No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  Squirming uncomfortably, she said, "The earl has shown me all I need to know of men and their ways. I have no need for either."

  "All men are not the same. You wrong me by comparing me to your father. I have nothing in common with him, not even as a man."

  "This is not something I want to find out—so if you will release me?" She pulled up from him, arching her back, but her breasts threatened to spill out from her round-necked bod­ice if she moved farther away. She distinctly distrusted the gleam that suddenly appeared in his eye.

  "Give me a welcome kiss, wildflower. Tis what I have waited for and dreamed about." There was a deliciously wicked smile on his handsome face and she knew better than to comply.

  "You're daft! You've been away from Osterley for so long, you've forgotten how it is between us."

  "I have not forgotten the key. Or have you taken the oppor­tunity while I was away to claw through the lock on my com­mode and retrieve your comb?" He raised one black eyebrow at her .

  "So you admit it's my comb after all," she said smugly. "Perhaps then you will concede to giving it to me?"

  "I admit nothing. Tis your comb when you have earned it. Until then, I will call it your comb, for it is seemly to do so, and because the piece suits you so well."

  "If it suits me, then give it to me. Surely you have given gifts to certain women in your doubtful career. Why must this be different?"

  "You are not a trollop," he answered, looking strangely defensive.

  "But I must behave like one to get it back."

  "I suppose that is subject to different interpretations." In an instant she was tumbling to the floorboard as he abruptly got to his feet. He stood over her dazed and disheveled figure and then bent down to retrieve his topcoat from where he had discarded it earlier. "Have Vivie make you presentable. We have guests, and I expect you in the drawing room in less than an hour."

  "Who?" she inquired, completely flustered.

  "My cousin is here, and . . . some friends from London."

  "I see. Cumberland mentioned you would bring her back. I suppose this is the test—to see if I can stand being humiliated as your whore—"

  She found herself suddenly being grabbed from the floor­boards and shaken so that she felt her head would spin off her shoulders. Finally when he took his hands from her, all he could do was shove on his wrinkled topcoat and say, " Tis not for you ever to say such things. It does not become you, and I will not have it."

  She opened her mouth, but before she could get out a reply, he took her by the arm and started leading her out of the small groundsbuilding toward the house.

  "Say no more, little one. Reality has slapped us both in the face once again."

  "Venetia has gone upstairs with the rest of the guests. I suppose the journey has worn them out." A pretty, blond- haired woman spoke as Avenel entered the elaborate drawing room. He walked underneath the plastered ceiling with its writhing golden sunflower and rays of curling ostrich feathers. The pink, gold, and green ceiling motifs were echoed in the rich Thomas Moore carpeting underneath, and the entire loom was so full of studied movement that even the dated rococo curves of the seat furniture seemed in place.

  Avenel sat down in one of the gold serpentine chairs cov­ered in swirling silk damask and hung his head tiredly before him. He ran an agitated hand across his jaw and began to speak." Tis good. Let them rest. I'm afraid we will need this rime to talk."

  "Why, whatever is the matter, Avenel? I haven't seen you so worked up since Christopher died. And as you well know, I have been a widow now for almost twenty years." From the fading sunlight of the window, lines were seen on the beauti­ful woman's face, but it could not be discerned whether these were from worry or aging.

  "In many ways, 'tis like when Christopher died, Rose."

  She stood up from the tea table and walked toward him. "Whatever can be that bad? It was a brutal death that your brother and my husband suffered. But he is dead and has found his release."

  "But it seems there is no release found for us."

  "What is it, Avenel, that makes you speak so bitterly? You have Osterley back. And when Oliver Morrow shows his blackguard face here, you will have it all back. It was worth fighting for. I can believe it was worth dying for."

  He grabbed her hand and placed an affectionate kiss on its back." Tis been hard for you all these years. So unnecessarily hard and lonely." He looked up into the older woman's face and then said, "I always knew Christopher would have the finest of women. You are the finest, Rose. My one comfort is that he was a happy man until the day he died."

  "We were happy. But now I must continue without him. However, I confess that I haven't been quite as fortunate as you. I cannot imagine a lovelier room. With all his vile ways, Oliver Morrow certainly made Osterley into a palace. It's not the place we were told about as children, is it?"

  "No, 'tis not the same place," Avenel said darkly. "There is something I must tell you, Rose. When I came back here, the house was not empty."

  "He is not here, is he? You would not bring me here!" She gave him a sharp look of alarm.

  "No, Oliver Morrow is well and away in America., Never fear that I will ever allow you to set those lovely eyes on him. You may rest easy."

  "Then what are you trying to tell me, Avenel? What has gotten you so upset?"

  "There were some things I did not know about him. He was married for a short while. There was a wife and apparently a child. They left him a long time ago. But when I arrived at the Park, the child had returned. His daughter was here . . . when I came back." He gave Rose a deep, probing look.

  "My God, how awful!" She shuddered. "What did you have to do to get rid of her?"

  "I have not gotten rid of her. I have made plans for her."

  "Plans? But surely you cannot keep her here. Why, how can you even stand to look at her face day after day? That horrible reminder of—"

  " 'Tis the damnedest part!" He kicked the chair out from him and walked over to a marble-topped mixing table to pour himself two stiff fingers of brandy. He took the liquor in one quick medicinal gulp and placed the glass down heavily on top of a demilune rosewood commode that pictured Diana and her hounds.

  "I have never seen you so!" she exclaimed, walking over to him.

  " 'Tis her face! She has the fairest face I have ever set eyes upon. She could bewitch anyone." A small, knotted muscle - near his jaw started to twitch, and his eyes looked down sol­emnly. "Sometimes I think it must be the devil himself that has me by the throat. I have the earl's daughter right underneath my hand, and yet does she repulse me? On the contrary, I find that I am drawn to her. Tis as if Oliver Morrow had created her just to ensnare me."

  "But no matter how comely the girl may be, surely the offspring of the earl—" Rose interjected, not knowing how to comfort him.

  "I would have thought so. In the time we have been to­gether, I have searched for that one gesture or expression that would show her paternity. Just one thing that would turn me away from her. But there is none, I tell you! Every smile, every laugh—even her tears bear no resemblance to the man! She is as winsome as they come. If it were not so foolhardy to believe otherwise, I would swear to you right now that she is not the daughter of Oliver Morrow." He sat down on a matching settee and held his head in his hands.

  "Cast her from here then, Avenel. Make her leave. She has no rights upon this place- Not even the right to be here." She bent down to stroke his dark head, the one that so closely resembled his late brother's.

  "But think of it. I must get Morrow to come here and make his confession to his peers. How much simpler it will be if I am holding his only child! His only offspring. I cannot let her fly the coop just when I need her the most."

  Rose frowned. "But have you considered the possibility that she may not be his daughter? Perhaps that is why no one has heard of her. Then what have you? Merely more aggrava­tion."

  "She may not be his natural daughter. But the earl claims her as his. I have s
poken to his solicitor. He has told me that in the earl's will she is named as heiress. So even if she is no relation, her downfall will be felt by Morrow. As long as he thinks she is his daughter, she is too valuable to let go."

  "What have you planned for her?" There was a long moment of silence in the room, but when Avenel did speak, he evaded her question.

  "There has been some difficulty with her trying to run away. However, I find I cannot keep her locked up as if in jail. I must start entertaining, because it is the only way we can re­cover our place here at the Park. Therefore, I will need your help for the next few days until the ball."

  "What is it you want me to do?"

  "I must find a plausible story for the girl. An explanation for her presence here. I cannot pass her off as a maid, and I am afraid with Venetia and the other guests here, she is going to be seen. There is no avoiding that. The only thing I have right now is that no one seems to know that the Earl of Laborde has a daughter. Thus her story, if she ever chose to tell it, would not be believed." He turned to his cousin and took her by the arm. "This may gall you at first. But I want you to pass her off as a relation from America."

  "You are jesting with me!"

  " Tis the only way. If I claim her as a mistress, Venetia would be capable of anything. You know she has been cov­eting me and my purse since I arrived in London. I cannot handle any more unruly females."

  "But I have not seen the Colonies for twenty years! I came back to England after Christopher died. No one will believe me."

  He took her fragile, doe-eyed face in his hands and said, "Cousin, I'm afraid everyone would believe you. You see, that is your trouble. 'Tis just that way."

  "I won't be able to keep up the appearance. I shudder just thinking about that wretched girl. How can I look upon her and be civil, let alone pass her off as a loving relation?"

  "It may take you time. But as I said before, she is winsome. I believe you may even come to like her, despite your feelings now."

  "Such blasphemy! How dare you say such things! She must be a witch for you to speak so."

  "Perhaps she is. Do not think the possibility has not oc­curred to me. Will you go along with me, Rose? I should not ask you to do such a thing, but I believe it will be worth it in the end."

  "Whatever you should ask of me, Avenel, I would do with­out a qualm." She softened further. "I have not wanted for anything since Christopher was taken from me, and I know there must have been times when you needed the coins more than I did." She sighed and took one of his hard hands into her own silken ones. "She can be my long-lost cousin from America, Master Slane. But do not ask me to like her. That I cannot do."

  "Ah, Rose, 'tis not much I've left of my family. But what I have is more than enough!" He laughed, appearing very much relieved, and irreverently patted her behind.

  "Avenel! Remember your place! We are not children any­more, playing on the harbor!" She laughed quite girlishly, and arm in arm they walked to the settee to have their refresh­ments.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Brienne sat on a stool while Vivie brushed out her hair with long luxurious strokes. Her nerves jangled at the thought of meeting the houseguests Avenel had told her to prepare for. She had donned the robin's-egg blue gown but she quickly tore it off in utter disgust. She would not wear it again! Even the ripped and torn polo­naise was beginning to look good to her, if just for a change. Eventually she settled on the violet wool and her petticoat of burgundy red. She was sitting in this worn-out attire when there was a heavy knock on her door.

  Without allowing her even a moment to consent to his en­try, Avenel walked into her room and startled Vivie into a spurt of French.

  "Mon dieu! Bonjour, Monsieur Slane! Banjour!" Vivie greeted him in flustered speech.

  "Vivie." He gave the small maid a nod and then turned his attention to Brienne. His eyes did not miss a single curve beneath her violet dress nor the luminescent gleam of her hair. She could not help but note that he looked splendid in ; breeches and coat made of lustrous slate blue satin. His waistcoast was of simple silk brocade, but the color was like molten silver. He cut an imposing figure as he stood towering over her.

  He waited for Vivie to make a discreet departure and leave them alone; Vivie needed no prompting. She gave her mis­tress a concerned look and then swiftly left the yellow bed­chamber through the jib door in the dressing room.

  Gathering her unruly dark hair to one shoulder, Brienne stood up, feeling self-conscious. He had never presumed to enter her room before. She found she could do nothing but wait for him to address her.

  "My cousin, Rose, has arrived. She is going to be your sal­vation during the next few days, so I'll not tolerate any disre­spectful outbursts where she is concerned." He made himself comfortable on the yellow settee. "I also will be having other guests as the days progress, and I want you to understand that under no circumstances are you to reveal your relationship to Oliver Morrow. Not only will you not be believed, but it will cause me great embarrassment. If that should happen, you will then have my full wrath to deal with, and I will not tell you what that is like. I will simply leave it to your imagination. Do you understand all of this?"

  "Thoroughly," she quipped.

  "Good." He shot her a particularly wicked smile and con­tinued. "I will not tolerate any bad behavior these next few weeks. If you make any attempt to run away now, I will tell my guests you are crazed, and I will send you to the nearest asy­lum. Am I making myself clear? I have no desire to keep you locked up here all the time, but if you cannot comply with my wishes, so be it."

  "Perhaps the asylum is the better choice." She twisted her hair nervously as she baited him.

  "If you're looking for degradation and abuse, I think we could hand it out here just as well. Now I ask you, will you comply?" His eyes had narrowed dangerously.

  "Perhaps." She answered him with one stiff word. Once again he had the upper hand. In so many ways, Avenel Slane was the strangest of men. There were times when he was being especially kind that she felt as if she could forget her cir­cumstances here at the Park. But now, just hearing his tone of voice made her sink back into anger and frustration.

  "I hope so." He stood up after her ambiguous assent and pulled something from his coat. He walked over to her dress­ing table, where she stood, and flipped the article onto its satinwood top. She gave a small cry when she saw her comb gleaming in the firelight. She grabbed for it, but before she could take it, he took her hand in a viselike grip and made her turn to him. " 'Tis only for the evening, my lady. Remember, I'll be with you until it comes off tonight." He let her go and watched as she brushed out her hair and placed the comb in its upsweep.

  It felt wonderful to have her mother's comb back, even if just for the evening. Her eyes sparkled like the very amethysts held in her hair. It made her feel not quite as shabby as she had before, and she held her head a bit higher when she turned to face Avenel. She was not, however, prepared to meet the diamond-hard eyes that were burning through her with what could only be called unveiled lust. Quickly she looked away, not knowing how to react.

  "Come, they are waiting for us," he said after a long, pain­ful pause.

  As they entered the drawing room, Cumberland was sitting near the fireplace between two of the most beautiful women she had ever seen in her life. On his right sat an older woman, an angelic blonde attired in an ornate gown of figured silk. There was a serene, amiable quality about her, and Brienne felt drawn to her instantly.

  The second woman could have stepped right out of The Ladies' Magazine. She was most fashionable in her ornamented powdered hair and ice pink tabby polonaise. Strands upon strands of diamonds were woven through her wig and dog- collared around her neck. She possessed tiny brown Pekingese eyes that bore an uncanny resemblance to those of the small pampered lapdog that looked up defensively from the folds of her quilted cream satin petticoat.

  "Is this a new custom at Osterley? I thought scullery maids belonged in the kitchen." T
he white-haired woman gave her hand to Avenel, which he brushed with a perfunctory kiss.

  Brienne's face burned from the woman's insult, but before she could even sputter in disbelief, the older blond woman stood up and breezed over to her.

  "Brienne, darling, I cannot tell you how long it has been. The other guests will be down in a minute, but here, let me introduce you to Lady Venetia. Her father is the Earl of Cul­pepper." Brienne felt the woman's arm go around her waist as she led her over to the others.

  "Lady Venetia, I would like to present my cousin, Brienne. She has come all the way from the Colonies, so you must excuse her provincial attire. She has not been in England long enough to attain a suitable wardrobe." The blond woman looked down at her, smiling like an old friend. But Brienne found herself too confused and startled to smile back. Instead she looked at Avenel for an explanation, yet he was not watchihg her. His eyes were riveted on the fashion plate, the Lady Venetia, who studied the American cousin with a keen but false eye.

  Brienne soon discovered that this was the story they had contrived for the next few days. Thoughts of rebellion reared quickly in her mind, however. The scene was simply too ab­surd especially when she was forced to endure Lady Venetia's barbs.

  "What a mistake I have made!" Lady Venetia turned to Brienne, looking anything but contrite. "Of course, one does hear such strange things about the Americans—their obsession with equality, you understand. But although I knew they de­sired to treat their servants as equals, I had no idea they as­pired to dress like them also. How quaint!"

  Brienne prickled and found that she could no longer bear the pretense. Interrupting Lady Venetia, she said, "I would have you know, I am no servant. I am the daughter of—!"

  "Brienne!" Avenel cut off her words. Whipping her head around to face him, Brienne saw the message in his eyes. He was telling her to comply. And if I don't? she asked silently with a glittering stare. But his look told her with the utmost cer­tainty that there would be terrible consequences. A promise lingered in his crystalline irises, a promise that was meant just for her. Noting it, Brienne abruptly backed down. That was Avenel Slane's unique ability, she thought; her cheeks flared with repressed fury and indignation. Not only would he give her all the abuse he had promised, but worse, he would make her want it—and from him alone.