Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  Wynter extended out his hand to the older gentleman. "The lasses seem to know."

  Mr. Burton shook it and glanced slyly at Charlotte. "I see they do."

  The proper side of Charlotte could scarcely contain her embarrassment. "Sir, he didn't mean me!"

  Both the Burtons chuckled.

  Wynter put his hand on the small of her back in a manner that seemed to Charlotte most proprietary. She stepped away from his touch, and he smiled at her as if she were prey. As if he could rein her in at any moment!

  Charlotte caught herself as the memory of his kiss began again to play in her brain.

  Discipline. She needed discipline. And dignity. And equanimity.

  She needed to stop thinking of his kiss, and think instead of her gratitude to him, for his propinquity kept her uncle, aunt and cousins at bay. No one else had ever cared enough, or been brave enough, to stand up to the Earl of Porterbridge. Uncle was simply too unpleasant a character to challenge.

  She glanced over at her uncle and the group of self-important friends that surrounded him. Uncle never forgot a slight. She ought to face him now.

  Gathering her courage and her skirts, she walked toward Uncle. He turned his back.

  Charlotte halted, courage withering, as the group around him broke into shocked whispers.

  Behind her, Wynter muttered a curse and stepped past her. Charlotte caught his sleeve and exclaimed, "No!"

  He stared down at her, his brown eyes golden with fury.

  "No," she repeated. "You'll make matters worse."

  "She's right, young man," Mr. Burton said. "That shabby old wind-breaker is getting worse all the time. There's no use paying him the compliment of wrath."

  Wynter glanced down at Charlotte. "He hurt you."

  "No. Really. It was unpleasant. Nothing more." To Charlotte's surprise, it was true. Her uncle's slight left her mortified, but unbroken.

  "Burtie's right. The spiteful old blackguard feeds on it." Mrs. Burton patted Wynter's back, then skillfully changed the subject. "Charlotte, which children are your charges?"

  "There's one." Charlotte indicated Robbie, playing with Alfred and some of the other boys. But her first scan of the churchyard failed to find Leila. Alarmed, she looked again, and found the girl alone, leaning against a pillar on the church portico. "Leila is over there."

  "What beautiful children!" Mrs. Burton exclaimed.

  "Yes, they are." Her mind and gaze still on Leila, Charlotte absentmindedly accepted the compliment herself, and never noticed the smile Wynter exchanged with the Burtons.

  Mrs. Burton pressed her hand against Charlotte's cheek. "Now that the drama's over, people are leaving and we, too, must go. Cook gets irate when we're late for our meal. But, dearie, it was good to see you. When you have your half day off, use it to visit us."

  As always, Mrs. Burton wore too much rose cologne and wore a hideous bonnet trimmed with pink satin roses. Her dedication to rose scent, rose-shaped handbags and rose gardens had always made the youthful Charlotte giggle. Now nostalgia gripped her by the throat, and she could only nod.

  As Mr. and Mrs. Burton left, Charlotte again looked for Leila, and again found her standing alone, watching her brother play with his new friend. "If you would excuse me, my lord, I must fetch Leila."

  Leila straightened as Charlotte approached, and the hopeful look on her face made Charlotte's heart wrench. Leila was feeling abandoned, and that was a feeling Charlotte well understood. She knelt beside her.

  "Are we going home soon?" Leila asked.

  "Indeed. And this evening, perhaps we can read a story from The Arabian Nights' Entertainments."

  Leila moved close to Charlotte's side. "Yes, please. I like to read about my home."

  Oh, dear. "That's not your home, darling. This is."

  "No." Leila leaned her head against Charlotte's shoulder as if she were weary. "My home is where the magic is."

  Home. Magic.

  When had Charlotte last felt that?

  But she would do better for this child. She kissed Leila's forehead, and resolved to find some special something that would help Leila find the magic in England.

  "Come on, then." She stood and took Leila's hand. "Let's go."

  Magic. She was beginning to feel it again…and it terrified her.

  CHAPTER 17

  As they bumped along the rutted road, Charlotte's fright faded. Yet every time she looked at Wynter, seated across from her, the panic returned, stifling in its intensity. She didn't really understand. He wasn't doing anything magical. Indeed, he held Leila in his lap while he explained the Anglican service to the children, and most people would have said he was the very portrait of an enlightened family man.

  Yes, he had kissed Charlotte. Some might say he had wooed her. But he hadn't demonstrated savagery in any of his dealings around the estate. Really, his barbarism consisted of nothing more than a pierced ear and bare feet.

  Yet she argued logic with herself to no avail. She wanted—needed—to get away from him, for she sensed in him an intent to learn her secrets, and to work his magic. As the carriage pulled up to the terrace at Austinpark Manor, Charlotte began to chat. "The Burtons reminded me, I haven't taken any of my half days. Since I've seen them and they were so kind, perhaps I should visit them right away."

  "Now?" Robbie asked. The footman opened the door and he jumped out of the carriage in one long leap. "But you just saw them," he yelled as if a great distance separated them.

  "You promised to read to me," Leila said.

  Charlotte patted Leila's hand so quickly it betrayed her nervousness. "So I did. And I will, as soon as I get back this evening. Your nursemaid, Grania, can watch over you. You can have your dinner and, if the ground dries out enough, a walk."

  The froth of words spilling from her should have overcome any objection, but Wynter still hadn't said a word. His reticence reverberated over the maroon leather upholstery and slid like ice down the glass windows.

  If only Charlotte made a habit of chatting…but she detested chatting women. She did it so badly even Leila watched her with wide eyes as Wynter picked up his daughter and handed her out to the footman. He tweaked Leila's chin and smiled at her until she smiled back, then waved the footman away.

  And shut the door.

  Charlotte stared at his hand resting on the door with equal amounts of horror and, to her chagrin, excitement. The interior of the carriage was luxurious, but too small to contain one jittery woman and one large man exuding demand and determination.

  But surely she was misinterpreting his actions. He was probably being excessively protective, "My lord, it is not necessary to drive with me to the Burtons'. I can easily find my way alone."

  Wynter settled back on the seat opposite, crossed his arms over his chest and stared accusingly at Charlotte. "You haven't given me the explanations I am owed."

  "I don't owe you any explanations." Outside, she heard the low buzz of the servants' voices as they tried to puzzle out this odd behavior. Glancing out, she saw them huddled on the steps, glancing toward the carriage and gesturing. "Are you, too, going somewhere?" she asked hopefully.

  He ignored her as if she hadn't spoken. "The Earl of Porterbridge is the head of your family."

  The coachman broke away from the little group to tentatively tap on the door. "My lord? Where did you wish me to drive you?"

  "Nowhere. Go away."

  "That was rude." The rebuke was not automatic, but an attempt to shift the balance of power and, even better, change the subject.

  "Skeets?" Wynter called.

  Skeets shuffled back. "Yes, my lord?"

  "Please go away."

  Charlotte couldn't look, but she writhed as she imagined Skeets's confusion before he replied, "As you wish, my lord."

  She didn't have to think, she knew he was on his way to the kitchen to spread the gossip. "Open the door," she demanded softly. "What will the servants think?"

  Obviously Wynter didn't care, nor would he follow
her conversational leads. He would discuss what he wished, and she would not escape until he was satisfied. "You, Lady Miss Charlotte, are one of the Dalrumples of Porterbridge Hall."

  It wasn't warm in here, exactly. The recent rain and the intermittent clouds kept the temperature down. But beads of perspiration formed on her upper lip, and she fumbled for a handkerchief. "If I answer, will you let me out?" He paid no attention to her attempt at a bargain, but pursued his line of questioning with a hard glint in his eye. One would have thought he was angry with her.

  "Women should be protected," he said, "yet your uncle allows you to go from house to house unchaperoned, a prey to any man who wishes to have you."

  Could he be any more high-handed? Ignoring her wishes, trapping her here, insinuating she had been helpless?

  Insinuating she had been a loose woman? This was what came of sharing a kiss with him. Dignity. Grace. Equanimity. She needed all of the disciplines, and this was the proof of it. "I am not prey, my lord, and there is not a nobleman in England who dares imagine I am."

  "So you have taken care of yourself."

  "Exactly!" She blotted her upper lip.

  "That is the right and duty of your uncle. You are twenty-six. You are unmarried and unfulfilled. You are miserable."

  "I am not!"

  He took a deep breath. "Very well. Even in El Bahar, there are those who fail in their duty."

  Slowly, she relaxed back against the seat. He didn't appear angry now. He appeared to be reflective, and although one might wish he would pick an emotion and stick with it, perhaps this signified the beginning of the end of this interrogation. If she humored him, surely she wouldn't have to listen to any more insults. In a soothing tone, she said, "I'm sure there are."

  "But I know my duty. I hereby assume responsibility for you."

  She sprang forward in the seat. "You? Responsibility for me? I do not grant you permission!"

  "I do not need permission." He leaned forward slowly, until their knees met and they were eye-to-eye—with him looking down on her, of course. "You are a woman in my employ."

  "That doesn't give you the right—"

  "Sometimes a man does not wait to be given rights. Sometimes he must take them."

  Frustration bubbled up in her, and she almost shouted at him. But she didn't doubt some servants lingered near, and if she shouted, Leila would hear about it, and how could she convince the child to maintain a reasonable tone if her teacher couldn't even do so? So she regulated her tone until it was polite, well enunciated and so frigid he should have dropped to the ground stricken by frostbite. "The trouble with you, my lord, is you say these things and you don't seem to realize how inappropriate they are."

  He thought for a moment, his handsome face a blank. "But I do. I simply do not care."

  He was so much taller than she was, blessed with the confidence a handsome face, money and masculinity gave in a world run by men. The sense of being stifled grew in her again, and a trickle of perspiration ran down her spine.

  "Am I so wrong, then? In England, is it not a man's duty to care for his female relatives?"

  How she hated this! "Men usually support their daughters, but it's not required for a man to care for all his nieces and aunts. That would be a very great burden."

  "For a poor man, yes. I see girls working here in the house and understand that they are helping their families to live. But your uncle is a wealthy man."

  " 'Wealth' is a comparative term. All of my father's possessions were entailed to the male heir—"

  "Your father was the eldest son and the earl before the current Porterbridge."

  He was annoying her now. He had to know the truth of this, but she answered courteously, "Yes, that's why I'm Lady Charlotte."

  "All the money and all the lands went to your uncle. I still do not understand why you say he is not wealthy."

  "He is very wealthy and very…he has many children."

  "Ah." Wynter nodded. "His manhood is potent."

  She snapped out, "Why is it that if there are many children, the man is potent, but if the marriage is childless, the woman is infertile?" Then, appalled, she shut her eyes. What madness moved her to voice what she had always thought? And, oh, dear, would Wynter assume because of her bad example, he could discuss fertility as he wished? Opening her eyes, she looked earnestly at him. "That was extremely improper of me. Please realize you may not ever refer to the…ah…"

  "Making of babies?" he proffered helpfully.

  "Fruitfulness," she said firmly. "In proper society, you may not speak of or in any way refer to any man's or any woman's fruitfulness for any reason."

  "Lady Miss Charlotte, I do not know what I would do without your tutelage."

  Could he be making mock of her?

  Before she could question him, an idea seemed to strike him. "You object to me taking responsibility for you. You say you are capable of standing alone, without the guidance of a man. If I knew your story, I might agree."

  Enlightenment arrived in a rush. "You're holding me hostage!" She grabbed for the door.

  He caught her arm and held her. Not tightly—he wasn't hurting her. He wasn't letting her go, either. "Lady Miss Charlotte, I wish to know why you are so alone."

  She should have recognized that look on his face right away. She'd seen it often enough. From the moment Wynter walked in yesterday from London, he had been stalking her, not because he wanted her, but because of vulgar curiosity. Someone in London had been gossiping. "I would wager you already know."

  "Not enough about you, Lady Miss Charlotte." He watched her hungrily. "Never enough about you."

  Now he hungered for details. And what difference did it make, really? He wanted to know. She would tell him. Then, maybe, he'd leave her alone to do her job.

  Yanking her arm out of his grasp, she settled back on the seat, her arms crossed over her belly and her mouth unsmiling. "What do you want to know? Everything? Or just the information about my ignominious departure from Porterbridge Hall?"

  He leaned forward as if he still feared she would bolt. "Everything, I would think."

  She looked down at her fingers, and absentmindedly straightened their clawlike curve. "I was an only child. I was very spoiled. I had a nursery, a nanny, a governess and many toys all to myself. The corridors of Porterbridge Hall were mine to run through. The lands were mine to ride my pony across." Her youth had truly been a golden time, and the only way she could talk about those years was in a monotone, shutting herself off from the memories by sheer determination. Because when she allowed herself to remember…She would not remember. "Papa and Mama were killed by a lightning bolt when I was eleven."

  Wynter tried to take her hand, but she flinched away from him. "You want to know. You can know. Just don't touch me."

  He didn't like that, she could see. His wide brow puckered and the skin around his scar turned white. But as she suspected, he wouldn't do anything to jeopardize this engaging gossip, or at least not until she had told every last juicy morsel.

  She held his gaze until he nodded and sat back, then she continued, "The land wasn't mine anymore. The manor wasn't mine anymore. My uncle and his family moved in, and there were so many of them. They said I didn't need the nursery, I wasn't a baby, and they placed their infants in the cradle where I'd rocked my dolls. The older ones invaded the playroom. My uncle said he didn't need to buy toys, because I had so many. My nanny resigned, and my governess. Uncle didn't want to pay them more for caring for and teaching all his children than they had been paid for just me. I had to share my bedchamber with two of my cousins. One wet the bed. They fought. There was no place I could go to be alone, and no one cared for me." That sounded like self-pity, so she added in explanation, "Why would they? They didn't even care for each other."

  Wynter stripped off his gloves and tossed them aside. "What did you do?"

  "Do?"

  "Did you throw tantrums? Did you demand your toys back?"

  "No. Of course not. I was
so bewildered…I look back and I think, poor child. So confused. Just on the brink of womanhood and no one—" She snapped her mouth shut. She didn't want to give him insight into the troubled girl she had been. He would enjoy it too much, this retelling of her pain. They all enjoyed it, all the seekers after scandal.

  "You were frightened."

  His soft tone and kind eyes couldn't fool her. This was an inquisition of the most brutal kind. "Of everything," she agreed harshly. "I think that annoyed the whole family. They'd shout, stomp around, kick each other and fight. I didn't understand that kind of display. I didn't know how to act like that."

  "Do you understand now?"

  "I have lived with many different families. Some are happy, some are not. Some are boisterous, some are not. Some make it their mission to make each other miserable—like my uncle's. I don't understand, but I know all that is true."

  "I think my family is happy," he said reflectively. "At least, my mother is happy to have us home, and the children will be happy when they've adjusted. Don't you think so, Lady Miss Charlotte?"

  "I think your children are charming."

  "Don't you want to know if I'm happy?"

  She smiled, but it was a difficult, unwieldy curving of the lips. "You must be happy, my lord. You must be positively ecstatic."

  He didn't like her sarcasm, and his accent grew pronounced. "Not…yet."

  Her toes curled in her shoes, and reluctantly she practiced circumspection, telling herself that was wise, for he was still a barbarian. "I tried to make myself invisible. I did whatever my uncle and aunt told me, but the other children used to get me in trouble when they could. So Uncle would yell at me, and I hated that. The problem is he looks so much like Papa. But Papa was Papa. He loved my mother and he loved me. If the present Earl of Porterbridge loves anyone, he keeps it well hidden. He has the spirit of a raging toothache."

  She finished speaking, and Wynter realized with a jolt she had no intention of telling him the rest of the story. He was stunned. He was most empathetic and insightful, and she was talking to him, the mate of her soul, the man who would wed her. She didn't know that yet, she ought to know he could be trusted.