Rules of Surrender Read online

  "Absolutely."

  "So do I." The portraits moved slowly past as he led her along the gallery. "For that reason only did I ask you to remain when you humiliated me today."

  She tugged at her hand. "You didn't ask me to remain, and I did not humiliate you."

  "I agreed to lessons which must be given after a long day in London and a punishing ride home."

  "My day is long, too."

  "I promised to pay you many pounds when already you receive lodging and food while under my care."

  Coming to a halt, she jerked her hand violently enough to pull it from beneath his. "I am not under your care. I am an independent woman."

  He stopped, too, and faced her. "And I did not yell when my daughter demanded I marry you."

  He couldn't tell in the dim light, but he thought she blushed. "That was not my fault!"

  "You did not tell her to intercede on your behalf?"

  "I beg your pardon, sir." She placed her hands on her waist and glared at him balefully. "I most certainly did not!"

  He took one long step toward her. His legs pressed against her skirt, and he held himself very tall, very imposing. "Are you sure you did not tell her?"

  "Am I sure? Of course I'm sure." Then her gaze ran over him, taking in his height, his breadth, his foreign clothing and his stern expression. She swallowed. "How could I forget making such a suggestion?"

  He allowed his face to droop. "That saddens me."

  "Wha…what?"

  He had her full attention now. "At my daughter's cradle, the eldest of the tribe lifted her and laughed, and prophesied Leila would be wise and strong, gifted in matters of the heart, and she would bring luck to her family and honor to her husband. I had hoped that Leila heard what your heart could only dream."

  "What?"

  "This is not so?" He pressed closer yet.

  Charlotte took a step back toward the wall. "I never…she never…such a thought never crossed my mind." She added hastily, "Or my heart."

  "You will think on it now."

  "It would be better if I didn't."

  "I would like you to."

  She so didn't want to ask. If she could, she would have turned tail and scurried away. But the wall was behind her, he stood before her and she had had enough to drink to doubt her ability to escape but not enough to comprehend the very real danger she faced. "Why?" She voiced the single word tentatively.

  With the dint of good acting, he managed to look shocked. "I do not think you would do well as my mistress!"

  Her horror was not in the least bit feigned, nor was it flattering, but he now knew she was aware of him in a physical sense. Her eyes were big and dismayed, and she kept her gaze fixed on him without blinking, as if vigilance would help her out of this disconcerting situation. Her nostrils quivered as she breathed in his scent—a scent he knew to be clean and masculine since he bathed every day, something no English dandy did. And his voice he took care to keep at a low hypnotic rumble, for he'd found it possible to say almost anything as long as he said it in a soothing tone.

  "I wouldn't…dream of…doing something so…improper," she said haltingly.

  "Exactly." He beamed. "I'm glad you agree with me. So you will think about all these things."

  "No. I…no." Putting her hand out to the side, she touched the chair rail and used it as a guide as she sidled away.

  "Lady Miss Charlotte, before you go…" He extended his hand, palm up.

  She looked at it, then at him. Once again he had discarded the facade of the foreign simpleton, and allowed himself the freedom to demand. More, she understood that demand, and she feared the results if she refused.

  With halting uneasiness, she placed her hand in his. He wrapped his fingers around hers and held them, feeling the warmth, the delicacy, the pure femininity of her slender digits and the fine-grained skin. He was used to women with calluses from hard daily work, women who labored alongside their men to scratch an existence from the desert. He admired those women. He had thought English ladies would benefit from such a dose of reality, and he had never thought to understand why any man would want a useless woman.

  But when he held Charlotte's hand, he wanted to preserve its softness. He wanted to lift Charlotte above her struggle to survive. He wanted to give her the life she was meant to live—one of ease and pleasure. Much, much pleasure.

  She was changing his thinking, and he didn't like that. Yet he had learned one thing in the desert. Sometimes destiny held him in its grip. He could fight this attraction. He could keep his thinking. But then he could not have Charlotte. And she he would have.

  What was Charlotte thinking as she stared at their clasped hands? Did she want him to provide for her? Did she imagine her life as his wife?

  Or was she a woman caught in the turmoil of confusion?

  No matter. He had done what he wished. She would think of him in a new way now.

  Lifting her hand to his mouth, he kissed it, a slow, tender kiss pressed into the palm. Carefully, he folded her fingers over the kiss, and released his grip.

  She looked at her hand as if, should she decide to open her fingers, his kiss would fly away. She lifted her gaze to his in bewilderment, and when he smiled mildly, she seemed to come to her senses. She walked away—perhaps a little more quickly than usual. Perhaps with a little less steadiness.

  But he was pleased to see she hid her hand in the fullness of her skirts. He knew why. She still held his kiss.

  CHAPTER 11

  The next evening, Charlotte still nursed a slight headache as she walked toward the old nursery. In the future, Adorna could drink her brandy alone, for Charlotte was convinced she would not be making this journey to meet Wynter if she'd had her wits about her.

  Tutor a grown man, indeed! And a man such as Wynter, especially. What could Charlotte do with him? There was more to becoming a civilized man than knowing when to wear gloves.

  How to wear shoes, for instance. Resolutely she turned her mind away from the memory of his arched feet.

  Or not to sneak up on young women as they walked darkened corridors. And certainly not to make personal comments about becoming a man's mistress. Or his wife.

  His wife! Charlotte fought a compulsion to snort just as Wynter had done. Leila had the excuse of ignorance when proposing marriage between her father and her governess. Wynter had only the excuse of lechery.

  Oh, yes. It had taken some thought, but Charlotte understood his nefarious plan. This extraordinary man didn't want marriage. He wanted the same thing every other gentleman thought he could get from any halfway attractive woman living under his roof.

  Well, he wasn't getting anything from Lady Charlotte Dalrumple. She had already proved to everyone she would not sell herself. A shame Wynter didn't know the story.

  A shame? She shook herself. She didn't ever want him to know her story. He was so uncouth he would question her, and she tried never to talk about that painful episode.

  Uncouth. Yes. Lady Ruskin didn't realize what truly separated a gentleman from a chimney sweep. It was demeanor. Wynter had the wrong demeanor. He acted as if, given a battalion of men, he could conquer the world. Such arrogance was bound to grate on those Englishmen who had no experience with wild seas and golden deserts and fierce fighting warriors.

  Stopping for a moment, she leaned her hand against the wall and fought her nonsensical tendency to romanticize Wynter's adventures. Obviously, she'd been reading too many adventure stories to the children. In truth, the sight of Wynter in his djellaba fueled her imagination. The garb was improper to the extreme, of course. Loose and free, without the constraints of enlightened nations' costumes.

  When at first she'd seen the djellaba, she had been stunned, unable to form a coherent thought. After that initial jolt, she'd found her mind wandering. How would it feel to be shed of her corset? To have only material flowing over her body? After that, it had been a short step down the slippery road of sin, for she'd speculated on what undergarments one would wear und
er the garb. And when she'd looked at Wynter, she'd thought…well, never mind what she'd thought. Such a vision could only be explained as the fever produced by strong spirits.

  No, no more brandy for her.

  Straightening her shoulders, she again moved toward the old nursery where she had been instructed to meet Wynter.

  She knocked lightly, and when no one answered she poked her head inside. The large, airy chamber was empty and dim except for an island of light by the fireplace. There flames crackled on the hearth and candles flickered on a long, low table. A clean white cloth draped it, some square cushions were strewn about in brightly colored stacks and wool blankets were folded nearby. Beneath the sparse furnishings rested a carpet glowing with gold, green and scarlet tangled into an intricate design.

  But no lordly figure lounged about, challenging her with his insolence, so she called, "Lord Ruskin?"

  From behind an almost closed door in the back wall, his voice replied, "Welcome, Lady Miss Charlotte." He said her name warmly, each syllable lovingly wrapped in the faintest of accents. "Come into my humble abode and grace it with your most exquisite presence."

  His tone made her forget that she was a lowly governess and he was a viscount and her employer. She instead became mindful of her femininity and his admiration, and knowing such awareness was dangerous only made it all the more attractive.

  This man could seduce her if she was not wary. "My lord, if, as I suspect, these are your personal apartments, it is improper for me to be alone with you here."

  "My personal apartments? This is the old nursery!" His amazement was faint but definite. "I will be only a minute. Be comfortable."

  "Humph." She didn't quite believe him, but she felt she had made her point—that she was no fool, and she didn't wish to be alone with him.

  Now, how to make herself comfortable in a room with no chairs? She contented herself with wandering toward the table, so low it came no higher than her knees, and examining the tray containing a loaf of bread, a small round of cheese and a bowl overflowing with purple grapes. There were no eating utensils, she noted, nor any place to sit, and she wondered uneasily if her suspicions about Wynter's intentions would prove true.

  She could smell the scent of spring wafting up from the fruit. Leaning down, she inhaled, taking in the fresh smell rising from the clusters and, beneath that, the homey odor of bread.

  The sound of Wynter's voice made her straighten hastily. "Please, Lady Miss Charlotte, take some."

  He stood in the doorway, the light shining from behind him, and to her relief he was dressed in a proper gentleman's garb—except for his feet, which were bare. "No, thank you, my lord, I've already partaken in supper."

  "Take, take, take! I cannot eat so many grapes or I will have wind."

  She almost strangled herself trying to subdue her gasp of horror—or her spurt of laughter. Under Wynter's influence, she could no longer tell the difference. To give herself a moment, she broke off a grape and popped it in her mouth. It was sweet, wonderfully fresh, and full of seeds, and in the time she spent discreetly removing seeds from her mouth, he had taken the momentum.

  Like a force of nature, he swept into the room. He wore his black waistcoat, black trousers and white shirt, and one should have been able, if one ignored the bare feet, to see him as an ordinary nobleman. But the shirt was open at the neck, revealing the slightest hint of curling hair, his thighs bulged with muscle and she couldn't ignore those feet. She just couldn't.

  He stepped into the circle of light and took his usual stance, feet apart, fists clenched at his waist, chin tilted at an imperious angle. "So. We begin."

  Hastily, she tossed the seeds into the fire and composed herself. "Indeed we do. I wish to say that, although I didn't want to take on the task of polishing you to fit society's setting, I will do my best to—"

  "Yes, yes, I know that. You are a woman who always does her best. That is not a matter which bears discussion. Now, what should we do first?"

  She was annoyed that he'd interrupted her well-thought-out speech of welcome, but maintained a placid demeanor. "Of a certainty, the first thing we should discuss is your penchant for discussing personal matters."

  He cocked his head. "Personal matters? I should not discuss my children?"

  "No, personal matters as they relate to your body. We don't mention…your internal workings, at least not in mixed company." She waited while he thought about her euphemism.

  Light broke over his face. "Ah! I should not speak of my wind."

  "Most definitely not your…no. And no discussions of illness or physical discomfort."

  "But the proper ladies and gentlemen ask me how I am."

  She ignored the faint hint of sarcasm. "A rhetorical question only. When someone asks how you are, the correct reply is, "I feel well, thank you, and you?"

  "That explains why most of the ladies no longer greet me by questioning my health." Striding to the low table, he seated himself on a large cushion.

  Her heart sank. Exactly as she feared. He was showing her his barbarian ways, perhaps to tease her, perhaps as a protest against the tutoring which he had not sought. Certainly not because he thought it would attract her to see a man loafing about on the floor.

  "May I inquire about the health of the ladies?" he asked.

  "Only in the most general way." He faced her, his back to the fire and his legs crossed loosely at the ankles, and he looked very at home on his cushion, not at all recalcitrant. Perhaps, she admitted, this was nothing more than a man relaxing after a hard day at the desk.

  He plucked at his lower lip. "Lady Scott recently gave birth, and I asked about her new son."

  "Perfectly acceptable."

  "And about her labor."

  Charlotte closed her eyes briefly in pain. "Women seldom discuss such details between themselves, much less with a gentleman."

  He nodded. "In El Bahar, the women speak of such things, but the men do not."

  At last! A moment of concord, however brief. "There, you see, even in El Bahar the same rules apply."

  "But I'm interested!" He protested like a little boy.

  "Your interest should not supersede custom and protocol."

  "In El Bahar, a man's interest supersedes all other practice."

  Because he was spoiled like a little boy.

  "You will say I am not in El Bahar any longer, and here protocol rules all." Much as she had, he sniffed the bread and grapes. Noticing she had edged outside the circle of light, he said, "I beg your permission to eat, Lady Miss Charlotte, for I have not yet dined."

  "Of course, my lord. It's late. You must be hungry."

  "As hungry as a camel seeking a date palm." At her expression, he reconsidered his more colorful language. "Yes, I am hungry." He gestured over the table. "You would do me honor if you would join me. You are too thin, although the lushness of your breasts brings to mind an oasis abounding with date palms and sweet libations."

  She was shocked and…she was shocked. "You must not say such things!"

  "Only to you, Lady Miss Charlotte. Most women are not so thin. But if you will not eat, then sit."

  Dithering was not an activity in which Charlotte normally indulged, but she couldn't bring herself to explain to Wynter that her breasts were not a fit topic of conversation. Her breasts, or any other woman's breasts, although she couldn't rid herself of the notion that somehow he should know that. Still, he looked so unruffled. Later, when they were no longer speaking of her body parts, she would find a way to suggest he not mention such intimate topics.

  "Please sit," he snapped. "I cannot learn if you tower over me."

  Obviously, he wasn't thinking of her in any amorous context. Although what his purpose had been the night before in the portrait gallery, she still could not decipher. But then, she seldom understood men. "I could bring in a chair…"

  "Still you would tower. I bid you to come here because I am weary, and here I can be alone. Cannot an Englishwoman find comfort on a cu
shion?"

  "Not easily," she said wryly, but she couldn't explain to Wynter the trouble three stiff petticoats presented to a woman seeking to lower herself to the floor. As she placed one wide, flat pillow on top of another, she turned aside to hide a suddenly irrepressible smile. In many ways, Wynter was a man untouched by society's hypocrisy, and she had to wonder how the sophisticated ladies and gentlemen reacted to his observations. She would almost have paid to see the look on Lady Scott's face when he asked about her labor.

  But by the time she turned back to Wynter, she had her facial expression under control.

  He frowned at her hemline, although what he could see there she didn't know. "You have removed your shoes, of course."

  "Removed my…?" She barely refrained from calling him a barbarian. "No, I haven't removed my shoes!"

  "But you tell me to do what is proper at all times."

  "That does not include—"

  "Lady Miss Charlotte, this is my sanctuary. I brought this carpet and these cushions back from El Bahar as a precious remembrance of my days there. I have no way of replacing them, and I shudder to think that someday they will be worn out and threadbare, leaving me no tokens of the home I found so precious."

  His soft, rich voice spoke both lyrically and reproachfully. She couldn't rid herself of the suspicion he was manipulating her, yet…well, she knew he had loved El Bahar, and she surmised he missed it. If these were indeed his only momentoes, he was surely within his rights to ask that she do what she could to preserve the vivid weave.

  But to take off her shoes…she stared at him for a full minute, waiting to see if he was jesting.

  He was not.

  "Very well, my lord"—she spaced the words precisely—"when I am seated, I will remove my footware."

  "As always, you honor me with your courtesy."

  If he were laughing about his victory, he hid it well, for she could not perceive even a twinkle in his eyes, and she thought she might make herself mad seeking mockery in his every word. Wisely, she let the matter drop.

  The earthy, roasted odor of coffee reached her, she noted the ceramic pot placed close to the flames. "Would you like me to pour you a cup?"