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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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It wasn't such a terrible place to meet a lover, if one could ignore the danger of being crushed by falling rocks. The walls looked ancient, their timber bracing long since rotted away.
“Do you know,” Lockwood began again, “Xavier has dreadful relatives beyond those that are living.”
“That doesn't surprise me,” Louisa said. She chose to take his mention of “dreadful living relatives” as a reference to himself, and so she let it pass.
“Yes, I was looking through a coded ledger he found. It's full of the most
interesting
stories. Would you like to hear some?”
He had the ledger? Louisa didn't like the idea of the old book in Lockwood's hands, though she knew he had more of a right to it than she. It was foolish to feel any ownership of it, as though it was her secret. Hers and Alex's.
“I can't stop you from telling me, my lord,” she said, and began to pick her way down the wide steps into the cellar.
“Very true. For example, then, after the Restoration, the first earl set up his own company of play actors. He built himself a sizable stable of actresses after sampling their talents.”
“That was sensible of him.” Louisa feigned obtuseness. She set her half-boots carefully as she descended each step; some of the old stones were roughened and loose.
“Not sensible at all, Miss Oliver.” Lockwood sounded annoyed. “Indecent. He sampled their talents in the bedchamber.”
“Why should that be relevant to a career upon the stage?” Louisa reached for the earthen wall of the cellar to aid her balance.
“It wasn't relevant to—good Lord, Miss Oliver, he was a scandal, that's all. The theatrical company was naught but a cover for his harem.”
“Well, why should he bother hiding the secret?” Since she was facing away from Lockwood, leading the way down the stairs, she needn't hide her grin. “Surely an earl can have a harem if he wants to. Earls can do virtually anything they please.”
“As can marquesses?”
“That depends on the marquess.”
Lockwood jumped down several stairs at once; Louisa heard the thump of his boots, the rattle of pebbles, and then he was at her side on the wide cellar steps. “You are handling this talk of scandal very coolly, Miss Oliver. Have you some secret scandal of your own?”
She offered him her blandest expression. “My lord, I'm simply unbothered by the roistering of nobles who have been dead for centuries. How can their behavior affect me?”
“A fair point.” He cut his eyes sideways. “What of newfound scandal, then? Have you heard Xavier's tale of the opera dancer and the pineapple?”
Lockwood stretched his arms, his knuckles grazing the bare stone wall at Louisa's side, and she flinched as a rain of pebbles pattered onto the steps.
“I haven't,” she said, “though I've heard
of
it. In fact, Miss Tindall and I were discussing it only yesterday. As a prosy bluestocking, I am greatly interested in the collection of new knowledge. Will you tell it to me?”
Lockwood's boot slipped, and he caught himself roughly on the crumbling stone edge of the cellar. He took a long moment to check the sheen of his boots, then looked at her with a suspicious expression. “It's not my story to tell.”
“I didn't realize you had scruples about telling tales that were none of your affair.” She set her feet on the most solid-looking flags. “I shouldn't wish to embarrass you. Perhaps I shall simply ask my host to enlighten me.”
“I'm sure he'd be willing,” Lockwood said. But his usual sly demeanor had lost its edge. His boot skidded again on pebbles.
“Watch your step, my lord,” Louisa said, turning away from him. “The footing isn't as sound as it appears, especially if you overreach yourself.”
“You are remarkably sharp of sight.”
“It's one of my finest qualities.” Louisa sped down the stairs, sliding a little on loose stones. It was a good parting line, and she wanted to end the conversation at that.
Lockwood only played a game; she knew that. His taunts stung, but they didn't truly wound her.
No, what bothered her was his determination. Even if Alex wanted to change, to drop his rakish facade, men like Lockwood would resist his reformation. They liked their performing bear's tricks too much.
Down in the cellar, she regretted descending the steps so quickly. The smell of mildew and damp was strong, and there was not much to see but dirt-crusted stone, gray-brown and pitted. Chunks of rotted wood might have been the remains of timbers or storage barrels. Nothing was holding these old walls up but habit.
The tread of boots rang on the flagged cellar floor. Lockwood had followed her down. A wary prickle raced down her neck, and she spun to face him.
“You must show me more of your finest qualities,” he murmured. In an instant, he had wrapped himself around her, his mouth nipping at her neck, his hands sliding beneath her cloak. “You've shown them to Xavier, haven't you? As much time as you spend alone with him. Does your aunt know what you're really like?”
His arms were stiff and forceful, his words like icicles. The scent of lime cologne slapped at her, over-strong and cloying. There was nothing of real desire in his words or movements. No, this was an exercise in power, and he thought to use her as a pawn.
She jabbed him with an elbow, and he heaved a curse at her.
Through gritted teeth, Lockwood spoke on. “I will ignore your impoliteness and assume that you have answered in the negative. Well, you'll soon learn. If you stay, Miss Oliver, the world will discover far more about you than you ever intended.”
“I doubt the world cares to discover anything about me,” Louisa ground out. “I am quite invisible.”
“Much to my pleasure.” He squeezed her forearms tight. “It means we are sure to be left alone.”
Louisa twisted again. “Hell,” she muttered. She had to get away before they were seen.
She swooned against Lockwood's chest. Caught off guard, the marquess relaxed his grasp, and she flung herself backward at that instant. She had enough room now to raise her knee, swift and deliberate, between Lockwood's legs.
She knew where a man was most vulnerable. She had grown up in the country, and she was well aware that men had the same parts as stallions and bulls.
The effect of a blow to those parts was the same, too: it completely ended all interest in rutting. Lockwood wheezed and released her at once, doubling over.
With more grace than Louisa realized she could summon, she stepped out of his reach and crossed to the stairs. “Lord Lockwood, I don't care to know why you seem to delight so in competing with Lord Xavier. It does not and will not involve me.”
She pounded up a few stairs, then turned around to face the still-gasping marquess. “Oh, and my lord? If you take hold of my person again, you'll be gelded.”
She gave him a sweet smile—it was easy, now that she was free, to smile her triumph—and then darted up the steps.
She almost smacked into Alex at the top. “Steady,” he said, catching her forearm.
Reflexively, she snatched it back from him, and he looked at her askance. “Is something amiss?”
“Your cousin is down in the cellar,” she said. “I believe he's in some sort of masculine distress. Please excuse me.”
And she strode away, as though she had all the confidence in the world.
For a woman who had never won much notice, she was drawing the wrong type in recent days. She'd been correct in what she'd told Jane: there
were
worse things than being alone. Lockwood's pawings, and the foul breath of scandal, could easily take away her good name.
This was the life Lord Xavier had chosen; this was the company he kept.
And this was why she walked away from him now, though she ached to call him by name.
It was self-preservation, in every sense.
Chapter 17
Containing an Entirely New Numbered Expression
Xavier watched Louisa rush away. She stumbled over a loose stone, then called a greeting to Jane as his orange-swaddled cousin emerged from her mother's beloved cellar.
Louisa had shaken off his touch; she'd never done that before. Especially since they'd agreed to be . . . friends . . . and he'd had his hand up her skirts.
All at once, he understood her reaction. “Lockwood,” he ground out. Lockwood had done something to her. This would not stand.
He thundered down the stairs. Just as he'd suspected, the marquess was standing on the flagged floor of the cellar. Looking slightly green, and breathing hard.
Xavier drew up short. “Lockwood?”
“Your little bluestocking . . . kneed me,” Lockwood panted, bracing his hands on his thighs and pulling in great gulps of air.
“Care to tell me why?”
“Because . . . she's vicious.” He shut his eyes and dragged in a hoarse breath. Surely nothing but Lockwood's concern for the gloss of his boots and the cleanliness of his coat was keeping him from collapsing onto the damp, dirty floor of the ancient cellar.
“Try again.” Xavier folded his arms and fixed Lockwood with a variant of Expression Number One, Veiled Disdain. He might call this Expression One-Half: Disdain. There was no reason to veil it now. Especially since Lockwood could barely focus his eyes.
“Oh, very . . . well,” the marquess heaved. “Because . . . she didn't like . . . being touched.”
Yes, she did
snapped into his mind. And then: “You
touched
her?”
He closed the gap between himself and Lockwood and caught the end of his cousin's cravat in one hand. “Stand up, damn you. If you touched an unwilling lady, you deserve much worse than what you got.”
Lockwood hauled himself upright, still greenish, still blowing like a winded horse. “She's not so unwilling for you, is she?” Somehow, he donned that too-wide smile.
“If you were drunk, I would let that pass. If you weren't family, I'd call you out.” Xavier let go of Lockwood and raked a hand through his hair, then caught himself in the gesture and impatiently crossed his arms. “I'm calling you
in
instead. Once we return to the Hall, you will meet me in my study. We have much to discuss privately.”
“And who are you to order me about?” Lockwood mimicked his posture, folding his own arms. A little of the marquess's normal olive tint had returned to his face.
Olive tint wrapped in a lavender cravat. Xavier would have laughed if he hadn't been so furious. Louisa had summed Lockwood up in a few seconds.
She noticed the essential core of every person, yet few returned the favor. And she had paid for her perception with a groping in a ruined cellar.
Xavier focused on keeping his expression blank, his posture still.
“Fine, fine. Say what you have to say now.” Lockwood scowled. “No sense in transforming a paltry little affair into a huge ordeal.”
“This is not a paltry little affair.”
Xavier took care to speak calmly, mainly because he knew Lockwood would find it annoying. “I told you when you proposed this wager that a woman's reputation was worth far more than the ten-pound value you placed on it. And now I find you trying to destroy that reputation. This is completely unacceptable.”
Lockwood squared his shoulders and began to bluster. “Your reputation is as much at stake as hers, Xavier. You needn't pretend you care only for the young lady, and you needn't pretend you're at all disinterested.”
“I'm not disinterested,” Xavier replied, sounding just that. He stretched out a hand and straightened the seams of his glove. “I have a conscience, that's all.”
“Do you? That's a new development.” Lockwood leaned back against the rough stone wall of the cellar, then grimaced. “Damn. That can't be good for my coat's tailoring.”
“I am astonished to find you caring equally about the lines of your coat and the harm you've done a lady of quality.”
“I'm astonished
not
to find you doing the same,” Lockwood replied. “What happened to the Xavier who couldn't wait to open up the White's betting book when he reached London? What happened to your spirit, Coz? Once upon a time, you'd do anything to win.”
“I'd never contribute to anyone's disgrace. Especially not a lady's.” God, he sounded like a governess. But Lockwood was acting like a spoiled child.
“Then we have a different idea of disgrace,” Lockwood said. He sidled toward the stairs, and Xavier sidestepped to cut him off.
“We do if you think you have any right to touch Miss Oliver.”
Lockwood smiled. It was a familiar expression; Xavier had seen it on his own face in his entrance hall's pier glass every time he returned home from a night's roistering. Smug. Satisfied. Ever so pleased with himself.
Why had he felt that way? What was there to be proud of in dissipation and disgrace?
A look of disdain wasn't strong enough. Time for a new Numbered Expression, incorporating contempt and impatience. He sifted the two and turned the expression on the marquess.
“Don't you pull a face at me, Coz,” Lockwood said. “You're as vulnerable as your precious little chit. Your reputation was largely built on my shoulders. Who would you be if I didn't bet against you all the time? Who will you be if I don't bet anymore—or if you start losing all the time?”
His smile spread wider. “What if you should lose Louisa Oliver her reputation, yet end in losing our wager after all? Such a pity.” He clicked his tongue. “And the world used to call you infallible. You've fallen, and hard.”
“I'm the same man I always was.” Xavier felt as though he were scrabbling for words. His instincts were finely honed for sidestepping battle, or for dismissing it with languid tones and careless gestures. But how did one deal with a head-on confrontation?
Head-on.
So be it. “In essentials, I've never altered, Lockwood. I have tried to steer you from your worst excesses. I've never participated in your grossest debaucheries. And I've shielded your name when I could, because you're my relative.”
He took a step up the cellar stairs, placing himself several feet above the marquess. “But know this: I won't shield you now. My guests are my responsibility, and you will not harass them. Not any of them. If you won't agree, you will be required to leave.”
Lockwood's eyes narrowed. “Maybe you have changed, at that,” he mused. The smile returned. “But I haven't. I'll do anything to win this time, Xavier. And if Miss Oliver gets compromised in the bargain—well, I ought to marry eventually, oughtn't I?”
His expression turned considering. “I wonder what she tastes like. Have you found out yet?”
Xavier clenched his teeth; the muscles of his jaw spasmed. “You may have the assistance of a footman in packing your trunks. I expect you gone by sundown.”
Lockwood waved this command off as though it were toothless. “But I don't care to leave yet. Not until this wager's played out. Until the party disbands at the end of two weeks, or until you lose.” He stepped up from the cellar floor—one stair, two, until he was nose to nose with Xavier.
Reflexively, Xavier reared back to keep Lockwood in focus. This elicited another smile from the marquess.
Xavier cursed his weak vision. He couldn't see what was right in front of his face.
“You could force me to go,” Lockwood continued. “But it would be such an ugly public scandal. Why, Miss Oliver's name might get dragged into it also. And if she had to leave early for some reason, you'd still lose the wager, wouldn't you?”
Xavier could only stare. His sycophantic, coarse-minded cousin had been transformed into something altogether devious. Insidious. And Xavier was completely unprepared to respond, because . . . well, no one had ever defied him like this.
“The wager doesn't matter to me,” he bit off.
“Come now, don't look like such an old toad,” Lockwood said, with a more familiar grin. Confident; appeasing. “It's all in good fun. We always have fun, don't we?”
He trod up a few stone steps, then looked back. “When we get back to the Hall, we'll share a
cru
. The Armagnac, if you like. What do you say, Coz? A toast to determination.”
He continued up the stairs—a bit slower than he normally would have, had Louisa not kneed him in a vulnerable area—then vanished over the edge of the cellar.
And Xavier was left somewhere he'd never been before: behind.
It would be easy enough to smooth things over with Lockwood. Simply ply him with expensive brandy and make a few bawdy jests, and they'd be back to their old ease.
Now he knew, though, that resentment simmered on Lockwood's side—the resentment of a man continually beaten and surpassed.
Xavier felt resentful, too. So he was to be criticized if he didn't provide an endless stream of dirty diversions? He was to be thwarted and mocked when he tried to protect the reputation of a worthy young woman?
Louisa deserved better than that. And he was beginning to think that he did, too.
Swift as that thought, he pounded up the cellar stairs and teetered at the edge of the old ruined pit, searching for Louisa.
There she was, standing safely with Jane and Mrs. Tindall. Laughing, her cheeks nipped pink, her skin pale as cream over the dark wool of her cloak. Joyful. Carefree. Oh, so lovely.
And this slim maiden had had the presence of mind to temporarily neuter Lockwood.
She was as complex as a cipher, was she not? And like a Vigenère cipher, one would get nowhere with her without the right key.
He shivered, and something within him squeezed tight and didn't let go.
He was responsible for her. For everyone in his house. And if Lockwood meant to continue his game with her, then Xavier would have to keep her all the closer.
Thinking of it that way, he didn't mind at all.

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