Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  She glared at him, wondering what god she had offended to have to suffer such visits on her wedding day. First Wynter, arriving like some unruly satyr to stand over her nude body and tell her she would soon be his wife—as if she could forget that! Then Leila and Robbie, needing reassurance that all would be well—for them she had put aside her misgivings and, without regard to her elegant gown, hugged them until they broke into grins.

  Now Lord Howard. In the voice of goaded patience she usually reserved for undertrained dance instructors, she said, "Why would I sell myself to you as your mistress? I wouldn't even sell myself to you as your wife. Go back to Lady Howard."

  Head hung, Lord Howard stumbled out.

  Charlotte turned to Mr. Burton, dressed in his best. "I never thought I would say this, but the sooner these nuptials take place, the happier I will be."

  Stern of visage, Mr. Burton straightened his cuffs. "From what I've heard of Lord Ruskin's behavior, I must concur. That young man needs a thrashing."

  It appeared Mr. Burton was not only taking her father's place in walking her down the aisle, but also in his ire about her groom and his everlasting arrogance. God bless Mr. Burton; how it mollified her that at least one other person thought Wynter's behavior was outrageous. Resting her hand on Mr. Burton's arm, she said, "Sir, I must extend my most sincere thanks to you for consenting to walk me down the aisle. It is a debt I can never repay."

  "Ah, well." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm honored you asked me, Lady Charlotte. I remember your father and—"

  A voice interrupted from the doorway. "I'll walk you down the aisle."

  For one moment Charlotte heard her father's voice in the abrupt sentence. Then good sense resurrected itself, and she turned.

  Her uncle stood there, trussed into a formal black jacket and purple silk waistcoat. The suit was done by a London tailor; she knew, for she remembered how he had groused at the cost when he bought it. He'd told Aunt Piper not to expect him to ever buy another, that he would be buried in that suit. It appeared that if his valet could pull his corset strings tight enough, he would keep his vow.

  Why had Uncle come to the antechamber of the church? Surely not to give her a tongue-lashing. Not today. Charlotte said, "My lord, you should take your seat if you wish to watch the ceremony."

  Mr. Burton looked from one to the other.

  Uncle spoke to him, abrupt, loud and overbearing. "I'm the Earl of Porterbridge, and this is my niece. I will walk her down the aisle."

  "Lady Charlotte, what would you have me do?" Mr. Burton asked.

  "You don't need to ask her," Uncle said. "She'll do as she's told."

  She'll do as she's told. The phrase hung in the air. If she had done as she was told, he would have walked her down the aisle nine years ago and he'd be finished with her. But that hadn't happened, and now they were trapped by awkward emotions and uncomfortable disclosures.

  Uncle scowled. "My brother would expect me to give his daughter away."

  Her eyes widened. Now he worried about her father's wishes?

  "He would," Uncle snapped. "I can do this right, at least."

  The moment was poignant with astonishment, and Charlotte's realization that…good heavens, Uncle wanted to do right by her. She nodded to Mr. Burton, who bowed and left them.

  An uneasy silence settled between uncle and niece. Charlotte, who prided herself on teaching even dunces what to say on every occasion, found herself searching for a topic that would not be incendiary. For the second time within a few moments, she found herself saying, "I appreciate your gesture in offering to walk me down the aisle, my lord."

  He waved a brusque hand. "Had to do it. Didn't have a choice. You damn near got my head chopped off with that speech you gave about men not loving their wives."

  She didn't understand. She didn't have the stamina to understand or even care right now. "I'm sorry you heard my outburst, Uncle. It was…an impulse."

  "Don't apologize. That young whelp Ruskin deserved it." Uncle glared glumly forward. "Piper said I deserved it, too."

  He captured her attention, something she didn't believe possible right now. "What? Deserved what?"

  "She said you were right. She said I didn't love her, thought I was the sun and she was the dirt. Said she'd loved me when I had no prospects and she loved me since I was an earl and I'd been nothing but a jackass every minute."

  Charlotte supposed she should murmur some politic denial, but she couldn't lie. Not in church.

  "She said I didn't love her."

  Recalling all the times he'd ignored Aunt Piper, blamed Aunt Piper, sneered at Aunt Piper, Charlotte found her palms inside her gloves grow damp. "Do you?"

  "Of course I do, girl. She's my wife." He hesitated; then, as if this were the inarguable evidence, he added, "Haven't shared another bed for thirty-five years."

  Charlotte almost laughed. Did every man in the world think alike? "Women don't consider fidelity the proof of love."

  "Well, what the hell else would it be?" her uncle snapped.

  "The proof of laziness," she snapped back.

  "Your time away hasn't improved you, girl. You're damned cheeky." His gruff voice rose. "I'm the earl. I don't have to exert myself and go out looking for tail. Women come to me."

  She nodded, her stomach tightening yet more. Trust her uncle to turn a reconciliatory gesture into a peep show which showed her own probable future. She was marrying a viscount who admitted he didn't love her and thought passion should be sufficient to make her happy. How could she go through with the ceremony?

  Uncle apparently took her fright as contempt, for he said loudly, "All right. You women are all the same, wanting blood from a man. Your aunt's the only woman I've ever known. Some of the others have looked pretty damned good, too, Miss Sassymouth, so don't tell me it's just laziness. Piper's just the only one I've ever wanted to—"

  She interrupted him hastily, not wanting to hear more. "I believe you, Uncle." Maybe she was wrong. Maybe, for a man, fidelity was the proof of love.

  That uncomfortable silence fell again.

  He cleared his throat. "Piper said a few other things."

  Charlotte couldn't face much more. Hands trembling, she said, "Uncle, I appreciate your confidence, but I don't know if I dare listen to any further details about your marriage."

  "She didn't talk about that. She talked about you."

  "Oh." Charlotte had known her wedding day would be an ordeal, but not one of this magnitude.

  "She said maybe we were a little rough on you, what with you having lost your parents. I said I'd lost my brother, and I thought the world of the man. Couldn't have found a better fellow. Good earl, too. Never thought I'd inherit the title."

  Charlotte thought back to the days when her parents were alive and her uncle and his family had visited. Uncle had always been gruff and loud, but before he'd also been almost…kind.

  "But Piper said losing a brother's not the same as losing parents, and any fool would know that." He faced forward and glowered. "Well, I didn't know it."

  "Sometimes men are not insightful," Charlotte said in deliberate understatement.

  "Well, how the hell are we supposed to know all this stuff about love and feelings? No one ever tells us until they're ready to run away. Anyway, Piper said we could have treated you better. Maybe let you have a season, like you wanted. She even said you were right about Howard. So what I'm trying to…it's been a few years, but I never meant…your father and I always…"

  Uncle was a petty, uncouth tyrant, but he was trying to say he'd been wrong. Charlotte had met very few, young or old, rich or poor, who had the strength of character to admit that. In truth, she herself was rather lacking in that skill. Interrupting his halting flow of words, she said, "I understand. You did the best you could."

  And, she supposed, given his character and expectations, he had.

  Adorna was determined she would not cry. Weddings were joyous occasions, not the funeral dirges so many reveled in th
inking them. She would just sit here in the family pew, waiting for Charlotte to walk down the aisle, and while she did she would think cheerful thoughts. After all, she never had cried at a wedding before…

  "Grandmama?" Leila's small gloved hand tugged cautiously at the sky-blue silk and lace-trimmed skirt of Adorna's gown. "Why is Papa standing up in front looking so mad?"

  Adorna looked down at the fingers wrinkling her garment.

  Leila whisked her hand away.

  Then Adorna shifted her gaze to the child seated on the pew beside her. "He's not mad, he's happy."

  Leila shook her head. Except for the crumpled white rose from Charlotte's bouquet, she looked quite respectable in her pink velvet gown. "He doesn't look happy."

  "Well, he is," Adorna snapped. She intercepted a shocked glance from Aunt Jane, and collected herself. "He's just determined."

  Robbie leaned across Leila and whispered loudly, "Why isn't he happy?"

  "He is happy," Adorna repeated. "He's just…men really like it when the wedding part is over."

  "Oh." Robbie nodded wisely. "So the mating can begin."

  Uncle Ransom smothered his smile with his hand.

  Adorna put on her most helpless act and gestured for Uncle Ransom to deal with Robbie. Uncle Ransom ignored her. He'd not only seen Adorna's helpless act before, he'd seen through it almost at once.

  "It's all right, Grandmama." Leila patted her hand. "You don't need to be afraid. You don't have to get up in front of everyone and talk so they laugh at you."

  At first Adorna thought how charming it was that Leila thought she should comfort her. Then she thought—"Wait. Who has laughed at you?"

  Someone shushed them from behind. Probably Lord Bucknell, suffering from an attack of bellicose propriety. Adorna ignored him. "Has someone teased you, dear?"

  "Not really." Leila's lip quivered. "Just a little."

  Robbie leaned over again. "It was the vicar's son. Alfred made fun of her accent and made her cry." He leaned back again, crossing his arms over his chest. Apparently brotherly love won out over young friendship, especially when Alfred vexed her about the very quirk she shared with Robbie.

  "I didn't cry," Leila said.

  Robbie rolled his eyes.

  "Maybe once, but not for long," she conceded. "That stupid boy can't make me cry."

  Looking at Leila's thin chin, pointed into the air, at her tall, scrawny body, at her dark thick hair, Adorna was struck by her resemblance to Aunt Jane. Aunt Jane, whom Adorna revered for her courage, her stubborn integrity and her capacity to love. All characteristics Leila contained in abundance.

  And Robbie. In his profile, Adorna saw Wynter's stubborn, outthrust lip, his brooding search for stability and…his ability with a blade. Closing her eyes, she remembered how nine-year-old Wynter had carved her table with his knife. Back then, she had laughed.

  She heard her own dear husband's voice in her head. Adorna, without a child's love, you'll shrivel and grow old. Loving a child, laughing at its antics…that was Henry's prescription to combat age, and it had worked. Until the day of his death, he had retained a youthful spirit, and for that, she had loved him.

  Of course, these children were mischievous and a trial for a woman used to her own way. But Adorna had always doted on children. She looked toward Wynter, handsome and shod, his gaze fixed to the door at the back of the church. Behind him, the ancient stained-glass window gleamed, rich with colors. Tears prickled in Adorna's eyes. She swallowed. She was not going to cry.

  She was not going to dwell on the fact that this wedding was a culmination of dreams going back to the day she'd rocked Wynter in his cradle. She'd feared those dreams could never be fulfilled during the empty years of his absence, but soon…oh, soon she would have other grandchildren to pamper.

  From the corners of her eyes, she saw Robbie slide his arm around Leila's shoulders.

  The other grandchildren wouldn't speak with an accent. Their coloring would be similar to everyone else's in England. They'd have both a father and a mother.

  They wouldn't need Adorna.

  Robbie needed her. Leila needed her. Adorna stifled a surprise sob with her gloved fingers.

  "Grandmama?" Leila whispered.

  Adorna struggled to respond, to behave as if tears weren't trickling down her cheeks.

  "What's wrong with her?" Robbie forgot they were in church, and he spoke out loud.

  Aunt Jane shushed him. "She's happy," she explained.

  "People here really act funny when they're happy," Robbie said in boyish disgust. But his hand softly touched Adorna's shoulder.

  And Leila planted a kiss on her arm.

  The organist began to play. The soprano began to sing. Charlotte stood at the back of the church with…the Earl of Porterbridge? Adorna blinked, dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then shrugged and moved aside to allow Leila and Robbie the best view.

  "There's Lady Miss Charlotte. She is so beautiful." Leila spoke so quietly Adorna had to lean down to hear her. "After she's married Papa, do you think she'll still be nice to me?"

  Her subdued question tore at Adorna's heart. How could a child residing in her household be so unsure of herself? Especially her own granddaughter? Leaning over, she hugged Leila to her. "Of course she'll still be nice to you, darling. She loves you—and so do I."

  CHAPTER 26

  The wedding had been a triumph.

  Wynter had listened intently while Charlotte whispered her vows. Then he'd proclaimed his fidelity and loyalty to her in firm tones that resounded throughout the church. In this manner, he had assured her he not only understood the oaths they took, but that he intended to keep them. He would not be neglectful, cruel or unfaithful. He knew she must have been pleased and gratified by his sensitivity.

  The reception, staged in the ballroom and long salon of Austinpark Manor, was less of a triumph. He knew Charlotte thought so, too, because the smile he adored was artificial and strained. They had to stand in line with his mother and Porterbridge, murmuring polite nothings at guests he wished to Gehenna. Howard and his harpy of a wife. Lady Smithwick and her very disappointed daughter. Hodges and Shilbottle. Drakely and Read. Stewart.

  Stewart…

  "Cousin." Stewart shook Wynter's hand firmly. "Congratulations on your marriage to such a lovely, accomplished Englishwoman. Now you'll settle down and be in the office every day, eh?"

  The trouble with Stewart, Wynter thought, was that he looked completely sincere. His compliment to Charlotte sounded free of mockery, and he behaved as if he really hoped Wynter would come into the office every day. The man was a gifted actor—for an embezzler. "Thank you, cousin," Wynter said gravely. "But I must take my honeymoon first, and teach my bride the pleasures of love."

  Next to him, Charlotte gasped. Down the receiving line, Mrs. Morant fainted. Adorna giggled.

  Leaning close to Charlotte's ear, Wynter asked, "Was that a personal comment?"

  "One doesn't speak of the honeymoon in mixed company." Her voice was steady, but her gaze slid away from his.

  "Then I will not do so again." Not when it made her lose the little color still highlighting her cheeks. Raising his voice, he called to the people remaining in the receiving line, "My bride is tiring. We shall cease greeting now so she may sit and you may dine and consume intoxicating beverages. Later we shall start again."

  Laughter rippled among the crowd, but they dispersed at record speed.

  "That was not…" Charlotte sighed and gave up.

  "I know." Wynter took her arm. "But you are not a blushing bride. You are pale."

  "I say well done. My feet hurt, and I have to find Piper. See if she's still mad at me." Porterbridge shambled off.

  "Your years in the desert certainly gave you an attitude of command, dear." Adorna smiled at him, then stroked Charlotte's cheek. "You are wan, Charlotte. A plate of food and a little brandy would do you wonders."

  Wynter had made it his business to know what she liked. "She does not like bran
dy. Nor does she like coffee. She shall have tea."

  "Actually, I'd like a glass of wine," Charlotte said.

  "No. No wine." He noted Charlotte glared at him as if he were dictatorial, when actually he had her best interests at heart. "No wine today, oh blossom of the desert. I do not wish you impaired for our true union later."

  Now the color swept into her cheeks.

  Satisfied that his ruse had worked, he led her to an upholstered chair, ousted the occupant and placed her in it. "Sit. I have an offering for my bride."

  "Wynter."

  She used his first name. That pleased him.

  "There will be no union later."

  Still she challenged him. That displeased him. Going down on his knees before her, he lifted her hand and showed her the wedding band of plain gold he had placed there only hours earlier. "I pledged you my troth. You will accept it." With a kiss on her fingers, he rose and left.

  He had a gift for her. A very special gift. The best he could give her, one that signified his commitment to her happiness. For she would be happy in this marriage, of that he was determined.

  As he strode toward the stairway, he noticed Bucknell standing stiffly near the doorway, staring at Adorna. Just staring. Not moving toward her, not leaving.

  And Adorna—she stood near the doorway on the opposite side of the ballroom, ignoring Bucknell with all her might.

  This Bucknell had made his mother cry. Wynter hated to take the time now, but later he would be distracted, and as Adorna's son it was up to him to take Bucknell vigorously to task.

  Veering toward the tedious nobleman, with a jerk of his head he indicated Bucknell should come with him. Bucknell followed, as Wynter knew he would. Leading Bucknell into the library, Wynter marched to his desk and stood beside it, stiff and tall. "Sir, you will tell me if your intentions toward my mother are honorable, or if you are merely toying with her heart."

  Bucknell puffed up like a dueling moorfowl. "Honorable? Of course my intentions are honorable. She will have none of them."

  Which left Wynter with nothing to say for a few very critical moments.