler."

"I’m not a liar, though."

Jackson scoffed.  "We’ve been acquainted too long, Duncan.  If you suppose I’ll believe what you say about this, you’re insane.  And I can hardly take Miss Bennett’s word for it."

"May I sit in the corner when you inform your mother?"

"No."

Duncan had been reared under Beatrice’s harsh thumb.  He loathed her more than Jackson, and he’d love any excuse to see her in a dither.  Especially one that Jackson had caused.

"You never let me have any fun," Duncan whined.

"I brought you a wagonload of trollops, and I opened my wine cellar and food pantry.  Yet you have the gall to protest that you’re not having any
fun
?  What more could I have provided to you?"

"I’ll think of something."

"You could have returned to London with the girls."