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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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“I rather thought I'd be a widow like you,” Louisa said. “That way I can give the world my opinion and tell everyone else to shove their own.”
“It's an excellent plan, with one flaw.” The countess stretched, her stays creaking audibly beneath the puce satin of her gown. “You've got to marry first. I planned on being a young widow, too, but I still had to put up with Lord Irving for several years. It'd be best to marry someone you can tolerate.”
“And you think I can tolerate Lord Xavier.” Louisa stood, turning away from her aunt, and stepped over to the dressing table on which she'd arranged her comb, brush, and a few little bottles of unguents and scents.
“I think you can do more than that.” Her aunt's voice was sharp, knowing. “I've seen the way you look at him.”
“I can't imagine what you mean, Aunt.” She arranged and rearranged the dainty little objects. They could form a hexagon. A pentagon. A border on either side of the dressing table.
“You look at him as though he's a fox and you're a hound. And he looks at you as though he thinks the same.”
“That he's a hound? He's
some
sort of dog.” A rectangle, this time. The comb and brush made the short sides.
“No. He looks at you as though
you're
the hound and he's the fox. He's fascinated by you, my girl, and a bit afraid, too, I wouldn't wonder. All in all, that's not a bad foundation for a marriage.”
Louisa's hand slipped and knocked over a bottle of perfumed oil. The stopper popped out, spilling lily-scented oil on the sleek wood of the table. “Drat. I'm sorry, Aunt Estella, but I've just—I need a cloth.”
Lady Irving tutted, then whisked forth her lime-colored fichu. “Here, here. It'll do as well as a handkerchief. No, I don't want it back; I'd smell like I'd vomited up flowers.”
As Louisa wiped up the scented oil with her aunt's gaudy lace, Lady Irving pressed on. “How is your work with the books going, my girl? Are you happy now that you've got your hands on one of the finest old libraries in Surrey?”
“The library is everything I hoped it would be.” Louisa knew her voice sounded flat, but at least she wasn't blushing the color of a poppy.
“And is it all you want?” Her aunt was far too perceptive.
“It's all I want in a library,” Louisa said.
“That's a weasel of an answer.”
“I know. But it's all I'm sure of right now.”
Lady Irving shifted again, trailing a ringed finger over the arm of the chair, then reaching for the carved edge of the fireplace. “Marble,” she commented. “Nothing but the finest.”
She looked up, her eyes the clear russet of brandy in the fire's glow. “My girl, I believe that's the first time you've ever admitted you were unsure of something.”
“Nonsense. I—” Louisa stopped when her aunt raised penciled eyebrows. “I probably have admitted that before.”
“Hmm.” Lady Irving shoved her feet back into her slippers, then stood with another creak of stays. “I'm glad you're trying something new, my girl. Leaving a place doesn't do you any good if you take all your problems with you.”
Louisa shuffled her foot, not sure what to say. And then her eye caught the plain, worn binding of
Fanny Hill
.
At home, she helped her stepmother take care of her young half-siblings. With her sister, Julia, and Julia's husband, James, she was the odd one out, useless as a third wheel on a curricle. And as a third wheel on a curricle would, she sapped the excitement from their journey. No one needed her at either place.
Here, her role was not set. Not yet. She could be anyone.
“I don't think I've brought my problems with me.” She offered a wry little smile, a carefully composed expression that combined humor and mischief and a touch of secret. It was good work. She'd practiced it many times during her dreadful London season.
Her aunt's eyes were sharp and bright. Her mouth quivered, and she drew Louisa into a quick hug.
“That's my girl,” said Lady Irving. “Now, mind you wear something dashing for dinner. I want Lord Xavier to be salivating over your chest.”
“Um.”
“Exactly.” With a pat on Louisa's cheek, Lady Irving strode out of the room as abruptly as she'd come in.
Louisa blew out a deep breath, sinking onto the edge of the bed's rich red counterpane. No, she hadn't brought her family problems with her.
But she had a new set of problems now. She had two wagering-mad noblemen to best, and a most inconvenient desire to master. Or not to master at all.
It felt like the beginnings of a life of her own.
The novelty was sweet, in its way.
Chapter 8
Containing a Dreadful Imitation of a Stag
Considering he'd had no plans for “something marvelous” when he'd talked with Lockwood the afternoon before, Xavier thought he had put together a decent activity for his guests.
“But what
is
it?” Jane persisted, half running to keep up with Xavier's long strides. “I don't want to walk halfway across your estate if you've got something dreadful in store. I can be bored indoors without freezing off my—”
“
Jane
,” he warned.
“—toes,” she finished. “Good Lord. How suspicious you are, Xavier. Does that come with querulous old age?”
Xavier made no reply; he just lengthened his stride a bit more. It was an effective revenge, because Jane was forced to drop back from his side.
He enjoyed a few minutes of blessed quiet then, as he led his house party to the seldom-used folly on his estate. It was about a half mile southeast of the house, a small building in a clearing. He hoped the servants had carried everything out according to his instruction.
This wasn't an unpleasant day to be outside, no matter how Jane complained. The weather was mild for late December, though the breeze did have a sharp nip. A few ridges of pitted, soggy snow remained against tree trunks, and the ground was spongy from fog and rain, pleasantly soft underfoot. The last of autumn's dry, curled leaves crunched beneath his boots. Behind him, he heard bubbling voices and an occasional peal of laughter.
There was a peace in the bracing wind, the heedlessness of the leaves that danced toward him and away. Xavier's head was still full of
maybes
which not even page after page of Dante had been able to chase away the night before. Today his eyes felt dry and gritty.
But he had a role to play. They all would, once they reached their destination. That was the brilliance of his plan.
Ah, there was the folly. The walk hadn't been at all strenuous, especially after he got away from Jane's yawping.
The small building was a delicately wrought eight-sided Gothic temple atop a gentle hill, a stark, bright white against the gray-brown of the trees that surrounded it. The structure was all arch and turret, of no earthly use whatsoever except to look beautiful. Cushioned benches ran around its inside edges between each pointed archway, and in front of it was a giant cauldron hanging over a banked fire.
An enticing smell of spice and sugar, sharpened with the tang of strong spirits, wafted from the cauldron to greet the guests. A tray of copper tankards lay before it.
Good. The scene was set.
“Rum punch,” called Lord Weatherwax. “Very festive. Excellent on a cool day like today.” Beneath the floppy brim of his hat, the wind had snarled his downy white hair and bitten his nose red. He looked a trifle insane, though harmlessly so.
Behind him, the other guests trailed toward the folly in a long, ragged line.
“It is indeed rum punch,” Xavier confirmed. “My butler, Wheeling, mixed it himself. It is a point of pride with him.”
“What have you planned for us, my lord?” Lady Charissa Bradleigh demanded. “You said you were going to give us all cause for celebration.”
“Ah yes,” Xavier replied. “I did.”
He paused until all the guests, some huffing with effort, reached the folly. They clustered around the warmth of the cauldron, and Weatherwax, that old inebriate, took it upon himself to begin ladling out punch to anyone who picked up a tankard.
“I told you all a slight untruth,” Xavier said. “You are to give
me
a cause for celebration.”
Puzzled faces stared back at him, and he continued. “As I'm sure you all know, today is Christmas Eve. I don't intend to ask you to do anything so prosaic as cut greenery or find a Yule log. Tradition is for those who can think of nothing better to do by way of celebration.”
“And you've thought of something better?”
This from Louisa, of course.
She was swaddled in a scarlet hood and pelisse, her hands stuffed into a muff the same rich brown as her hair. Against the colorless sky and ground, she seemed the only vivid thing in the world.
“That depends on you,” he replied, and his lips silently shaped the word
muffin
for the pleasure of watching her breeze-pinked cheeks turn a deeper shade.
He waved the guests into the folly, toward the benches, and added more loudly, “It depends on all of you. I ask you to share your talents, and if we all find the entertainment more compelling than denuding trees, we'll have ourselves a pleasant Christmas Eve.”
Which expression would work best now? He settled on Expression Number Two, Haughty Certainty. That usually convinced the sheep of the
ton
that an idea was worthwhile.
“What talents you say?”
La signora
this time. “You wish I sing?”
She had thrown back her cape, the better to display her undeniably magnificent bosom. With her chin raised and her dark eyes defiant, she looked more like Mozart's Commendatore than his Donna Anna.
Xavier smothered a genuine smile at the thought, then contorted it into Expression Number Three, Amused Tolerance. “Not if you have another talent you wish to display. You must all be at your most innovative. The most talented guest will be permitted to name a favor or set the next wager.”
As he spoke, he made his voice calmer, more languid. If he sounded as though he didn't care whether they agreed or not, they'd be more likely to agree. Especially with a little rum punch in them.
It would be more amusing if they weren't so predictable.
“Presumptuous, aren't you, Xavier? We are not all performing monkeys,” Lady Irving barked. “I don't have any talents that I wish to trot out for the group.”
All right, they weren't
all
predictable.
More of Expression Number Three. “My dear lady, knowing your incisive wit, I should never dream of asking anything of you but to drink and be merry. Your own talent can be demonstrated by sitting aside and passing judgment upon others.”
Lady Irving's eyebrows shot up. “You want me to get tipsy and criticize everyone.”
“I knew you'd put the right words to it.”
She choked. “It seems Christmas has come a day early this year. That's the best gift I've ever been given.”
“I want a gift, too,” pouted Lady Audrina Bradleigh. “What will you give me?”
The youngest of Lady Alleyneham's numerous daughters, and the boldest, sat at the side of her skittish mother. The countess looked as though she was poised on the balls of her feet, ready to sit or bolt as his reply dictated.
Maybe
. Maybe he didn't want to give the usual sort of reply, as maidens and chaperones stared at him, as
la signora
wielded her bosom like a deadly weapon. He was particularly aware of Louisa's gaze, like prickling heat at the nape of his neck.
Yet Lockwood had been right; Xavier bore the responsibility for the success or failure of this house party.
So be it: he would create a diversion. A diversion so diverting that they would all be delighted, and he would disarm any disastrous designs.
He rubbed at the back of his neck, as though his mental alliteration was Louisa's fault.
“My gift,” he said, looking over the heads of all his seated guests, “is to perform first.”
He
had
to stop saying things without having a clue what he intended to do.
Expression Two, then: Haughty Certainty. His mind reeled, and he stalled. “I will require the assistance of Mrs. Tindall. If you don't mind, Cousin?”
His hostess had just settled herself with a tankard of punch, and her ruddy face bore an expression of great contentment. Her small eyes blinked wide with surprise.
“No no, dear,” she said. “You can't want me. Have Janie help you instead.”
Xavier pivoted slowly to face Jane. “Yes,” he said. “Miss Tindall will serve the purpose.”
Jane stood, her jaw set. “What fool thing are you going to ask me to do?”
At last, Xavier had an idea. “We shall perform a charade together.”
When she blanched, he whispered his plan in her ear, battering her with words until she gave in. “You're a madman, Xavier.”
“Careful, my dear cousin. Insanity runs in the family,” he said cheerfully. He looked at Louisa for a reaction and was please to note a suppressed laugh behind her glove.
He turned back to Jane. “Goddess, to your bath. Would you care to use the cauldron? I can have it emptied.”
“You're mad,” Jane said again in a resigned voice. She plopped down at the center of the patterned stone floor. “Mercy, it's cold.” She sighed. “I'll have a bath to warm up.”
With dispirited gestures, she began to mime taking a bath. “Dum de dum dum, I am a goddess. Dum de dum, I hope no one watches me in the bath. Dum de dum dum. I'm soaping my arms. Dum de dum dum. I love to hunt. I hope no one walks by. I would hate to get up off of this cold floor—I mean, out of my warm bath. Dum de dum dum.”
“That's the worst singing I've ever heard,” Lady Irving commented loudly. “I hope she's portraying Jean-Paul Marat, so Xavier will come and kill her.”
“Aunt, how can you say so?” Louisa sounded shocked. “That's a dreadful guess. She said she was a goddess, which Marat decidedly was not.”
“Helen of Troy!” Lady Alleyneham squealed, patting plump hands together.
“She wasn't a goddess, either,” muttered Jane. “Which I am. Dum de dum dum.”
“She was a goddess of beauty,” said Lord Kirkpatrick. He turned his head to the side, displaying his sharp profile. Good Lord. The man really did want everyone to think he was Byron.
Still, the guests were interested enough. Which meant it was time for Xavier to play his own part. He took a deep breath and prepared to make an idiot of himself.
“Strictly speaking, you ought not to make a sound during our charade, Jane,” he said, then darted out through one of the folly's Gothic archways and stood half hidden behind a delicate column.
Jane rolled her eyes and continued to mouth words as she acted out her bath. If he was reading her lips aright, she had an impressive vocabulary of swear words.
Idiot-making time.
He strolled halfway across the span of one archway, one hand up to his shoulder as though supporting a quiver of arrows. When he saw Jane, he stopped walking. He let his jaw sag open and his eyes bug out. He turned to face her, his arms limp at his sides, standing rooted, staring.
“Xavier, there's no future for you on the stage,” Lady Irving called. “You look more like a half-wit than a man in love.”
“There is no difference, my lady,” Lord Lockwood replied.
Xavier shot his cousin a quick Look, then returned to gaping at Jane. She continued to scrub at her arm with an invisible sponge for a few more seconds, then turned her head. Her face froze, and her eyes narrowed as she saw him. Unfolding her small frame with such majesty that she seemed much taller, she stood, pivoted on the balls of her feet, and pointed an imperious finger at him.
Well. She was quite good.
He clutched at his throat, indicating his silence, and Jane nodded haughtily and began to turn away. Xavier stamped his feet, holding a hand up to his mouth as if calling for help.
Jane whipped her head back and pointed at him again. So white-angry was her face that her small gloved hand seemed to carry a current. She was a goddess disobeyed; her expression was terrible and majestic.
“Now
that
's an actress,” Lady Irving said. “And I mean that in the most complimentary of terms.”
“Well done, Janie,” echoed Mrs. Tindall over the edge of her tankard. “You look ever so fearsome.”
No compliments for him? Ah, well. The charade was almost played out.
He clutched at his chest, scrabbling at his clothing, sending his hat scudding across the floor of the folly.
What would it feel like to suffocate, with everyone staring at him?
He twisted back and forth in feigned agony, shuddering and crumpling down, down, until he touched the earth with his hands.
That was that. As soon as all fours touched the earth, he lifted his head, all pain gone. His eyes blinked wide, and he turned his head in all directions with short movements.
“He's a sheep,” guessed Lady Alleyneham.
“Who can tell?” Lady Irving replied. “He's dreadful.”
“Aunt,” Louisa said again. “He's a stag, don't you see? Actaeon, interrupting the goddess Diana in the bath. Diana turned him into a stag as punishment for watching her.”

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