Sweet Surrender

by Cheryl Holt

  His father had been wonderful, had been everything Percival wasn’t—brave and smart and funny—and Percival would never stop grieving. He wouldn’t! And he didn’t care what his mother said about it.

  In the parlor, his grandmother had enraged his mother, and she stormed out. Percival watched her leave, and for a moment, he worried that they’d been quarreling about him.

  He was the earl now, and his grandmother constantly nagged that he should behave as if he was important. Yet he didn’t feel important, and he was only eight. He had no desire to rule people or tell them what to do or set an example.

  He simply wanted to read books and draw pictures. He particularly liked to copy pictures of knights in their armor, and he used some pencils his father had given him. They were his most prized possession, but he had to employ them in secret. His grandmother had once caught him, and she’d slapped his hand and informed him that drawing was for girls and he wasn’t to continue.

  Later, he’d attempted a small rebellion, had asked his tutor if they could study art, but the man had scoffed and insisted his grandmother would never approve. So drawing was banned, and his sole other joy—reading—severely curtailed.

  What was wrong with drawing or reading?

  With his mother gone from the parlor, there was nothing interesting to see.

  He went to the stairs at the rear of the verandah, plopped down, and stared out into the garden. He started counting to himself, ticking off the minutes until he thought it would be safe to sneak back in.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "May I go to my room now?"

  "No, you may not."

  "You must be starving, and I’m happy to leave you to your supper."

  Grace smiled a fake smile.

  Her wrist and Mr. Scott’s were still bound, so for the past several hours, she’d had to tolerate his overbearing company. Mostly, they’d tarried in the library as he’d read a stack of paperwork. Though she’d begged him to untie her, had promised not to race out the moment he wasn’t paying attention, he’d insisted the rope remain in place.

  She’d dawdled beside him, yawning and pretending to be bored, but her indifference was feigned. Despite the fact that she loathed him, she couldn’t help but be fascinated. By his imposing personality, by his wealth and status, by his being Edward’s brother.

  Apparently, they’d been estranged, with Mr. Scott having only recently returned to England to oversee the massive estates and fortune of his nephew Percival.

  As he’d tended to his business, she’d peeked at the documents scattered across his desk. There had been letters from attorneys, from bankers, from land agents, from merchants who were owed huge sums of money. With Mr. Scott having been named Edward’s executor, and his being out of the country, it had been ages since anyone had made any decisions. Problems had stacked up without resolution.

  While she hated to acknowledge it, he was very bright and quickly able to delve to the heart of complex matters. He’d flown through the pile, issuing edicts, signing contracts, authorizing expenditures.

  She’d constantly had to bite her tongue so she didn’t interrupt to probe his reasoning. She’d had to keep reminding herself that she wasn’t interested in his life or world, but she couldn’t tamp down her curiosity.

  He lived in Africa, had a home in Egypt, and she was dying to inquire about his situation. She’d never gone anywhere, her trip to Milton Abbey being the first occasion she’d been more than five miles from her village in Cornwall.

  She couldn’t imagine how a person picked up stakes and moved to a foreign locale. How did you learn the language? How did you communicate with others? How did you shop or rent a house or dress or eat?

  By the time he’d declared himself finished, she’d been awash with so many questions that she’d actually felt dizzy.

  They’d left the library and headed upstairs. They were in his suite, the earl’s warren of rooms, which he’d taken for his own.

  They were in the sitting room and the door to the hall was open. Servants were entering and exiting, setting out an evening meal on a table over by the window, so there was nothing inappropriate about their being together. But still, she wasn’t comfortable.

  "I don’t want to stay in here with you," she complained.

  "So?"

  "I’m not hungry."

  "Liar." He studied her and grinned. "You shouldn’t ever play cards. Your every thought is plainly visible on your face. You’re famished. Admit it."

  "No."

  "I’ve ordered supper brought up, and the staff has gone to an enormous amount of trouble. The least you can do is be courteous and eat what they’ve prepared."

  As he voiced the comment, a footman walked by, having just poured them both a glass of wine. He had to have heard Mr. Scott, and the cutting remark made her seem surly and ungrateful.

  "I’m impressed by their efforts on my behalf," she hastily said.

  He smirked and gestured to the table. "If you sit down and mind your manners, I’ll untie you."

  She glared at him, not trusting him for a second.

  "Swear it," she demanded.

  "I swear. But—"

  "How could I have guessed there would be a but?"

  "If you annoy me with your pointless chatter, I’ll escort you into the other room and shackle you to the bedpost so I can dine in peace."

  She snorted with aggravation. "You are a menace."

  "Not usually. I’ve never acted like this before. I’m only a brute around you."

  "And why is that?"

  "You bring out the worst in me."

  "Aren’t I lucky?"

  She wanted to continue bickering, but she didn’t have the energy. She wasn’t normally querulous, and it was exhausting to maintain so much fury.

  The servants had delivered enough food for an army, and delicious aromas drifted in her direction. Despite how she’d claimed otherwise, she was ravenous. The past few weeks, as their finances dwindled, she’d been forced to skip meals. She’d convinced herself that she didn’t need sustenance to function.

  But with her ensconced at Milton Abbey, where nearly any delicacy could be produced with the snap of a finger, she’d lost her ability for self-denial.

  He led her to the table and surprised her by holding out a chair. The sudden demonstration of civility calmed the tension that had festered.

  "Thank you," she said as she eased down.

  "You’re welcome."

  He glided over to the other chair and sat, too. Without her having to ask, he untied her.

  "Thank you," she said again, rubbing her wrist.

  "Don’t get used to it. As soon as we’re finished, I’m putting the rope back on."

  She could have argued, but why bother?

  The sun had set, and very quickly, it would be dark. Shortly, the rope would have to be discarded so she could proceed to her bedchamber. She was weary, and even a blackguard like Jackson Scott would relent and let her go to bed.

  They were quiet, busy loading up their plates. He served her, inquiring as to what she liked, scooping the biggest dollop of potatoes, giving her the thickest slice of roast beef. The food was scrumptious, and with the speed of a street urchin, she wolfed it down, while he dined leisurely and savored his repast.

  She swallowed her last bite, and he offered her more, but the victuals had landed heavily in her belly.

  "There’s more in the larder," he teasingly noted. "You don’t have to eat like a banshee. I promise we’ll always feed you while you’re here."

  "I apologize." She blushed with embarrassment. "I was a tad hungrier than I realized."

  He ignored her, keeping on with his own meal, but the moment grew awkward.

  "This is where you fill the void with conversation," he said. "That’s what people do at the table."

  "I’m too tired to talk."

  "Aren’t you fascinated by me? Aren’t you dying to pepper me with questions?"

  She laughed, and it had been so long sin
ce she had that she shocked herself.

  "Have you ever been told that you’re extremely vain?"

  "Yes, I’ve heard it my whole life."

  "It’s true."

  He flashed a smile that was so warm and inviting she had to glance away. He appeared approachable and friendly, someone she’d love to know better, but she was determined not to like anything about him.

  "You watched me all afternoon," he pointed out.

  "There wasn’t much else to see."

  "I mesmerize you."

  "Honestly! You’re so full of yourself."

  "Haven’t I mentioned that your face is an open book? I can practically read your mind. What would you like to learn about me? I’ll tell you."

  Why not ask? she mused. He was giving her permission.

  Still, she didn’t speak up, and he said, "You’ll be here for weeks. We don’t have to be enemies. We can figure out a way to be cordial."

  "All right, let’s be cordial. Where do you live in Egypt? What is your home like?"

  "It’s very grand. I own a villa outside Alexandria. The verandah overlooks the Nile. The spot is quite spectacular."

  "How do you occupy your time?"

  "I export grain to Europe. It keeps me very busy."

  "You’re a merchant?"

  "Yes, and I confess to many other endeavors, too. Have I surprised you?"

  "Yes. I assumed you were lazy and indolent. I can’t picture you working."

  "Neither can I. I come from a long line of aristocratic sloths, so it was stunning to discover I had worthwhile skills."

  "I bet it was." She couldn’t help smiling, too. He seemed so…charming. "What sorts of amusements are available in such an exotic place?"

  "In the cooler months, I search the pyramids for antiquities."

  "Seriously? You’ve explored the pyramids?"

  "Yes—and so many other remarkable sights. I can’t begin to describe it all."

  "I’m so jealous."

  She was possessed of her own wanderlust, and if circumstances had been different—if she’d been born male—she might have engaged in her own adventures.

  At the lending library in her village, her favorite books had been those written by botanists and others who’d detailed their journeys. But a woman couldn’t simply pack up and travel, and Grace had always been broke, had had to struggle to pay the bills. There’d never been money for frivolity.

  "Where is Michael?" she asked, noticing that she’d grown very lethargic. The food was making her drowsy. "I haven’t seen him all day."

  "He’s fine. There are several lads his age at the estate. He’s been playing and rough-housing. Tomorrow, he’ll start riding lessons with the stable master."

  "He’ll like that."

  "I suspected he might. The poor child has spent entirely too much time around women. He needs some manly activities."

  "I agree," she mumbled.

  She yawned, her supper settling, the wine increasing her lassitude. She was relaxed and terribly sleepy.

  "Grace…"

  "Yes?"

  She might have spoken aloud or maybe she’d responded inside her head.

  "Have you dozed off on me?"

  I don’t know…

  "Are my stories really that boring? I think you’ve crushed my ego for good."

  She wanted to open her eyes, but she couldn’t move.

  "You’re a mess, Grace."

  I’ve thought so for a long while now.

  "What should I do with you?"

  There was exasperation in his voice, but fondness, too. She felt safe and secure and perfectly content. If left to her own devices, she might have napped there for all eternity.

  Vaguely, she heard him push his chair back and stand. Then she was cradled to his chest.

  "If you weighed any less," he murmured, "you’d simply float off into the sky."

  He laid her down somewhere soft and quiet and comfortable, and after that, she didn’t remember anything, at all.

  DC

  Jackson stared at his bed.

  It was nearly three o’clock, and Grace was resting in the middle of it.

  At supper, she’d asked him about Egypt, and he’d been brimming with unbelievable tales. For once, he was ridiculously eager to expound, which was odd. He never talked about any of it, but she’d practically bubbled with curiosity.

  He was preposterously captivated by her, and during the lengthy afternoon and evening, he could have untied the rope. But he’d been humored by her pluck, by her temper, so he’d kept himself bound to her much longer than necessary.

  The pathetic fact was that he hadn’t wanted her to leave, hadn’t wanted to dine by himself, so he’d had the intimate meal delivered to his suite.

  It hadn’t occurred to him that she might be exhausted, that she might be worn down to the bone. As she’d drooped in her seat, the most annoying wave of tenderness had swept through him. She was so darn pretty, so brave and all alone in the world.

  He could have awakened her and told her to head to her room. Or he could have carried her there and tucked her in. Instead, he’d picked her up and conveyed her to his own massive bed.

  He’d assumed she’d doze for a bit, then rouse and scold him, but she hadn’t stirred. He’d passed the time studying her and drinking brandy.

  He’d had too much of it, and inebriation was clouding his reason. He was very tired himself, and he refused to sleep in a chair. He yearned to walk over and stretch out next to her.

  It was the worst idea he’d ever had, but he was pondering it anyway. He was ready to kiss her senseless, to touch her all over, to remove her dress, to…to…

  He tried to ignore the salacious thoughts that had taken root, but he couldn’t.

  They enjoyed a strident physical attraction, and it appeared to be growing by leaps and bounds. If he satisfied a few urges, where was the harm? He could make her happy, and they’d both be better for it.

  He didn’t have to deflower her. He could dabble and relieve some of his rampant ardor. If he didn’t alleviate it, he couldn’t predict how he might behave.

  She had him so discombobulated that he was wondering if he shouldn’t tumble some of the housemaids. There were several who had cast furtive glances, sending messages that couldn’t be misconstrued. Perhaps that was the best route. Perhaps he should please himself in other rooms.

  But no. He’d never been the type to interfere with the hired help, and he’d gain no peace by romping with others. It had to be her.

  He downed the contents of his glass and went over to the bed. He eased himself onto the mattress, his body wedged to hers all the way down.

  She recognized that something had changed. A scowl marred her brow, then she smiled and sighed. To his enormous surprise, she snuggled herself to him, as if thrilled that he’d finally arrived. An arm was draped across his waist, a cheek nestled to his chest.

  He liked that she felt sufficiently safe to relax her guard, but she was a fool to exhibit her vulnerable side. All women had one, but she hid hers well. Down the road, as push came to shove over Michael and her claims of paternity, he envisioned many battles and she’d exposed a weak flank, which he would exploit if need be.

  Briefly, he suffered a pang of conscience, hating that he was a lout, that he was as horrid and unreliable as she accused him of being.

  His upbringing at the hands of cruel, bitter Beatrice had made him tough and unrepentant. Then his escape to Egypt at age eighteen, with no money in his pocket and no friends to aid him, had molded him into a stark and independent man.

  Survival was paramount, and in his dealings with others, he had little regard for hurt feelings or lost chances. She was risking much by letting him close, and ultimately, she’d be sorry.

  Yet at the moment, with her so sleepy and unsuspecting, he wouldn’t worry about the future. He was desperate to have her in ways no other man had dared, desperate to thrust her into a relationship she probably wouldn’t like very much.


  He knew better and shouldn’t have been mulling low behavior, but they seemed to be on a collision course and careening toward a bad end. He’d convinced himself that she’d be glad they forged ahead, but that was the brandy talking. There was nothing happening except that he was drunk and feeling randy, and she was lying in his bed.

  "Grace," he murmured. She didn’t respond, and he tried again. "Grace…"

  Her eyes fluttered open. For a few seconds, she studied him, her confusion clear, then realization dawned. To his delight, she didn’t recoil or race out in a huff.

  Her only immediate reaction was to withdraw the arm on his waist. She rose up on an elbow and assessed her surroundings.

  "Where am I?" she asked.

  "In my bed. You fell asleep."

  "During supper?"

  "Yes."

  "How mortifying." She flopped down and chuckled. "I’ve won the award for being the worst guest ever."

  "I agree. As company, you’re an absolute bore."

  "How long have I been out?"

  "Six or seven hours."

  "Hours!"

  "Yes."

  "What time is it?"

  "Three."

  "Why didn’t you send me on my way? Why bring me in here?"

  "I’m a wretch, and I have no manners."

  "No one saw me, did they? Please tell me none of the servants came in."

  "No, no one saw you."

  "Thank goodness. If my reputation had been shredded, you’d have had to marry me. It would be a cruel fate for you. I doubt you’d survive it."

  "Very funny."

  "What have you been doing?"

  "Drinking. Watching you."

  "My, my," she sarcastically said, "what interesting amusements you have in the country. I’m so dull, I’m amazed you could stay awake."

  "It was definitely a chore."

  She grinned. "We’re making progress. You’re not shouting at me."

  "I don’t shout."

  "Ha! You have the most annoying temper."

  "I only display it when I’m incredibly aggravated."

  "Yes, you’re a shouter."

  "I am not." He frowned, then grinned. "Well, maybe a little."