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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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Get hold of yourself, man.
“I don't suppose you'll take a half hour for it, and that's all the time I have left to stake,” she replied at last.
He thought quickly. “As you said earlier, time is something which we all hold in equal measure. So you need not feel limited by the amount left in the pot. You can raise the stakes however you like.”
“However I like? I'll buy it for an hour, then.”
“A ridiculous price. It's worth far more.”
“I bid two hours for your next card, Miss Oliver,” Lockwood said. He leaned back in his chair and drummed his fingertips on the felt tabletop. “You would own me for two hours. What do you say to that? Will you take the bid?”
“I'll sell for two and a half,” interrupted Xavier, ignoring Lockwood's glower. “A beautiful trump. Ten of diamonds. Will you make it yours, Miss Oliver?”
She nodded. “Unless you care to bid, Jane?”
“No,” Jane said. “I'm not buying anything at that price. That's highway robbery.”
“Not if it means you win,” Xavier replied, sliding the ten toward Miss Oliver. “Shall we turn another card?”
He flipped the queen of diamonds. Miss Oliver looked surprised, but shrugged off her swift loss and turned over the queen of hearts. “Nothing,” she said.
Jane had a two of clubs, which she tossed onto the table. Lockwood had a knave, and he looked stormy as he threw an extra fifteen minutes into the pot.
“Fortunate that we're not playing for brandy,” Xavier said.
The marquess's brows knit in a mulish manner, and Xavier relented. “That doesn't mean we need go without brandy entirely, though. Armagnac for you? No, it's the Grande Champagne you like.” He motioned a footman over and requested a bottle.
Lockwood looked mollified. “A little eau-de-vie is always welcome. Especially when the play is not in one's favor.”
“Evidently I need a snifter, then,” Miss Oliver said. “I owe you three hours, my lord. Clearly I am not made for speculation.”
“I'll wager you're made for more than you know,” murmured Lockwood, drawing a finger over the back of her hand. She regarded it with mild distaste, as one would a worm crawling out of an apple, until Lockwood pulled his hand back with a peevish expression.
They all sat, fraught, until Jane snapped the tension. “I haven't won a thing yet, and I can't abide it. I'll pay each of you twelve hours for all your cards.”
Miss Oliver laughed, but before she could reply, the footman returned. “Beg pardon, my lord,” he murmured in Xavier's ear, “but I cannot locate the Grande Champagne in your cellars. Is it possible that the stock has been completely depleted?”
“No, I'm certain it's there. It's near the amontillados in the second chamber, beneath the—” The footman wore a desperate look, and Xavier sighed. “Never mind, I'll come find it.”
He turned back to the table. “I must interrupt our game. I do apologize.”
Unholy glee spread across Lockwood's face. Ready for more mischief, no doubt. Xavier added hastily, “Lockwood, do come with me and see which
cru
you'd prefer.”
The marquess tensed, no doubt torn between the desire to look through the stores of spirits and the urge to unsettle Miss Oliver a bit more.
After a few seconds, the love of fine brandy won out. “Very well. We have nearly two weeks to finish our game, after all.”
“I know it.” Xavier gave his cousin a chilly smile as they stood.
“Must we pay out now?” Miss Oliver asked. “Except that I find myself deeply in debt, so perhaps I shouldn't have said anything.”
“You owe me three hours,” said Xavier. “I am shocked by your recklessness.” This time, his smile was teasing. If he made an ally of her, she would be less vulnerable to Lockwood. He hoped.
“How shall you claim it? Am I to wear a dress, as Jane suggested?”
Ah, she could tease, too. Excellent. “I assume you shall, but that isn't the limit of my claim.” He considered for an instant, then hit on the perfect idea. “Instead, I shall show you the library.”
She looked as delighted as one could wish; there was that crescent-moon smile again. Very good. She'd be pleased to see the books, and Lockwood would have no opportunity to cause trouble for that window of time.
He laid a guiding hand between Lockwood's shoulders. “After luncheon tomorrow, then, Miss Oliver. Your time is mine for three hours. Mind you don't forget.”
“I won't,” she said, still looking a bit starry, and Xavier nodded his farewell and walked with Lockwood to the door.
“Mind
you
, Lockwood,” he said when they stepped into the corridor, his hand pressing hard against the marquess's spine. “We may wager against one another, but I shan't have you risking Miss Oliver's good name.”
Lockwood raised an eyebrow. “What an old woman you are. I was only having a bit of fun.”
“At her expense.” Xavier shook his head. “It won't do. Miss Oliver's presence is at stake, but not her reputation. That's worth far more than ten pounds.”
“Gracious, Xavier. You act as though you own the place,” Lockwood said with a yawn. “See? A little wit never hurt anyone.”
“Be sure it doesn't,” Xavier said, feeling exactly as prosy as Lockwood had accused him of being.
If he hadn't been so cotton-headed from his cold three weeks ago, he would never have agreed to this wager. At best, he would finish the house party with raw nerves and an uncharacteristic temper. At worst, far more than his peace of mind would be sacrificed.
“Come, let's find the brandy,” he said. “I'll wager we can both use a snifter.”
“Ten pounds on it?” Lockwood smirked.
“No bet,” Xavier said, chuckling. “Not this time.”
 
 
Louisa had followed the men, intending to ask Lord Xavier whether she might look in the library tonight. As she reached the doorway of the drawing room, though, she overheard her name, and she stilled.
Eavesdropping is vulgar
, her aunt would have said. But not even a saint could have torn herself away from such a conversation.
When the men's exchange ended and Louisa heard their footsteps echoing down the corridor, she slipped out after them and stood in the passage, considering.
So. She was the subject of a wager between a marquess and an earl. And she had been deemed to be worth all often pounds. How gratifying.
This explained her invitation to the house party, then. But it didn't explain
why
.
She smoothed the primrose silk of her gown, wondering what about her—neither wealthy nor popular—had drawn their attention. She was unused to much notice from aristocrats; still less to being wagered upon.
The old Louisa would have shrunk from both noblemen, keeping her distance. But she no longer wanted to be the timid woman who lived such a circumscribed life.
As Sir Francis Bacon had once said, “Knowledge is power.” Louisa knew about the wager, and the men didn't know she knew.
Which gave her the power, didn't it? This would be enjoyable.
She smiled as she stepped back into the drawing room, already plotting for the following day.
Chapter 4
Containing . . . Potential
After returning to the drawing room the previous evening, full of her secret knowledge about the wager, Louisa had debated how best to torture the earl and his cousin for presuming to wager on her. Two wastrels who thought they knew the limits of her courage.
As though a few taunts would test anything like
real
courage. As though ten pounds could capture the worth of a human being, even for only two weeks.
At first, Louisa had thought to adopt the persona of a shrinking violet: spooking at every noise, growing faint when teased, scandalized by too much sugar in her tea. She would let the proud earl sweat, wondering which of his words or actions would send her away shrieking from the house party.
But such a role had the undeniable drawback of allowing Lord Lockwood—decidedly the more repellent of the two nobles—to triumph over Louisa herself, as well as Xavier. And it wouldn't allow her any adventures.
So instead she decided to do the unexpected.
And the unexpected began now, in the slow hours after luncheon, with her arm in the crook of Lord Xavier's elbow, standing before the high, carved double doors to the library. The doors would open upon more than a room; they would open to a new Louisa. A bold Louisa, who toyed with secrets and whose self-catalogue was already richer than it had been a few days earlier.
Yes. This new plan would be . . . exciting.
A sudden shiver ran down her spine, made her flex her shoulders and wiggle her fingers within the crook of his arm. Xavier cast her a knowing look. “The anticipation is almost unbearable, is it not?”
Likely he thought she'd have the vapors from the delight of standing at his side. Ha. Handsome devil though he was, his face was nothing but a mask.
She granted him a wafer-thin smile. “
Something
is unbearable.”
His eyes narrowed in surprise. Inside, Louisa cheered with triumph; then she pushed open the library door.
As soon as she stepped inside, she forgot to shoot verbal arrows at his puffery. She forgot his presence. She almost forgot to breathe.
“Oh my.” She wrenched her arm free from the nuisance of the earl's clasp so she could turn in place, drinking in every detail like a woman parched for learning.
Crested bookshelves of rich wood lined the walls, crammed with thousands of books, while red-patterned draperies swaddled the room in diffuse light. Ancient oil portraits spanned the walls from the tops of the bookshelves to the tray ceiling, which was painted with sinuous characters from mythology. Comfortable-looking chairs and sofas—even a chaise longue—were arranged invitingly. A heavy russet carpet, woven in squares and medallions, cushioned Louisa's feet as she crept around the room, breaths shallow in the exquisite hush.
“It's marvelous, isn't it?” Xavier sounded bored, as though reciting from a script he'd read thousands of times.
Louisa recalled her scheme. In an instant, she'd stilled her feet, straightened her posture, and schooled her expression into one of disdain.
“It's very nice, I'm sure.” She turned to the earl, standing a few yards away, and granted him a pitying smile.
“How you flatter me,” he said drily. Good, he'd dropped that insufferable I'm-too-marvelous-to-live-among-mere-mortals voice.
“I would never want to flatter you.” She walked to the nearest bookshelf and scanned it, top to bottom. “To be honest, your library is a terrible mess. But it has potential.”
“You believe this library has
potential?
” With a measured
ruff
of boots over thick carpet, he came to stand beside her. “I am agog, Miss Oliver. Please, explain to me what you mean.”
He seemed to be looming over her unconsciously, as though he could box her in with the clean angles and lines of his long body. The scent of him, sweet and smoky like vetiver and spices, made her belly clench in a sudden hunger. She breathed in deeply, just once.
Oh
.
Her voice remained bland and dismissive. “We have only three hours, my lord. I can't begin to set this room aright in that amount of time.”
He folded his arms. For an instant, his careful mask slipped and she saw surprise in his face; then he was a polite, polished cipher again.
Some unholy imp within Louisa smothered a laugh.
“Look here,” she said. “At the top shelf of this bookcase. What do you see?”
“A row of small books.”
“Exactly. Not only are they all small, they're arranged by color. Someone has arranged your collection according to appearance instead of subject. Look at the bookcase by the door.” She waved her arm, and Lord Xavier turned.
“They're all leather bound.”
“Morocco, actually. See, those have been sorted by color, too. The other shades of leather or kid binding are grouped on the next shelf.”
He pivoted to look around the room. “For some reason, this method of organization affronts you deeply.”
“A library with books no one can find and read? Yes, it affronts me. It's a waste, my lord. It serves no purpose but that of a striking visual effect.”
“That's generally all my visitors are conscious of,” he muttered. He rubbed a hand over his face, then dragged it through his hair in an oddly youthful gesture. His fingers strayed to the pocket of his waistcoat as though fumbling for a watch.
They'd scarcely begun their three hours, and he was chafing to leave. It wasn't exactly flattering, but an interlude with unwanted company was no more than he deserved.
“My lord, if you'll pardon my saying so”—which she knew he would, since he needed to keep her here for two weeks—“this is a sad waste of what
could
be a marvelous library. For now, it has potential. Nothing more than that.”
She saw it again—that odd little slip of his blank expression, that sudden flash of something much warmer than silver in his eyes. Then he clipped it off. “I am sure you are right.”
Enough of this false politeness. “Bollocks,” Louisa said.
Xavier's lips parted; his chin drew back. “Miss Oliver?”
“That's right, my lord,” Louisa said. “I'm Lady Irving's niece, and therefore I probably know as many horrid words as you. And I say
bollocks
. You were sure I'd fall all over myself praising your library.”
Just as women usually fall all over you.
His mouth curved. “It's a more common reaction than yours.”
“You'd be unwise to expect me to react in the common way.” She turned her back on him, letting him stew as she skimmed another bookshelf. “Petrarch next to a collection of sermons. Aphra Behn. John Donne. Something in German that looks ghastly.”
“It's an anatomical book. The engraver had a comical notion of men's innards. Would you like me to show you?” He stepped around her and made to take the book down.
“Yes, please. Do show me, my lord. I have a particular fondness for illustrations of the heart. Are you familiar with that organ?”
Xavier paused with the book half drawn out. “I've heard of it, yes, Miss Oliver. But I'm not in possession of one myself.”
With a quick flick of long fingers, he shoved the book back into its place.
“As it so happens,” he continued, “I know where many things are in this library. Since my guests aren't generally of an intellectual bent, I haven't worried about arranging it to suit anyone's pleasure but my own.”
“If you mean to compliment me by comparison to your usual guests, I thank you. If you mean to insult me, you ought to be a little more obvious about it. Either way, I'm not surprised that you would consult your pleasure above good sense.”
Now the polite mask was gone, and the earl's expression wavered between disbelief and humor. “No, that's only what's to be expected of me, isn't it?”
He paused, fingers drumming on the edge of the shelf, then seemed to reach a decision. “Please allow me to show you something, Miss Oliver.”
He glanced up and down the nearest set of shelves. “These books are all dross. My grandfather collected them in large lots at auction. But here”—he strode to the next crested bookcase and snatched a volume in a plain binding—“is a fine old edition of the
Inferno
. If you should like to walk through
Purgatorio
and
Paradiso
next, the other volumes of Dante are on the bookcase to the right of the windows. Third shelf from the bottom.”
He strolled back to her and stuffed the small volume into her hands. Her fingers closed on the worn black leather reflexively. “Anything else you'd like to know, Miss Oliver?”
Louisa stared at him, then looked down at the book in her hands. “Yes. Why isn't this with the other two volumes of Dante?”
“It's a spare copy. Never mind.” He tugged it from her hands and tossed it onto the shelf at the level of his elbow. Louisa pretended not to notice as he nudged it straight, then gave the old binding a gentle pat.
“I don't understand your method, my lord.” Her voice sounded strained to her own ears. Seeing him treat an old book with care made her feel off-kilter.
“There
is
no method besides that created by my late grandfather,” Xavier said. “But I've learned the things I want to know.”
His eyelids lowered as he spoke, veiling his expression, and Louisa wondered what he wanted to know, and whether it was as limited as she'd thought.
“I'd like to learn from this library, too,” Louisa mused. “But there's no way to know what's here.”
“You created a catalogue for Matheson's library, didn't you?”
At this mention of her brother-in-law, James, Louisa caught a quick breath. Her former betrothed, once such good friends with Xavier until the rakish earl had spread scandal about their family. James, Lord Matheson, was now married to Louisa's stepsister, Julia. “Yes, I suppose my dealings with Lord Matheson are all public knowledge now.”
Her host waved a hand. “Hardly, Miss Oliver. But you can't think I'd let you in my home without knowing a bit about you. What if you were the worst sort of libertine?”
“Then I'd fit right—” Louisa pressed her lips together when she saw the wicked gleam in his eye. “Well. You know that I'm not, whether that worked in my favor or no. And you know that I did create a catalogue of the library for James. Matheson, I mean. So you must see why I'd hoped for more order in yours, since it's rumored to be such a jewel.”
“Don't credit all the rumors you hear about me, Miss Oliver.” His lips curved, the expression rueful.
Then he was all distant refinement again. “At least not the rumors related to my library. I'd consider it a great honor if you'd make a beginning at order. Maybe look over the titles and jot a few suggestions for their rearrangement.”
This was such an uncharacteristic offer from the
beau monde
's most dissolute darling that Louisa could only stare. Then the puzzle pieces snapped into place: he was trying to keep her away from the house party. Keep her preoccupied and away from scandal, so she wouldn't leave and he could win his precious ten pounds.
It was too, too bad, because his suggestion sounded heaven-sent.
“I'm here as your guest, my lord. I don't intend to work amidst stacks of old books when I could be frolicking with scandal.” Her hand strayed to the edge of the shelf and stroked the beautiful bindings. The faint odor of old leather seemed to tug at her, and she took a step closer to the shelter of the shelf.
“Please consider it, Miss Oliver. You'd gain my everlasting good opinion.” The smile he offered was probably meant to be seductive. His vowels were liquid, the consonants crisp as celery, an elocutionist's dream.
Something dark within her rebelled. “You presume that I care for your good opinion, then?” She paused, a beat too long, then added, “My lord.”
He didn't even flinch at this rudeness. “A natural assumption, since you agreed to become a guest in my house.”
“An unwise assumption. Considering your treatment of my family, you are unlikely ever to receive my good opinion.”
There was the core of it. She folded her arms and waited for his withering insult, or his condescending reply. Either way, she was glad she'd said the words.
But Xavier surprised her: he only took her arm in a grasp both strong and gentle. “Please, Miss Oliver, have a seat.”
Before she could protest, he'd guided her to an armchair covered in red velvet, drawn up before a preposterously large fireplace. Xavier sat across from her in the twin of her chair.
“I deserved that, Miss Oliver—or I can see why you think I did. It's best we uncover the truth now, don't you agree?”

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