Read Season for Surrender Online
Authors: Theresa Romain
Season for Surrender (17 page)
“I
do
see, Alex,” she said, quiet as a lullaby. “Since you first quoted Dante to me, I've known you were more than a shallow rake. And . . . I like that.”
do
see, Alex,” she said, quiet as a lullaby. “Since you first quoted Dante to me, I've known you were more than a shallow rake. And . . . I like that.”
“And what am I instead?” He felt as though his ribs would crack from the effort of speaking calmly.
“I can't answer that if you can't.”
He turned to look at her, suspicious, and she smiled again. “But I'll help you figure it out. For a start, decode the family ledger. Fabricate a magnificent entertainment for Twelfth Night. Keep Jane under observation.”
“And
we
are?”
we
are?”
She bit her lip. “That depends on who you are. For now, I think we are . . .” Her head tilted. “Friends?”
“The idea surprises you?”
“Yes, it does. Not two weeks ago, I held you in the deepest distaste. But how else would you describe what we have become since then? With whom else but a friend could one talk about enciphered scandals, have an invigorating argument, and then come near a quick tumble? And then finish it off with another disagreement. Most stimulating, all of it.”
Her voice bubbled clear and cool as any mountain stream. If she hadn't been so near the fire, he wouldn't have been able to tell she was blushing.
But that blush? He could have given her his shallow, worthless heart for that blush, because it meant he wasn't nothing to her. Whatever he was, she called him “friend.”
“I've never had a friend like that,” he said.
“Nor I,” she admitted with a little shiver. “I like it, though. I think.”
“I don't detest the idea, either,” Xavier said. Oh, to hell with it. With this woman, he was Alex.
The smile that spread over her face was a new, lovely creation: bright as sunlight, welcoming as a warm sea. There was a world in that smile, and the power of it stole his breath, made him dizzy.
She's dangerous
, said some small inner voice of self-preservation.
, said some small inner voice of self-preservation.
But when had he ever been afraid of danger? When had anyone else been able to create more danger than he could stir up himself?
Louisa swanned over to the mahogany table, just visible at the edges of the firelight, and stacked up the loose papers and the ledger that, apparently, contained his family's secrets. “You can take the alphabet tables with you. You ought to have a look at the text, since it's your family's own story. You might even uncover how your family got that earldom.”
She padded back to him and piled the bound volume and papers into his unresisting arms. It was all as though he'd just entered the library, brimful of brandy and bad mood, and the interlude on the chaise longue had never taken place.
Who's to say this isn't your imagination?
If a few locks of her long hair hadn't escaped their pins, he would wonder precisely that.
Who's to know, besides us, what happens in this room?
No one; no one would ever know. It was their secret, locked away like text hidden within a Vigenère cipher. Only the two of them held the key.
“Thank you,” he said, inclining his head so she'd know he was referring only to the papers in his arms.
She was impossible to fool. “Don't get all missish with me, Alex, please. I'm sure I'm not the first woman you've diddled in the library.”
“Iâ”
“Don't worry your passably attractive head about it. We're friends. I don't expect anything more of you.”
“You should,” he muttered before he knew what he was saying. She should; everyone should. An earl shouldn't be absent so long his tenants forgot him; a man shouldn't use women like handkerchiefs, to be soiled and tossed away.
He shouldn't permit himself to gain notoriety for lies. Rumors. Scandals.
Nothing false.
The weight in his arms seemed much heavier than one would expect for a mass of papers and a few leather-covered boards. “I'll see you in the morning,” he said, his voice thick.
“You should,” he thought he heard her reply faintly, but he was already out the door.
Chapter 14
Containing an Incorrect Tally of Livestock
“Six million head of sheep.”
It was a wild guess, and Xavier knew it. Across the paper-cluttered mahogany desk in his private study, his secretary steepled his fingers before his mild-featured face.
Xavier pressed his lips into an impatient line. “What is it, Hoskinson?”
Hoskinson was a young man with thinning fair hair, thick spectacles, and a soothing manner. He replied in a careful voice, as though calming a fractious dog. “What did Mr. Chatterton say the second column represented, my lord?”
Xavier laid down his quizzing glass, then rubbed a hand over his eyes. “A gibbet. I'm going to hang him. I don't need a steward anymore.”
In all fairness, it wasn't Chatterton's fault Xavier was having a difficult time. This morning he had looked at the estate accounts for the first time since . . . well, ever. When one had a capable steward like Chatterton, who kept everything running smoothly for year upon year, decade upon decade, there was no need to look over the books. Xavier's own time was much better spent elsewhere.
Or so he'd thought, until recently.
“My lord?” Hoskinson prompted.
“Thousands,” Xavier muttered. “Six thousand sheep, and I won't kill Chatterton today.”
Hoskinson looked amused. “Mr. Chatterton will no doubt be pleased to survive Boxing Day, my lord.”
“Boxing Day. Of course it is.” Xavier rubbed at his forehead. “I ought to see to some sort of distribution to the staff today. Little gifts and such?”
“It's already been seen to, my lord,” Hoskinson said. “Mr. Chatterton was able to provide a list of servants requiring compensation, and I authorized the expense.”
“Did you, now.” The afternoon sun slanting through Xavier's study windows reflected off the lenses of the secretary's spectacles, so it was impossible to tell whether his gaze held scorn or simply the bland detachment of a man reporting on his duties.
“Indeed, my lord. Mr. Chatterton also provided an inventory of tenants and the sizes of their families. I recommended a Christmas gift of wheat and beef, proportional to the sizes of the households.”
“Did you, now.” Xavier was repeating himself.
He dragged a hand through his hair and settled back into the Norman-style chair. Some forebear had decided the massive burled walnut piece, with its carved, arched seat back and worn gilt detailing, was suitably imposing. Unfortunately, the piece was also uncomfortable. Every muscle along Xavier's spine, from skull to hips, seemed knotted and aching. The carved back was so high that it pressed against his head, jutting his neck forward.
“Thank you for your expedient action, Hoskinson,” he said. “I am sure the tenants will appreciate it.”
Hoskinson's face softened. “Mr. Chatterton and I were pleased to attend to the matter, my lord.”
Mr. Chatterton
. Hoskinson seemed to roll the sound of the steward's name in his mouth like a boiled sweet. The secretary positively idolized the steward.
. Hoskinson seemed to roll the sound of the steward's name in his mouth like a boiled sweet. The secretary positively idolized the steward.
Truth be told, the review of the accounts would have gone more smoothly if Xavier had requested the help of the elderly Chatterton himself, instead of Hoskinson. Hoskinson's area of proficiency was the elegant invitation, the diplomatic refusal. He knew little of tenants and crop yields.
But Xavier preferred his secretary's company. Hoskinson was
his
servant, chosen by his own hand; Chatterton was a legacy from his father. Xavier couldn't shake the feeling of his own ignorance when the steward held forth about estate matters.
his
servant, chosen by his own hand; Chatterton was a legacy from his father. Xavier couldn't shake the feeling of his own ignorance when the steward held forth about estate matters.
He dragged a fidgety hand through his hair again before catching himself, folding up his fingers and rapping them against his thigh.
“Hoskinson,” he decided, “you must be longing for a half-day off. I believe you've earned it, now that you've taught me not to expect six million head of sheep on my lands.”
The secretary stood, looking uncertain. “Do you intend to remain in your study, my lord? That isâmight I have some refreshment brought in to you?”
Xavier waved him off. “Go debauch a housemaid under the mistletoe. Write letters to the prime minister. Whatever it is you do for amusement. I won't break the earldom if you leave me with the accounts for a few hours.”
Hoskinson's mouth crimped. “I live to serve, my lord.” He bowed his way from the room.
As soon as the door snicked closed, Xavier felt that a burden had been lifted. He eyed the sideboard. It was a bit early for brandy, but at the rate the house party was progressing, drinking would soon be the only vice left to him.
Well, drinking and toying with virgins.
One virgin.
Who had toyed with him as well.
He poured himself a brandy. Cupping the snifter in his hands to warm the fiery liquid, he moved to the tall study window and stared out over his grounds.
He tried to fix his mind upon the view. He never saw it at its best, coming to Surrey only in winter. Whenever he saw Clifton Hall, the grass had lost its green, and most of the flowering plants had long since tucked their blooms away. Still, the land around the house was clean of fallen leaves, well-kept thanks to a gardener's vigilant care.
He wondered how many gardeners took care of the place. He ought to know. Louisa would know, if this were her estate. She would know their names, and what they were paid, and who worked best with what type of plant. She would know who all the tenants were, too, and would have seventeen ideas about the proper Christmas gifts for each family.
It was daunting, how much she knew and noticed. Daunting, and fascinating.
He swirled the red-brown Armagnac in its snifter, allowing its buttery-sweet, astringent scent to tickle his nose. All thoughts seemed to lead back to
her
, and he didn't feel so light anymore.
her
, and he didn't feel so light anymore.
What had they done in the library, with their “in a novel” teasing and their cool-headed goodbye? As quickly as she could stand and shake out her skirts, she had turned the intimacy from a pleasure into a transaction.
He'd done nothing that the world didn't expect him to do. And Louisa had given him permission to walk away. She'd even walked away herself, as though it all meant nothing.
She ought to be his perfect woman: well-bred, intelligent, witty. And making no demands on him, exceptâhow had she put it?
What you're willing to give.
Something like that.
What you're willing to give.
Something like that.
But she
should
ask more of him. She deserved, and should accept, nothing less than honorable treatment. Honesty. Fidelity.
should
ask more of him. She deserved, and should accept, nothing less than honorable treatment. Honesty. Fidelity.
It was his reputation dragging him down, wasn't it? His damned reputation. Louisa liked him well enough, yesâbut she had
used
him and seen nothing wrong with that, and thought they could part as friends. And the hell of itâthe nine-circles-of-
Inferno
of itâwas that, after he'd had his hands on her, he would have agreed to anything she'd asked of him.
used
him and seen nothing wrong with that, and thought they could part as friends. And the hell of itâthe nine-circles-of-
Inferno
of itâwas that, after he'd had his hands on her, he would have agreed to anything she'd asked of him.
She had a dreadful hold on him. On the best pieces of him.
The gentle swirl of brandy in his snifter became a slosh. Armagnac flopped over the side in a syrupy trickle. Xavier raised the snifter to his lips and licked it away.
Horse piss, Lockwood had so diplomatically called this vintage, though in truth it was a very fine eau-de-vie. But today it didn't appeal to Xavier.
He replaced the snifter on the sideboard and returned to his desk. The estate accounts awaited, mocking him with their long, impenetrable columns of figures. He stuffed himself into the too-tall, too-hard Norman chair, then popped up again at once. If he was to spend a decent amount of time at this deskâor a few more minutes of his life, totalâhe would have a chair he liked.
The chair across from the desk, recently vacated by Hoskinson, was much smaller; a fussy rococo affair of limed oak, with cabriole legs and a plush red velvet seat. The style seemed designed to undermine the dignity of any man who faced the earl across the wide sweep of the polished wood desk. Especially when the earl sat in that throne-like Norman monstrosity.
Xavier eyed the rococo chair once more, then sat on it gingerly. “Mmm.” Heaven in a limed oak frame. He settled his full weight onto it.
No wonder Hoskinson had been better able to concentrate than he. This chair was magnificently comfortable. He shut his eyes and wondered if he ought to try to sleep for a few minutes.
Or if he would just wind up thinking about
her
again.
her
again.
A fist thudded against the door. The sound of the door being flung open, thwacking against the lead-gray study wall, dragged Xavier upright in an instant. “Lockwood. You look frightful.”
The marquess's olive complexion had curdled; circles under his eyes muddied their blue into a bloodshot grayish color. Not even his pale blue linens could give his face a healthy color.
Lockwood yawned. “Late night. Early morning. Both well worth the effort, if you know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Xavier said drily. “My felicitations. Who is the lady?”
“Oh, she's no lady.” The marquess smiled.
Xavier and Lockwood were commonly thought to bear a fair resemblance to one another. If the expression on the marquess's face looked like Xavier's smile, then it was no wonder Louisa had been immune to its supposed charm.
He shrugged off the thought. “Make yourself useful, Lockwood, if you can bear to. Help me swap these chairs.”
Lockwood eyed the limed-oak chair. “Is that what you've been up to in here? Playing footman with the furnishings? This chair is ridiculous. It looks like it belongs in a seraglio.”
He shuffled around the desk and shook the throne-high back of the Norman chair. “
This
is an earl's chair, Coz.”
This
is an earl's chair, Coz.”
Xavier folded his arms. “Sit in them, then tell me which one ought to be an earl's chair.”
Lockwood obeyed. His haggard face pulled into a grimace as soon as he'd settled into the Norman chair, and he began tugging at it without further comment.
Until his gaze lighted on the sideboard. “Ah. Is that Armagnac?”
“Your favorite horse piss,” Xavier confirmed, dragging the seraglio chair against the wall to make way.
Lockwood abandoned his task and sidled over to the sideboard. “For me?” He held up the snifter Xavier had poured for himself a short while before.
Xavier shrugged. “Go ahead. You're welcome to it.”
He took Lockwood's place behind his father's chair, pushing at it with all his weight. It was heavy, and its legs had made deep furrows in the faded floral pattern of the antique Aubusson on the floor. It was as though the chair was telling him,
This is where I belong
.
Here, and nowhere else
.
This is where I belong
.
Here, and nowhere else
.
“To hell with that,” Xavier muttered, and with a heave of his shoulder, he shoved the chair from a spot it had not left for a generation or more.
“There you have it, Lockwood,” he said, breathing slightly faster than normal. “An earl's chair. Care to repose yourself in it while I move the seraglio chair into place?”
“In an earl's chair? I'd never so disgrace my arse. Do you have a marquess's chair to befit my lofty station?”
“Certainly. You can find it here.” Xavier gestured to a rude location, and the marquess laughed, as he'd been intended.
The rococo chair was much easier to move. Xavier had it behind the desk in a minute. It looked much too small behind the polished stretch of mahogany desk; this would be a temporary solution. But a temporary solution was better than none.
Lockwood perched on the corner of the desk, snifter in hand, and Xavier sat in the seraglio chair.
“This appears to be my first order of business in my scandalous new chair,” he commented, injecting a touch of ennui into his voice. “What's on your mind, Lockwood?”
The marquess looked down at him sharply, then adjusted his posture. One of his boot heels began drumming a rhythm against the side of the desk.
“It's this wager,” he confirmed. “The Oliver chit. The ten pounds. You're determined to win it. But why? You've already proven that you're not infallible. You were bested by Jane, of all peopleâ”
Xavier broke in. “As were you, and there's no shame in that. If I recall correctly, you were also bested by Jane at blind-man's buff. She's a worthy adversary.”
“She's a disrespectful little minx, and I'm thankful she's no direct relation of mine. Yet I've never known you to lose even the most insignificant of wagers.”
“It
was
insignificant, though, wasn't it?” Xavier replied. Expression Number One this time: Veiled Disdain. “And I am only human, much to my own disappointment. I can't be bothered to devote my utmost energy to every whim thought up by some crack-brained . . .”
was
insignificant, though, wasn't it?” Xavier replied. Expression Number One this time: Veiled Disdain. “And I am only human, much to my own disappointment. I can't be bothered to devote my utmost energy to every whim thought up by some crack-brained . . .”
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