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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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Louisa blinked. Her arm still retained the feeling of his fingers; her ears were full of his voice, all politeness after her insult. “What is the truth, then?”
“I do not pretend,” he said, “to misunderstand your reference. Your sister and Lord Matheson began their romance under shocking circumstances, which I accidentally stumbled upon. You believe I then informed the London scandal sheets.”
Louisa looked at her hands, clenched white-knuckled in her lap. “I see no need to discuss it.”
“You are the one who introduced the subject.” His voice was low and smooth, yet in her peripheral vision, she could see his long form held taut and still. “And you ought to know what I've done. I can't bear to be scorned for an outcome that's none of my doing, when there's reason enough to hate me on my own merits.”
“Or lack thereof.”
He let this pass. “I did, indeed, tell a friend what I'd seen at Matheson's house, but that was the end of my involvement. A vulgar joke between bachelor friends as they shared a brandy at White's. I can only assume a servant overheard and sold the story.”
His fingers reached out to brush her clenched hands, forcing her to look at him. “I am sorry, Miss Oliver. I never intended for anyone to be hurt.”
Swiftly, Louisa drew her hands out of his reach, but her eyes fixed on his face. Lord Xavier's eyes were troubled; his hair was mussed from when he'd dragged a hand through it. His urbane mask had been cast aside, his sculpted perfection crumbled.
The air before the extravagant fire felt over-warm and heavy, and she struggled to fill her lungs. Could she believe him? For months, she'd disdained him and resented him. It was better than turning such feelings on herself as her family crumpled under the weight of scandal.
They had recovered, though, through daring and determination. James and Julia were happily married. And Louisa was . . . well, she was here, hoping to start anew.
And Xavier hoped for the same. With an apology, he had turned himself from a pasteboard villain into a human.
“Thank you for telling me,” she managed.
“Thank you for listening,” he said. “I wished to tell Matheson the same, but he never responded to my letters.”
“Likely he was too angry before his marriage, then too happy afterward.” Louisa gave a little shrug, as though a cast-off friendship meant nothing to her good-natured brother-in-law.
She wanted Xavier to leave, to let her be alone with the comfort of books and the mystery of her troubled thoughts. She had to revise her catalogue of him, yet she wasn't sure of the final result. Should she strike from it
heedless of friends
and
eager for scandal
, and substitute
careless
?
Determined to be shallow
?
Blessed with a library and a mind for books, and content to let both molder
?
Careless
covered it all. It was less wicked than being intentionally unkind, though no more admirable.
Louisa schooled her own expression into a sweet blank. “You need not stay with me if you don't wish to, my lord. I know you're only here because of the wager.”
His eye twitched, and she added with false innocence, “From our game of speculation. Our wager of time.”
“Naturally.” Again, Xavier gave his too-wide smile, which he apparently thought was charming. “But I would consider it shameful to give up on a wager early.”
“You have an unusual concept of shame,” Louisa muttered.
His smile widened. “Some would express surprise that I have any sense of shame at all.”
“I imagine you're proud of that.” Louisa felt suddenly as though scraping together her sentences was a pointless exhaustion.
“You've taken a harsh measure of me, haven't you, Miss Oliver? It's a blow to be criticized in my own home, but I daresay I can tolerate it. Your honesty's rather refreshing.”
“I can offer you a bit more, if you like it so much.”
“As you'll be here for two weeks, let us parcel it out.” He stood, rolling his shoulders, then settled on the arm of his chair and braced himself with long, hard-muscled legs. Clad as they were in snug trousers and high-glossed top boots, it was impossible to overlook their form.
“Mmm.” Louisa squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment. The treachery of her own body was sudden and hot.
Xavier evidently took her noise as a noncommittal reply rather than a wish to trail a hand up the length of his thigh. “Each day, you may tell me one thing you hate about me. It will be like the twelve days of Christmas, only I'll receive my gifts early.”
“I wouldn't say I feel hatred, exactly.”
“No? What is it then?” His gray eyes flicked over her face, pulling apart every thought in her mind.
Except one:
this is what he does
. This interplay, this baiting. Such thoughtlessness, to gossip about a friend; to wager ten pounds on a virtual stranger.
Louisa would not allow him to toy with her and toss her away like a too-small fish. He would not be permitted to be thoughtless of her anymore. If he wanted to win ten pounds for keeping her at his house, he would have to earn them with his own pound of flesh.
“I'll tell you tomorrow, my lord, if you'll meet me here at the same time.”
“My dear Miss Oliver, are you setting up an assignation with me?”
“There's no need,” she said. “With a man of your reputation, a woman can simply leap when she wants something.”
“Yet you are willing to be alone with me. Aren't you afraid I'll leap upon
you
?”
He was stubbornly devoted to his role, but he'd given her a clue he might not have intended. Despite his determined outrageousness, he liked books—or one book in particular.
She stood, then walked away from him to the slim volume of Dante he'd cast onto a shelf. The old leather binding was soft as cloth under her fingertips. From memory, she translated the opening verses. “‘Midway through our life's journey, I found myself within a shadowy forest, for I had lost the straightforward path.'”
Behind her, his voice picked up the thread. “‘It is hard to speak of it, that savage, rough forest. Even to think of it renews my fear.'”
She turned to face him again.
“You know Dante,” he said. He tilted his head, looking as suspicious as if he'd caught her paging through his household accounts.
“I know a great many things, my lord. Including this: A woman of my reputation—an
intellectual type
, I mean—has nothing to fear from men who walk your path. Our destinations lie in wholly opposite directions.”
His booted feet swung, kicking against the cabriole leg of his armchair. “I'm sure you are a very intelligent woman. But you don't know as much as you think.”
Those cool gray eyes held tight to hers, and she was captured as though the old Italian verses had been a bewitchment. Her skin felt warm, her gown's bodice too tight. It was banded around her breasts, their tips sensitive and eager. She was trapped, and she wanted to slip free from her old self and flee it. Even to think of it renewed her fear.
Her voice came out throaty. “I know more than enough, my lord.”
His brows knitted. “Are you well, Miss Oliver? You sound a bit hoarse. Shall I ring for some tea?”
He rose to his feet and strode away from her to the bell pull. Just as his hand reached to tug it, one of the library's tall wooden doors swung open and Lord Lockwood ambled in.
“Here you are, Coz. I
thought
I'd find you amusing yourself with some sort of female.” He smirked.
Louisa tugged herself back into mental order, as though plaiting her thoughts and putting a dressing gown on her desires. “I doubt very much that his lordship was amused,” she said in a bored tone. “But he was all graciousness in showing me his library.”
“Ah. You found the experience pleasurable, then?” The marquess waggled his brows.
Louisa darted a quick look at Xavier, who rolled his eyes in the same God-help-us expression she'd often used toward her young siblings. A smile tugged at her lips, all the sweeter for being a surprise.
“It has . . . potential,” she said.
“You gratify me deeply.” Xavier seemed all bland condescension, but one eyelid flickered. A wink?
“I am devastated to interrupt such wild debauchery,” Lockwood said. “But your opera singer has extinguished one of her damned cigarillos on Lady Alleyneham's embroidery. The women are at each other's throats. Almost literally.”
Xavier frowned. “Lockwood, please don't be coarse in front of a lady. I trust we're in no danger of burning the Hall down?”
“Not immediately, no. But do come, man. Make them stop shrieking at one another.” The marquess grabbed for Xavier's arm.
Xavier cast a look back at Louisa, whose fingers still rested on the butter-soft leather of the Dante binding. “You needn't worry about me, my lord,” she said. “Please, go restore your guests to happiness, or whatever state it was they were trying to attain.”
His mouth kicked up on one side. “You are graciousness personified, Miss Oliver. But you owe me more of your time. Don't think I'll forget.”
“I would never suspect you of such indifference,” she said dryly.
She looked back at the bookcases as the heavy library door closed behind the two noblemen. In the sudden solitude, the shelves seemed endless, the dizzying runs of volumes boxing her in.
She drew a deep breath. She'd already encountered a few surprises in this lovely room. Her host liked Dante. He hadn't been deliberately unkind to James, or to Louisa herself, all those months ago. And he'd dropped his careful, false charm a few times.
There might be a real person under the meticulously designed rake. She hadn't expected that.
Since Xavier had surprised her, she would have to surprise herself, too. This house party was sure to be a fortnight's adventure. If Lord Xavier expected her to adore him, she'd show him: she was not so easily fascinated. If Lord Lockwood thought he could intimidate her, she'd show him: she could not be frightened.
And if neither of those things was precisely true, only she would know. During her awkward, lonely London season, she had perfected the art of impassive expressions and meaningless conversation. No one would take her true measure.
She wondered which of her evening dresses showed the most bosom.
Chapter 5
Containing a Red Blindfold, Used to Great Effect
“We could play sardines,” suggested Lockwood, smiling with all the oiliness of one of those tiny fish.
“That's a child's game, Lockwood,” Jane countered with a sniff of her little nose. “Blind-man's buff would be much better.”
“I am adore the game with
porco
.” Signora Frittarelli lowered her heavy eyelids and blew a cloud of smoke from her cigarillo, ignoring Lady Alleyneham's theatrical fit of coughing.
“Ah. You mean you wish to make the beast with two backs?” Lockwood smiled at the singer, who looked at him blankly and dragged on her cigarillo once more.
“She's referring to ‘squeak piggy squeak,' you nodcock,” Xavier muttered.
After dinner, port, and tobacco—for which
la signora
had remained in the dining room, and which she seemed to enjoy more than any of the men—Xavier had herded his guests into the most formal of Clifton Hall's drawing rooms. A thick Turkey carpet cushioned their feet, while the patterned Chinese wallpaper and the crystals of the ornate chandelier magnified the candlelight and firelight into a soft, forgiving glow.
If only Xavier felt similarly forgiving. But he didn't, because his guests were plaguing the life out of him.
Earlier in the afternoon, Lockwood had dragged him away from a tentative peace with Miss Oliver to make another tentative peace; this time between a fluttery noblewoman with a few singed embroidery silks and a notorious singer with dubious manners. The exchange was not exactly sanguine. More than ever, Xavier felt like a diplomat, overseeing negotiations between two rival factions: the proper and the salacious.
And Lockwood was determined to cause all the trouble he possibly could. “I'd squeak with you, Miss Oliver,” he was saying. “If we play that exhilarating game.”
Xavier pressed at the bridge of his nose. He had a terrible headache. He hadn't slept well since the house party began. And he'd been sleeping alone. For a long, long while.
Lockwood had arranged the terms of their latest wager quite cleverly. He had nothing to lose except another pittance, while against his trifling sum, Xavier had staked his reputation as the
ton
's most infallible, most entertaining libertine. The whole debacle hinged on the presence of one sharp-tongued bluestocking. Who half hated him.
Speaking of that creature—Miss Oliver looked luscious tonight in an evening frock of deep pink crepe. Her dark brown hair was coiled tightly, yet looked as soft and rich as velvet, and her cheeks were rosy, probably in response to Lockwood's sallies.
He saw Miss Oliver give Lockwood a sweet smile and lift her chin. “If you reveal all your secrets, my lord, you're certain to lose any game you play. Lord Xavier, wouldn't you agree?”
She turned to face him, her dark eyes bold and bright. The curve of her neck was so graceful, the semicircle of skin above her bodice so softly, touchably pale, that it took Xavier a moment to realize a response was expected of him.
His hand dropped, his headache dissolving. “I'll agree with anything a lady wishes,” he said automatically, “and even more that a woman desires.”
She gave him a pitying smile, and Xavier's practiced innuendo turned cheap and metallic in his mouth—as though he'd offered a farthing when a guinea was deserved.
He tried again, stumbling back over his words, addressing the roomful of guests. “By all means, let us safeguard our intimate secrets until later in the evening. Those of you who wish to engage in, ah, private amusements may take your leave whenever you wish, but I think a game of blind-man's buff will do well for the rest of us.”
As several guests scrabbled for the door, and each other, Jane grinned her triumph. “Lockwood, you've as good as lost already, the way you lumber about.”
“I don't—” The marquess cut himself off and glared at Jane. “I'll bet ten pounds that I can catch someone quicker than you can.”
“Make it fifty,” said Lady Irving. The countess was seated in a tall wing chair, which she'd probably chosen for its resemblance to a throne. “A ten-pound note is hardly worth dragging out to blow my nose upon.”
Lockwood's jaw went slack.
Xavier settled himself into a chair to enjoy the show. He could use a little respite. In the few minutes since he'd rejoined the women in the drawing room, he'd already dragged his hands through his hair so many times that it probably looked like a dandy brush.
“Why must we bet these pounds?”
La signora
blew a perfect O of smoke and watched it dissipate. “
Perché non qualcosa di più intimo?
”
“I see no need for us to use a heathen tongue while in England,” said Lady Alleyneham, whose manners seemed to be evaporating along with the smoke from the opera singer's cigarillos.
“That's because you've never experienced the proper use of a heathen tongue.” Lady Irving cleared her throat. “Though you didn't hear me say that, Louisa, my girl. Nor you, Miss Tindall.”
“Nor did my daughters, Estella, I assure you.” Lady Alleyneham shot her old acquaintance a frosty look. “I believe we shall retire early tonight. Daughters?”
Lady Irving shrugged. “Suit yourself, Sylvia. But you'll never catch husbands for your girls by herding them off to their bedchambers. Not unless they're cleverer than you know.”
As Lady Alleyneham huffed and hustled her protesting daughters from the drawing room, Xavier's shoulders relaxed. Mrs. Tindall, Jane's mother, was snoring in a tapestry armchair near the fire. The warmth, and the sherry she'd consumed, would keep the nominal hostess of this party safely oblivious to the goings-on in the room.
Now all Xavier had to do was make sure Lockwood behaved himself. And Jane, too. And he'd have to keep the others from getting raucous enough to horrify Miss Oliver.
His gaze unfurled over Miss Oliver's fair skin again, stroking its warmth.
Too much; he looked too long. She sensed his scrutiny and turned her head in his direction. Her brows lifted, and he prepared himself for a chilly stare down the length of her nose.
Instead, she gave him a wicked little caught-you smile. Before he'd drunk in the expression for nearly long enough, she turned back to Jane and made his cousin laugh at something or other, then joined in.
Did Xavier himself ever laugh? He couldn't remember the last time he had. Usually he limited himself to Amused Tolerance; a chuckle at most. To laugh from the belly, as had Jane and Miss Oliver—
Louisa
, Jane called her—was a freedom he hadn't allowed himself in years.
How odd, that watching others laugh should make him feel the opposite of joyful.
He shoved himself to his feet and snapped a fistful of paper spills from the holder on the mantel. Folding one in half and hiding it amongst its fellows in his fist, he said, “Those of you who wish to play blind-man's buff, come draw from my hand. Our first blind man will be the one with the short spill. And our wager . . .
qualcosa di più intimo
.”
Something a little more intimate
. It would be better than sending Jane or Lockwood into a frenzy of wagering with that gimlet-eyed Lady Irving. Xavier's relatives seemed determined to impoverish themselves.
“A kiss?” This from Mrs. Protheroe, whose wide mouth was already pursed and waiting. “The one who is captured receives a kiss from the blind man.”
Lockwood grinned. “From the right person, a kiss could be worth more than ten pounds.”
“No kiss is worth fifty pounds,” replied Lady Irving. “Which is what I suggested we bet.”
“My dear lady,” Xavier interjected, “let us save the exchange of cold coin for the card tables. At night, the wagering will be of a warmer sort.”
The countess wasn't without humor. She pursed her lips and nodded. “You young rogue.”
“Exactly.” He flexed his fist so the short spill poked up highest, then approached Lord Weatherwax. The cotton-haired, cotton-headed nobleman was nodding over a snifter he'd procured from God-only-knew where. He could be trusted to stumble around in an entertaining manner, and his inebriation ensured that the young ladies would have better balance than he. A safe choice for a scandalous game. Everyone knew blind-man's buff was only an excuse for public groping.
“Weatherwax?” Xavier cleared his throat when the man didn't respond. “Do you care to choose a spill?”
“Thank you, Coz.” With a quick yank, Lockwood caught Xavier's arm and drew the upthrust short spill from his fist. “My, my. What luck.”
“You must stop grabbing at my person, Lockwood.” Xavier crushed the remaining spills in his fist. “Anyone would think you had a tendre for me.”
Lockwood grinned. “Not for you, Coz. Decidedly not for you.” He looked around the room. “Ladies? Who wants to blindfold me?”
The silence dragged out a second too long before Lady Irving stood and shook out her heavy skirts. They were a brighter scarlet than the pattern on the Turkey carpet. Xavier had to squint as she approached him and Lockwood.
“I'll see to you, you rapscallion,” said the countess. “You needn't think you'll be peeking when I'm done with you.”
“Uh.” Lockwood shut his eyes and mustered a smile. “Very well.”
“While they're occupied, let us shift the furniture.” Xavier laid hands on the back of a chair. “Mind you don't wake Mrs. Tindall, or we'll have to behave ourselves properly.”
Guests began to move, clearing furniture from the center of the room more quietly than Xavier would have thought possible. “I had no idea the cream of society had such impressive manual skills,” he murmured.
Louisa slipped from behind a settee and took a place at his side. “We do your bidding so efficiently out of regard for you, my lord.”
“Am I so well-loved?”
“I've no idea,” she said. “But I'm convinced, and I'd wager the others are, too, that if you were forced to behave properly, you would die on the spot. And it would be
such
an inconvenience to the servants to deal with a death at this hour.”
For an excruciating moment, he could only blink down at her.
It would be undignified, unmanly, to ask,
If you hate me so much, why did you come?
But she didn't hate him; she'd given him that meager assurance. And she was smiling again, right at him, that sweetly bright and wicked crescent-moon smile, and his neckcloth was over-tight around his throat.
“You are all courtesy, Miss Oliver,” he said. “Well, not
all
courtesy. There's something distinctly different from courtesy in your manner.”
“So you noticed.” God, her lips were the exact shade of a raspberry. “I didn't think practiced rakes ever paid the slightest attention to bluestockings such as myself.”
“Will you please cease referring to yourself as a bluestocking? I find it tedious in the extreme.”
“So the dog barks, despite all the petting he receives.”
“Miss Oliver, your tongue is sharp enough to shave with.” Now he
was
barking at her. He folded his arms, reminding himself that he was an earl, and this was his home, and his party, and . . . and none of that mattered to her, did it?
Maybe she hadn't forgiven him. Or maybe she was just a shrew. A shrew who stood at the perfect height for him to breathe in the scent of her hair.
Lilies
.
“Better sharp than heathen? Some would say so.” She turned away. “Ah, it looks as though the floor has been cleared. We must put an end to our delightful conversation and join the others. I'm bereft, but I'm willing to make the sacrifice.”
Without another glance at him, she strode to the center of the far wall and took her place next to his cousin Jane again. They were laughing once more within seconds.
Xavier began to pick his way through the furniture around the edges of the room, moving as silently as he could in the direction of the two young women. A vague sense of responsibility drove him to keep a closer eye on them.
It was like a toothache, this responsibility. A man could never be at ease as long as he had someone to watch over. Why had he agreed to it?
Lockwood shuffled into the center of the room as soon as Lady Irving had tied the last knot in the red scarf about his head. “Let the games begin,” he called.
With a shriek, Mrs. Protheroe—a widow of lusty reputation—darted through the center of the room and just missed being clutched by Lockwood's questing hands. This triggered a roil of movement, as men pressed to the edges of the room and women, laughing, pushed their way forward. Voices rose in a clamor, like a flock of parrots screeching as they took flight.

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