Rules of Surrender Page 7

  And in a move that Lady Ruskin would have admired, she twirled on her heel and stalked away.

  CHAPTER 8

  Charlotte made it to the stairway before she stopped, hand on the carved newel post. How was she going to explain this scene to Hannah and Pamela? She had lost her temper, her common sense, her equanimity because of one man and his…his…surliness.

  It was not his charm which had so shaken her.

  Not that it mattered. No matter what the provocation, she had never created a spectacle before. And in front of the children! If Miss Priss behaved in such a bellicose manner, they could certainly be excused for thinking they could.

  Except they couldn't. She had kept herself awake at night worrying how to successfully integrate these children into English society. Now she wouldn't be there to guide them, and she'd set a bad example. She had betrayed the trust the children had put in her.

  More, how could she have forgotten herself so much as to quit her desperately needed employment? She had tarnished her own sterling reputation. She had lied to Adorna when she had guaranteed she would succeed. She had lost the hundred pounds paid to the Governess School as a placement fee, putting her friends' venture in peril.

  With one hand, she clasped the post until the sharp edges pressed into her palm. The other she used to pull her handkerchief from her sleeve and swipe at her damp eyes. She hated knowing she had been a fool for any reason, but to be foolish over a man! Ah, that was the greatest humiliation.

  The door from the terrace slammed so hard the windows quivered, and Charlotte stuffed her handkerchief away. Heels clattered lightly, hurrying along the wooden floor. Leila. Or Robbie. The thought of either of the children seeing her in this state started her up the stairs with what she hoped was commendable dignity. She wanted no one to see her crying.

  But Leila called, "Lady Miss Charlotte, come at once! You must come and see."

  Charlotte didn't turn, but spoke over her shoulder. "I can't, Leila. I have to pack."

  Leila never had use for subtlety, and certainly could not comprehend the need for it now. She raced up the stairs and grabbed Charlotte's hand. "You must come! Now!"

  Charlotte glanced at the child clinging to her. Hope and anxiety lit that thin face, and Charlotte's chest tightened. She didn't want to leave Leila. Leila was like a vine that needed support and training to one day be the centerpiece of the garden, and Charlotte knew no other governess could ever be as sensitive to the girl's needs. She took a few steps down.

  But she wouldn't yield to that ape Wynter's coercion. She stopped.

  "Come on!" Leila maintained a steady pressure, and for a small child, she had a powerful tow. Charlotte trailed behind, arguing with herself. She didn't really want to quit, but how could she face Wynter? In the sunshine he could view her and know he'd made her cry.

  The door loomed before her, the sunny terrace showed through the paned glass and Leila must have suspected Charlotte's renewed reluctance, for she said again in an excited voice, "Look!"

  All right. Charlotte looked, then her chin raised defiantly.

  There he sat, napkin in lap, chin jutting out, arms crossed across his chest, staring straight ahead. Impatiently, as if she were at fault, he demanded, "Well, Miss Dalrumple? Are you done running away, or are you going to stay and teach us?"

  She ruffled up, belligerent and defensive, taking umbrage immediately. Then what he'd said caught her attention.

  Teach us. Us. With that one word, he indicated he was willing to do as she instructed, and she didn't care if he pretended that scene was all her fault—any insult would be amply rewarded by having him under her domination.

  And of course she would have employment, satisfy Adorna, save the Governess School and help the children. Those were the things that really mattered.

  "Lady Miss Charlotte?" Leila said in a small voice.

  A very serious-looking Robbie was holding her chair. She took a moment to smooth Leila's hair, then she seated herself with a smile. "Thank you, Robbie."

  The servants that had been nowhere in sight a few moments ago appeared, and at her command removed the soup and brought a platter of cold, sliced roast beef surrounded by broiled mushroom caps, a basket of warm, yeasty-smelling finger rolls and a bowl of oat pudding. If anything, they bowed themselves away faster this time; if possible, the servants always disappeared when the master was glowering.

  And Wynter was glowering. Obviously, and not surprisingly, it was up to Charlotte to act in an adult manner.

  In her most civil tone, she said, "My lord, since we didn't know you would be dining with us, this is a plain supper, created with the children's immature digestion and haphazard handling of silverware in mind."

  "I like plain food." Wynter sounded faintly sulky.

  Leila whimpered. "Daddy, are you still mad?"

  He glanced at his daughter and saw the tears in her eyes. With visible effort, he changed his manner. "Not at all! I was just telling Lady Miss Charlotte that I'm a simple man who has much missed plain English food."

  Charlotte smiled at him, a mere stretching of the lips. "Of course, my lord, I knew that."

  He smiled back with equal effort. "If you would, Lady Miss Charlotte, please pass me the roast beef."

  The atmosphere was subdued as the plates were filled, and the children tried hard to handle the forks and knives without clattering them against the china. They didn't do well; too many years of eating with their fingers had left them inept. But they handled the utensils with more skill than they had a fortnight ago, and for the first time, they were trying—because their father was complying. His cooperation was all she needed. All she'd ever needed.

  When everyone had started on the meal, Charlotte decided she should guide the children—and Wynter— a little further down the trail of etiquette. "At this point in our dinner party, you are allowed to make a personal comment, to tell something about yourself so the others can respond." She considered them impartially. "You may start, Leila."

  A frown creased Leila's forehead. Then she brightened. Sounding as refined as Adorna herself, she said, "Nurse says the reason my bottom itches is because I sat in nettles."

  Charlotte found herself unable to speak, choked by an instantaneous, inappropriate desire to laugh.

  Robbie rose to the occasion. Perhaps because he saw nothing wrong with Leila's comment. Perhaps because he was curious. "Does it itch as much as sand?"

  "Oo, yeah, a lot more." Leila rolled her eyes and rubbed at the affected part of her anatomy. "You can wash the sand out."

  Charlotte didn't laugh. She would not laugh. But for one moment, her gaze met Wynter's and understanding passed between the two adults.

  Smoothly, Wynter lobbed the conversational ball. "That's very interesting, Leila. I myself haven't sat in nettles since my youth. Nettles don't grow in El Bahar, Lady Miss Charlotte. The land is too arid for even those weeds."

  With only the faintest tremor in her voice, Charlotte replied, "How fascinating, Lord Ruskin. You must have seen many different climates and vegetation on your travels."

  "Indeed we did. Children, have you told your governess about our passage through the Mediterranean?"

  His bright children caught on without any further guidance. In between bites, they chatted about the sights they had seen on their trip back home, what impressed them most about the English countryside and how much their lives had changed in the last months.

  Then Robbie, as mature a boy of ten as Charlotte had ever met, turned to Charlotte politely. "But we've been talking only about ourselves. What about you, Lady Miss Charlotte? Why aren't you married?"

  Lulled by the enlightened conversation and Wynter's domesticated behavior, Charlotte again cast him a glance, expecting to meet his mirthful gaze. Instead she found him studying her with such somber concentration that she realized he wondered, too, and her amusement hastily faded. "If I were married, I wouldn't be able to teach you," she said. "It would be a shame if I didn't have this chance to get t
o know you. Now, shall we have our sweet?"

  She signaled the servants, and they carried off the empty plates and brought a fancy jam tart with a section of apricot, raspberry and orange marmalade.

  Leila sighed with anticipation and tucked her napkin up a little closer to her waist. "Can I have all the raspberry?"

  "No," Robbie retorted. "I get part."

  "Since your father is our guest, perhaps it would be mannerly to first ask him which he would like," Charlotte suggested.

  The children's expressions varied from horrified to hopeful, and Charlotte held the knife hovering over the tart while she waited for Wynter to reveal the wisdom of Solomon.

  "We shall all have a little of each," he decreed.

  Charlotte began the torturous process of evenly dividing the much contested raspberry.

  Leila said, "Maybe Lady Miss Charlotte has no male family to make a match for her."

  Charlotte jerked and broke a little piece of crust off.

  "Like Mama?" Robbie scratched his head, then at a reproving glance from Charlotte lowered his hand. In a tumble of words, he told Charlotte, "After my mama's father died, she didn't have anyone to make a match for her. If Papa hadn't wed her, she and her mother would have starved."

  "That's very melodramatic, Robbie." Charlotte passed the tart to Wynter.

  "No, it's not. It's true!" Robbie said. "Without a man, a woman is worthless."

  Charlotte leveled a look on Robbie, one she'd perfected over the years to deal with insolent young men.

  Robbie realized his mistake at once. "I didn't mean you were worthless, Lady Miss Charlotte, only that in other countries like El Bahar a woman can't…doesn't…" He gazed pleadingly at his father.

  Wynter took pity on him. "In El Bahar, a woman cannot speak for herself in the councils of men, so if she is unwed and without a father or brother or any other kind of male relative, she is unable to make the match which would gain her a husband and financial safety."

  Charlotte's mind sprang to her circumstances, to Hannah's, to Pamela's. They thought themselves ill-used in England, but…"That's cruel! They would really starve?"

  "Not always," Wynter said. "Sometimes someone takes pity and takes them in."

  As Wynter had. Charlotte eyed him with the beginnings of favor. She hadn't thought of him as an excessively compassionate man, but to marry a woman to save her life! That was surely admirable.

  "Dara needed a man." Wynter applied himself to his tart. "I needed a woman in my tent to cook for me. It was a fair exchange."

  Charlotte's charitable conviction faded.

  Leila shot up out of her seat and leaned across the table. "I have an idea!" she shouted.

  "A lady's voice is low, gentle, refined," Charlotte began.

  Leila took no notice, and this time she not only shouted, but her voice rose an octave. "We can have a new mama. Papa can marry Lady Miss Charlotte!"

  CHAPTER 9

  "Put the sofa here, at an angle to the fire place." Adorna stood with her hands against her hips, directing the footmen. "Place my chair here, and put the candelabra on the tables at either end of the sofa so I can see properly."

  Since she'd reached the venerable age of forty, she'd noticed a blurring of her vision and found that good light helped her discern those telltale signs of discomfort or pleasure in her visitors. Each situation in her life she read by those signs.

  She frowned as she thought of Lord Bucknell. He had proved a most vexing challenge, always there but insensible to her advances. But she would surely be equal to the game. The man hadn't been born who could long resist her.

  "Place a decanter of brandy and one of ratafia on a table by my elbow." She approved the sparkling crystal with its golden liquids, then lifted one of the empty glasses, smudged with a fingerprint.

  Without a word, she passed it to Miss Symes, who handed it to one of the footmen. "This is not acceptable in my lady's chamber!"

  The footman rushed away, the glass clutched to his bosom.

  The only times in her life Adorna ever had trouble was when she disregarded her instincts. She was in a bit of a pickle with the family business now, but as Aunt Jane was fond of saying, there was no rest for the wicked.

  Of course, she usually said it about her husband, Uncle Ransom, and he invariably replied, "Then you must be very wicked, my love."

  Adorna had done quite a good deed by getting them together, if she did say so herself.

  The footman came back with another empty glass, which Miss Symes approved, and a plate of almond biscuits, which should put Wynter into an amenable frame of mind. Nothing so simple as food would work with Charlotte, of course. Men's bellies, conceits and organs controlled most of their reactions. Women were more subtle and less driven by the physical. Indeed, if Adorna guessed correctly, Charlotte had never been driven by the physical. So Adorna knew she would have to depend, in part, on liquor and its insidious effects. For the other part, Charlotte's rigid propriety surely couldn't resist the challenge Adorna would offer.

  Miss Symes crossed her hands across her ample belly. "Will that be all, my lady?"

  Adorna took a final check of the arrangements. "That will be all." She smiled at each of her servants in turn. "You have pleased me greatly."

  Predictably the footmen blushed, even old Sanderford, who had served Adorna's husband long before she'd arrived. Miss Symes smiled back, an amiable tyrant.

  "Oh, and Wynter will be wanting a cup of that coffee he so adores." Adorna made a face. She didn't understand why Wynter wouldn't indulge in the occasional spot of liquor. But wines and spirits held no interest for him. "Bring the coffee after he has arrived."

  "As you wish, my lady," Miss Symes answered.

  The servants bowed their way out, leaving Adorna alone. She seated herself, opened a book and placed it on her lap and waited for the two moths to arrive so she could entice them to circle her beckoning flame.

  With most people there would be no problem; she could persuade almost anyone to do almost anything without them even knowing they had been maneuvered. But Wynter was her son, with a mix of her insight and his father's acumen, and she would have to tread carefully or he would balk.

  And after this afternoon, Charlotte would be wary of being with Wynter. Miss Symes had given Adorna a report of the tumultuous tea. What was it Leila had shouted? We can have a new mama. Papa can marry Lady Miss Charlotte!

  Adorna couldn't withhold a chuckle. Damn the child for being so forthright, but…how like her to shout out her desires as if volume would bring them to fruition! Of course the match was unsuitable. Getting Wynter accepted into English society would be difficult enough, but for him to wed a woman hampered by infamy…no. No, Charlotte would not do.

  Thank goodness Charlotte had seemed appalled by the notion.

  Yes, Leila had made Adorna's work more difficult yet Adorna's plan made so much sense that it had to be implemented. Summer would come only too soon

  Charlotte arrived first, tapping softly at the door and entering in a smooth glide. Her attire was perfectly appropriate for the honor of taking refreshment with her employer. Her dark blue gown had been freshened by the judicious use of a sponge and an iron. She'd replaced her plain cuffs and collar with starched white lace, very expensive if rather old-fashioned, and her onyx cameo broach neatly pinned the collar together. It truly was a shame Charlotte's circumstances had stripped her of her rightful place in life. With her looks, grace and impeccable manners, she would have married well.

  Adorna smiled in private amusement. Actually, Charlotte needed no more than her looks. Her ingrained reserve presented a challenge most men would be unable to resist.

  "Sit down, my dear." Adorna indicated the sofa. "While we wait for my son, would you care for a drink?"

  "No need to wait, Mother. I'm here."

  Charlotte turned to face him, and came nose to chest with Wynter dressed in his desert costume.

  Adorna had seen him wear it before, and in her honest opinion the
outfit looked remarkably like bed-sheets tied at the waist with three gold cords and a scarlet sash—symbols, he told her, of his rank in his tribe. However, she couldn't argue that the flowing white was more comfortable than an Englishman's rigid garb, or that Wynter shouldn't have the right to dress as he wished in his own home. Furthermore, the outfit admirably displayed his broad shoulders and allowed fascinating glimpses of his bare ankles and feet. Fascinating because Adorna suspected he was naked beneath those drapes.

  Did Charlotte suspect that, too?

  Wynter halted, placed his fists on his hips and glared forbiddingly at the governess, daring her to make a comment. "Is something wrong, Lady Miss Charlotte?"

  Charlotte held her ground while barely controlling a flinch. "Not at all, my lord. I was just admiring your costume. I have heard about them, of course, but never seen one. A djellaba, is it not?"

  Wynter touched his fingertips to his lips and in his deep, accented voice said, "You are, as ever, as wise as a crone of the tribe."

  For a brief moment, Charlotte seemed caught unawares. Then she recovered herself to say, "You're very kind, sir."

  Adorna repressed a giggle. Most women would have aimed a kick at his head. Charlotte assumed he meant it as a compliment. And perhaps he did, but…no. No, Wynter couldn't be exaggerating his ineptitude. What would such a tactic gain him?

  Charlotte glided to the sofa and seated herself.

  Wynter strode to the liquors. "Mother?"

  His terse one-word inquiry broke the stillness, and Adorna artfully filled the quiet with a burble of random thoughts. "I want a brandy. Of course, ladies never drink brandy, or at least not in public, but the journey today was long, and Wynter has been laboring at the business. Haven't you, Wynter? While I have been hard at work trying to discover what rumors have been floating about in society about his return. As you can imagine, Charlotte, since their visit here his friends' wives have not been resting. With so many juicy bits of gossip, they have been spreading the story that Wynter is an ignorant lout. La, the cheek of those women! So a brandy will be very comforting. Would you like one, also, Charlotte?"