Sweet Surrender (9 page)

He was smart as a whip, mature for his age, well-mannered, and confident in his speech and demeanor.  And he looked so much like Edward.  His facial expressions, his gestures, his smile.  Jackson was mesmerized and alarmed, and he caught himself hoping that Michael
was
his nephew. 

He hadn’t yet met Percival—his other, real nephew—but he’d heard the stories.  Percival was chubby and bumbling and possessed none of Edward’s remarkable traits.  And with Percival having bright red hair, there were constant rumors that Percival wasn’t Edward’s son, that Susan had had an affair.  

Jackson had never believed the gossip.  Susan had been too intent on becoming a countess, and she wouldn’t have jeopardized her situation.

"When will Grace arrive?" Michael asked.

"I expect her any minute."

"She’ll be upset with me."

"She won’t be angry with you.  She’ll be angry with
me
."

"Yes, I’m afraid she will be."

Jackson shrugged.  "Don’t worry.  She’s tiny so she won’t do much damage."

"She may be tiny," Michael sagely advised, "but she can be fierce when riled."

"I’ll keep that in mind."

A ruckus commenced in the front vestibule, and Michael’s eyes widened with dismay.  It had to be Grace.

Jackson pointed to the French windows that led onto the rear terrace. 

"Why don’t you go to the stables?  Inform the lads you’re to have a tour.  Pick out the horse you like best, and tomorrow we’ll start your riding lessons."

"Really?"

"Yes."

Irate footsteps pounded in their direction, and Michael frowned.  "Shouldn’t I talk to Grace first?  She’ll want to be sure I’m all right."

"I’ll tell her you’re fine.  You don’t need to stay."

Michael flashed a look of male conspiracy, the precise sort Jackson had shared with Edward when they were boys and plotting against their mother. 

"Go," Jackson urged.  "I’ll come out in a bit and find you."

"Thank you, Uncle Jack."

The endearing term caused Jackson to flinch.  He supposed he should caution him about using the intimate mode of address.  After all, he couldn’t have Michael running about, calling him
uncle
, but Jackson liked the sound of it.

Just as Michael vanished, Grace marched in, her sister trailing behind.  Grace was as furious as he could have predicted, and he was having difficulty displaying the appropriate reaction.  He was charmed by Michael, humored by their scheme to conceal him from Grace, and actually eager for their next round of sparring.

"You scurvy dog!"  She stormed over until they were toe to toe.  "Where is my ward?"

"I’m hiding him.  I’ll give him back when you behave better."

"When
I
behave better?"  She was nearly apoplectic.  "You are a lecherous, salacious, lazy, corrupt—"

He glanced at her sister.  "Would you excuse us?"

Eleanor wrung her hands, unnerved by their tempers.  "I don’t know if I ought to leave the two of you alone."

"Don’t worry about us," he told her.  "Your bedchamber is still open.  Why don’t you rest from your ordeal?"

"I’m not tired."

"Then I doubt you had any food this morning."

"I didn’t."

"As I assumed—seeing as how your sister is a lunatic."

"I’m not a lunatic!" Grace bellowed like an insane person. 

He ignored her and continued to cordially chat with Eleanor.  "Locate a servant and order yourself a meal."  He gestured magnanimously.  "Whatever you like, they’ll be happy to fix it for you."

She anxiously asked, "What do you think, Grace?"

"You should eat, Eleanor," Grace seethed.  "I’m about to commit murder, and I’d rather you didn’t watch."

"I completely agree."

She scurried out, and he had Grace all to himself.

Grace was standing very close, and he leaned in so they were even closer.  The foolish woman wasn’t afraid of anything so she didn’t retreat.  He didn’t move away, either.

For some reason, when in her presence, the oddest sensations were generated.  A current of energy flowed from him to her, as if their proximity ignited sparks.  He couldn’t guess what was causing it—perhaps it was their hot natures grating together—but he was fascinated.

Apparently, he was physically attracted to her.  Perish the thought!  He—who had a virtual harem of beauties at home in Egypt—was enticed by a petite, nosy busybody.

If it wasn’t so hilarious, he’d be incensed.  Didn’t he have better taste?  Hadn’t he always set his amorous sights a tad higher?

He felt alive and invigorated.  He could smell the soap with which she’d bathed, could perceive her torso’s heat emanating through her horrid gray dress.  To his absurd delight, he was wondering again how she’d look without her clothes, and it occurred to him that he was desperate to learn the answer to that question.

"I’m amazed by your gall, Grace."

"Don’t call me Grace."

"I specifically asked you to stay and you left anyway."

"You don’t own me."

"You barged in and turned my world upside down, but when I wasn’t to your liking, you scampered away like a frightened rabbit."

"I won’t have my ward within a hundred miles of you."

"Won’t you?"

"No."

He leaned even nearer so the tips of his boots slipped under the hem of her skirt.  Their legs and feet were tangled, and finally, he’d rattled her. 

She took a step back, and he took one forward.  She took another, and he did, too, forcing her across the floor until she bumped into the library’s desk and could go no farther.

He pressed himself to her, holding her against the solid wood.  She was trapped and couldn’t move unless he decided to permit it.  He seemed to want something from her, though he couldn’t decipher what it was. 

With each encounter, she grew more surly and less impressed by him, and her lack of regard was spurring him to recklessness.  What was wrong with him?  Why couldn’t he just leave her be?

He pushed her down until she was actually lying on the desktop, with him wedged between her thighs and stretched out so he could feel every delicious inch.  He was being an ass, and he should have risen so she could scoot away, but his common sense had fled.

"Get up," she fumed, shoving at his shoulders. 

"No."

"Get up!" she repeated more sternly.

"No."

"You are a bully."

"I am.  I admit it."

"I can’t abide an arrogant male."

"Then you’ll definitely detest me."

"You’re bigger than me so you think you can treat me however you please."

"You’re correct.  That’s exactly what I think."

"Ooh, I hate you."

"I don’t care."

He studied her as she studied him in return.  He was held rapt, utterly bowled over by her and unable to pull away.

"We’re at an impasse," he said.

"Only in your deluded mind."

"Yesterday, I asked nicely and you told me you’d remain at the Abbey, but you’re a liar."

"I’ve never lied in my life until I met you."

"What is it you don’t like about me?"

"You mean besides your rude manner, low morals, and ghastly character?"

"Yes, besides all that."

"Trust me, that’s plenty."

He smirked.  "I am so humored by you."

"I can’t imagine why."

"Maybe because you’re so ridiculously absurd."

"I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much."

"No, you’re absurd, so I’ll have to handle you more severely."

"Will you whip me?  Lock me in a closet?  What?"

"I will simply ensure that you obey."

"Obey!" she sputtered.  "I am neither your servant nor your slave.  You’re in no position to expect subservience."

"Yes, I am, and you’ve proved yourself to be thoroughly unreliable."

"I’m the most reliable person on earth when I’m dealing with someone worthy of constancy."

"Extreme measures are warranted."

"Extreme…measures?  What are you babbling on about?"

"You won’t stay when you promised.  You can’t swear and keep to your vow.  What is left to guarantee the conduct I require?"

"Why don’t you ponder your dilemma over the next forty years of your life—forty years where you’ll never see me again?"

He bent down, his lips a hairsbreadth from her own.  Her eyes widened with surprise and a touch of alarm, and he was thrilled to note that he’d rendered her speechless.  Was that all it took to make her quit talking?

They shared another poignant moment, similar to the one that had festered the previous afternoon.  He was drawn to her, attuned and connected, when he’d never met a female with whom he wanted less of a bond. 

"I ought to kiss you," he blurted out.

"Kiss me!"

"It would serve you right."

"If you even think about it, I’ll find you later and kill you in your sleep."

The threat was so inappropriately boastful that he laughed and laughed.  The crazed woman didn’t understand the concepts of size or power, but he would teach them to her.

"Have you ever been kissed, Grace?"

"No," she snorted.  "I’d slay any fool who dared."

"So that’s your problem," he mused.  "You’ve never had a man in your bed, which explains your foul mood.  Perhaps if you’d been tumbled occasionally, you wouldn’t be such a shrew."

"And perhaps if you weren’t such a horse’s ass, I wouldn’t be considering how I’d like to stab you between your third and fourth rib.

She’d had enough of his harassment, and she started to struggle in earnest, but her wrestling lit a fire to his manly instincts.  Her breasts were crushed to his chest, his phallus placed directly where it had no business being. 

Suddenly, it dawned on him that—if he wasn’t careful—he might do things he shouldn’t and damn the consequences.  A warning bell sounded in his head, and he eased away.  Before she realized his dastardly plan, he pulled out a piece of rope and tied their wrists together. 

Earlier, he’d retrieved it from the barn.  He couldn’t figure out why he’d gotten it, but insane urges were driving him.  He was determined to have her close and to know where she was at all times.  She wouldn’t be able to move two feet without his being aware.

"What have you done?" she gasped.

"I’ve purchased an insurance policy."

"Insurance!  You’re keeping me here against my will."

"Yes."

"By force."

"Yes."

"You make no bones about it."

"No."

"You have no shame."

"Not an ounce."

"I repeat:  I hate you."

"Yes, yes, so I’ve heard."

He tugged on the rope, drawing her up so she could slide to her feet.

"Let’s get you something to eat," he said.

"I’d rather starve."

"I won’t let you.  From this moment on, you’ll be absolutely fine.  I insist on it."

"Oaf!  Lout!"

"Aren’t I, though?"

He walked to the hall, and she had no choice but to follow.

DC

"Is that seat taken?"

Eleanor smiled at Duncan Dane and waved to the spot next to him on the bench.

"No," he gallantly replied.  "Please join me."

They were on the verandah behind the house.  It was dusk, the sun having set, so very soon, she’d be alone with him in the dark, which she deemed the perfect situation. 

She plopped down beside him, with no space in between, sitting so near that her skirt touched his trousers.  She was never forward or brazen, so her advance was out of character.

From the first instant she’d seen him in the driveway the prior morning, she’d been thinking about him.  She’d wandered the halls of the mansion, hoping to discover his whereabouts so she could engineer a chance encounter.

And now, here he was, drinking and smoking a cheroot and looking every bit as dashing as she recollected.  His blond hair was too long, curled to his shoulders, and his blue eyes reflected the colors of the fading sky, making him appear delectable and too handsome for words.

Grace claimed that Mr. Scott was a scoundrel, but Eleanor suspected the actual rogue on the premises was probably Mr. Dane.  There was mischief in his gaze, and he exuded a magnetism she couldn’t resist.

"You may call me Eleanor if you’d like," she boldly stated.

He assessed her, his intense attention roaming down her body, then back up.

"How old are you?" he inquired.

"Twenty."