Total Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  It had commenced snowing, and a flurry of huge, white ' flakes cascaded in behind them. Michael stamped his feet against the cold, then spun around and espied them hud- :, died, critical and condemning, but as was his habit, he dis- J played no outward sign of consternation or recognition. .I

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  Sarah might have been crushed by his seeming lack of reaction, but she wouldn't allow herself to grapple with pity or regret. She simply stared, then stared some more.

  He was more handsome than she remembered, and her heart ached at observing his masculine beauty up close. She had never been able to gaze upon him without being moved. He was too dynamic, too commanding, and her pulse wasn't steady.

  With the snow dusting his hair and shoulders, his blue eyes aloof and withdrawn, he appeared distant, unapproachable, unattainable, and she steeled herself to the daunting task that lay before her. She would not fail in claiming him for her own!

  "James ..." Michael nodded. "Sarah ..." he adjoined cautiously.

  "Why, Sarah Compton," Pamela gushed merrily. "How wonderful that you're in London! You're the very last individual I expected to see in town today!"

  "I'll bet," Sarah responded miserably, reining in her resentment. Pamela wasn't cognizant of the circumstances; the blackguard had never told her!

  Pamela clutched Sarah's hands and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. "How have you been?"

  "Fine," Sarah lied.

  "In June, you abandoned my party so fast that we never even said good-bye!"

  "I'm sorry." Sarah threw Michael a quelling glare that he coolly mirrored. "Michael promised he'd make my apologies."

  "Oh, he did, but you know men!" Pamela gestured gaily, flinging them all off as unreliable. "He wouldn't say why you'd gone. I hope you weren't upset about anything ... ?"

  There was a question posed in her remark, and Sarah's wrath intensified. How dare Michael do this to Pamela! How dare he put Sarah in such an awkward position!

  Tired of the ruse, wishing the acrimony over, she barked at Michael. "Tell her."

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  "Tell me what?" Pamela innocently grinned up at Michael who was wholly unaffected.

  "Tell her!" Sarah repeated sharply.

  "Sarah and I married," Michael acclaimed, calm as all get out.

  "When?" Pamela choked, instantly looking sick.

  "That last day in Bedford."

  Pamela's mouth fell open. "All this time. . . you were ..." She couldn't complete her sentence, and her expression was so full of indignation that Sarah was somewhat appeased. "Oh, you unmitigated rogue! How could you!"

  "That's what I've been dying to know," James accused, tensing with virulent menace. "I'd love to have your answer, brother—if you think you could possibly provide one that I would tolerate."

  Michael was firmly, doggedly silent, though his eyes glittered with a peculiar fire. A thousand words were poised on the tip of his tongue, but Sarah knew him well. He'd never speak up in the middle of this vile scene.

  "Sarah," Pamela interrupted, "forgive me! I had no idea!"

  "I believe you."

  "You're my friend. I would never ..." She cast Michael another scathing look. "I am so mortified! I should go ..."

  But she didn't depart, and an awkward interlude developed, so Sarah said, "I'm going upstairs to dress for supper. You have five minutes to make your farewells. Then, I don't want you over here again."

  "No, I won't come by," Pamela vowed, shaking her head in dismay, "but would you ... would you visit me later? After everything is more settled?"

  "We'll see," Sarah blandly acquiesced.

  Sarah turned to James. "I won't be having supper with Abigail this evening. I'm dining in—with my husband. I'll send a note to her on the morrow."

  "No need." James expressed. He leaned near and whispered, "If it turns out that you can't bear to stay, send one

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  of the servants to my club. They'll know where. lcome and get you. Despite the hour."

  "I won't require any assistance." Climbing the first two steps, she spun around, then glared down at Michael and Pamela. Michael still exhibited no emotion, while Pamela looked as though she yearned to shrivel into a ball and die. "Pamela, I'm sure you didn't mean any harm, but I intend to keep my husband. If I catch you sniffing around him again, I'll break both your legs. I swear it!"

  "Oh, God ..." Pamela blushed furiously.

  "Even if he begs, don't meet with him ever again. Don't make this any worse than it already is."

  "No, I won't, Sarah. I promise you!"

  "And do me a favor?"

  "Anything."

  "Spread the word to his other paramours: I won't have him philandering. He's mine. And I'm not sharing!"

  As she hurled the challenge, she met Michael's gaze, and something dangerous and unreadable flickered in his eyes, then vanished. She stormed up the stairs, not glancing back.

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  Michael frowned at Sarah's pretty backside as she marched up the stairs. She was a sight, with all that wifely affront directed at himself and Pamela. With her proprietary disposition, and that affectation of umbrage and offense, it almost seemed as though she was truly perturbed, but then, she was a terrific actress. She could have made a name for herself on the stage alongside his mother.

  Once the sound of her wrathful retreat had faded, he stirred uncomfortably, sequestered as he was with Pamela and James; Their joint censure was tangible, their anger explicit, their dismay substantial.

  "I could wring your bloody neck." Pamela seethed with righteous indignation, and he couldn't blame her.

  He'd longed to confide in her, but he couldn't discuss the anguish and disappointment he'd suffered at Sarah's hands. Pamela would have listened and advised, but Michael couldn't bring himself to confess.

  Straining, he tried to decipher where Sarah's footsteps had led her, and he surmised that she was in his bedchamber. Sighing, he pondered why she'd feel free to rummage around in his personal apartment. She couldn't be moving in and making herself at home! They weren't destined to cohabitate, and he was curious as to why she'd finally come slinking to town.

  What was she doing here? Why now? What sort of disaster did her presence portend?

  On dozens of occasions, he'd picked up a pen, aspiring to write and inquire after her circumstances—especially after Hugh had died—but he hadn't been able to put ink to parchment.

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  When her cousin had solicited money, which he'd supplied with nary a th1ought, he'd been hard-pressed to keep from plying her for details as to how Sarah was faring. After Miss Monroe's departure, he'd stewed for hours, searching for some method of mending their predicament, but he'd generated no ideas, and he'd ultimately determined that any communication would have been pointless. If he'd contacted her, what would he have said?

  That he was sorry? He wasn't.

  That he missed her? He didn't.

  That he apologized? He wouldn't.

  That he wished things had ended differently? Now, that was a question worth considering.

  Whenever he closed his eyes, he envisioned her dancing out of the church after tlieir wedding ceremony, clutching her pathetic bouquet and smiling joyfully. Her emotion had seemed so real, as though she'd developed a genuine tendre for him that had nothing to do with Hugh or his scheming.

  How she'd feigned such valid sentiment was a mystery. Why she would pretend such extreme affection had kept him up many nights since they'd separated. On that fateful, hideous wedding day, he'd been so angry, and she'd been so happy, and there hadn't been a way for those two human conditions to meld.

  Since then, there1 d been no suitable opportunity for reconciliation, though he couldn't fathom what needed to be resolved. She and her dubious brother had endeavored to blackmail him into a financial rescue that he would never undertake. He and Sarah were strangers, from opposit
e worlds, and she was Scarborough's sister, by Hugh's own admission, as fully capable of deceit as Hugh had ever been. They had no common ground, or mutual foundation of trust, so why had he married her?

  He'd asked himself as much a thousand times and still hadn't marshaled a viable answer. During the fiasco, he'd just been so shocked and overwhelmed. Her chicanery and betrayal had wounded him, and he'd needed to ruthlessly react, so marrying her had seemed a sufficient punishment.

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  Since meeting her, he'd become a fool. Where Sarah Compton—Stevens a tiny voice added—was concerned, he couldn't locate solid ground. The earth kept shifting under his feet, inducing htm to sway and vacillate from one bad decision to the next. He'd wed her in a fit of pique, he'd sowed the oats of his wretched future, and she was his now, whether he wanted her or not.

  She'd arrived, demanding respect, recognition, most likely money, and he couldn't begin to guess what else.

  What a tangle!

  Pamela stepped in front of him. "You'd better hie yourself up those stairs and do some fast talking. Tell her the truth, or I'll never forgive you." Snapping the clasp on her cloak, she huffed to the door. "I may not forgive you anyway!"

  "If you can wait just a bit, Pam," James injected, "I'll see you home."

  "My carriage is parked out front," she said, and she paused, not quite geared for farewell. Squeezing Michael's fingers, she entreated, "Don't call on me, darling. I'm not interested in your justifications, and I'd die if she learned that you'd stopped by!" In parting, she stole a quick kiss. "I don't understand any of this, but you need to work it out with her. You won't regret it."

  As she walked out into the cold afternoon, he made no au revoir. In a smattering of minutes, he'd gained a wife he didn't want and lost a friend he'd truly miss. The day had gone to hell, and it wasn't even four o'clock. He leaned against the door, physically bracing himself for whatever James was about to say.

  Through the awkward silence that followed, he couldn't look at his brother, so he stared at his feet instead, remembering all the prior occasions when they'd had a good row, when they'd argued and fought, counseled and coerced, consoled and constrained. How he had always loved James! But just now, he couldn't bear to hear the questionable words of wisdom his older brother might choose to impart.

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  "What happened?" James queried with much more calm than Michael had predicted.

  "You're aware of the card game Scarborough and I played last spring."

  "Yes."

  "So, you know how he was acting. His derogatory remarks. I couldn't back down."

  "I'm surprised you didn't call him out. I would have."

  "I judged it more gratifying to have him alive and paying through the nose." His blasted pride never ceased to get him into trouble. Why had he let Hugh goad him to such absurdity?

  "What about herT James referred to Sarah.

  "She was at Pamela's party."

  "Did you debauch her to retaliate against Hugh?"

  "No . .. yes . . ." He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Maybe. I'm not sure. She was staying in the room next to mine. I couldn't resist." Brimming with memories recollecting all, he reminisced over how sweet it had been, and his heart constricted and ached. "I wanted her," he inevitably affirmed, "and it didn't have anything to do with her brother."

  "I never suspected it had. She's quite stunning."

  "Aye."

  "So .. . you seduced her?"

  "Yes, but she was simply plotting with Hugh, working us into a compromising situation so they could extort money—and compel the cancellation of his markers."

  James bristled. "Who told you that?"

  "Scarborough, himself."

  "You believed him?"

  "Why wouldn't I?" Michael's sizzling gaze locked on James's, and he encountered conspicuous skepticism. "She left the door unlocked."

  "Are you positive?"

  No, he yearned to shout, but he was no longer certain. "Hugh insisted that they'd concocted it together. That she'd been involved every step of the way."

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  "If you buy that nonsense"—James advanced until they were toe to toe—"why did you marry her?"

  He gulped, struggling to breathe. "Because I didn't want anyone to think I'm like our father."

  James laid a hand on his shoulder, and for once, Michael didn't shake it off. "Hugh was lying to you. About her. About her participation."

  "How can you be so confident?"

  "I quizzed her extensively. She was caught up—just as vou were."

  "What if you're mistaken?"

  "I'm not," he said evenly. "Promise me you'll let her explain her side of it. And get a few things off her chest. She's fairly vexed with you."

  "As I am with her."

  "She's had a difficult few months."

  "So have I," Michael irascibly contended.

  "And with' Scarborough dead"—James wouldn't argue when Michael would have loved nothing more than an enthusiastic spat—"she has nowhere to go, and no visible means of support. She needs your protection."

  The information made him hesitate. Many a night he'd tossed and turned in his lonely bed, wondering what would befall her, but he'd refused to fret. His cup overflowed with recrimination, but immature as it sounded, his vanity wouldn't allow him to grovel before her, offering unwanted aid that he was convinced she'd throw in his face.

  "What would you have me do? Beg her to take advantage of me? To rifle through my pockets so she can pilfer the last of my coins?"

  "The solution is up to you," James stated, "but you're going to have to do something. She's here, she's your wife, and, from what she told Abigail and me, she won't be leaving anytime soon." His grin was full of mischief. "I hauled her trunk upstairs. She's already unpacked."

  "Why, thank you, brother," he remarked sarcastically, gnashing his teeth.

  "Glad to help." James chuckled and bowed mockingly,

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  and strangely, the silly display made Michael feel better than he had in a long while, and he realized that they hadn't joked in ages.

  "God, what a mess," he mused.

  "Look ... she came to you," James indicated. "She took the first step. Can't you meet her somewhere in the middle?"

  "Count on you to say something thoroughly idiotic."

  "Now ... now . . ."—James lectured like a seasoned old man—"being married is not the end of the world. If you give it a try, you might even grow to like it."

  Michael looked at his brother, really looked for a change. He was contented as he never had been before. The rough edges of dissatisfaction and disappointment that had shadowed his character, and driven his reckless behavior, had vanished, replaced by a disgusting veneer of blissful-ness that only the newly married could ever manifest.

  "Go home, James." He was eager to be spared this novel glimpse of his brother. Besides, it was time to confront his wife, so he opened the door and pushed James out.

  "For once in your life," James admonished, "do the right thing, will you?"

  "I don't know what the right thing is," he rejoined truthfully.

  "Yes you do," James asserted with smug confidence. "If you need me, send a message. I'll come back immediately."

  "As if I could stomach more of your bloody assistance," he grumbled as he shut the door, his final view of James, his complacent, irritating grin.

  The silence of the house enveloped him. His handful of well-trained servants were politely absent, leaving him to his bitter introspection. Then, the inevitable couldn't be avoided, and he mounted the stairs, his tread heavy, like a condemned man to the gallows.

  Where she was concerned, he'd developed a second sense, so his intuition easily guided him to her. From the threshold to his bedchamber, he could distinguish her movements in the adjacent room where she was boldly pre-

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  paring to take a bath. As was her habit, she'd added rose oil to the water. The smell permeated the air and tickled his nostrils.

  The sleeping arrangements were very much as they had been in the country: two bedchambers divided by a communal dressing room. For a brief instant, he presumed that she'd moved into the adjoining salon, but then he saw her combs on his dresser, her corset draped over a chair. He stalked to the wardrobe and peeked in. Three of her dresses were hanging next to his shirts.

  Did she propose that they would share a bed as man and wife? They wouldn't spend any time sleeping! Surely, the insane woman realized that fact! His physical fascination with her hadn't waned in the slightest. Just the thought of her readying to bathe sent the blood surging to his loins.

  His temper flared. Six months had passed, and without notice or warning, she had the audacity to show up and insinuate herself into his house and his bed. How was a man to cope rationally with such a contingency? Did she hope for a platonic accord? Or did she fancy they would carry on as lovers?

  At the notion, his cock distended brutally, and he resolved not to give her a choice. She'd foolishly inserted herself into his life, so she would suffer the consequences— although suffer was probably not the correct term. After he'd initiated her into the sexual arts, she'd developed into an adept, proficient lover so the suffering, such as it was, would be magnificent, and he would wallow in every erotic, disturbing minute of it.

  He approached me dressing room and, through the crack in the door, he could see her. She was undressing, and he stealthily and inappropriately spied. Had she decided to use a flash of bare skin in order to entice him to commit acts he didn't intend?

  Well, whatever her game, she'd miscalculated. If she was careless enough to imprudently disrobe before his very eyes, she would pay whatever price he extracted.

  Poised on the brink, cognizant that he should announce

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  his presence, he couldn't impel himself to stop her. Like a practiced courtesan, she'd undone the buttons and ties on her gown and was slowly tugging it to her waist, past her hips, until it pooled on the floor.