No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  : "Perhaps my guests can be put off by that cool, quiet de­meanor of yours, but I am not so easily thwarted." Releasing her tresses, he wrapped his arm around her waist. "You, my beautiful creature, are going to my ball, even if I have to dress you myself."

  Her fury rose to a fever pitch. She ground her small, deli­cate fists against his chest in an effort to push him away, but he put his other hand around her waist and pulled her so close to him, she couldn't move her arms.

  "God, why must you torment me so?" she said harshly, turning her face away.

  "All I want is your compliance. All I want is a docile woman who will cooperate. But you fight me at every turn!"

  "I don't want to go to your infernal ball. I want to leave!"

  "You will leave when I want you to leave." He pulled her head up to face him.

  "You despot!" she cried out. Her unbound auburn locks shimmered as she shook her head. "Why can't you see that you cannot treat me like this?"

  Her accusation only served to raise his ire further. "What I am is of no concern to you. All I want is your answer. Will you come to the ball?"

  "Yes! Yes! I'll go to your ball!" She smiled vengefully. "Go ahead and force me into one of the dresses you bought for me! But just know that when you come to pick me up, you'll have to drag me downstairs like a truant child! I'll kick and I'll scream! See if that doesn't give your precious guests some­thing to wag their tongues about!" Her eyes sparkled with rebellion.

  But soon she widened them in shock as Avenel violently pulled her to the bed. He sat on the edge among the billowing silk and satin gowns and whispered through clenched teeth, "Like a truant child, eh? And what does one do to a truant child, Brienne? A child who will not obey?" Although she struggled, he easily rolled her onto his knees and placed her in a prone position. An iron hand held her down while another controlled her flailing limbs.

  "I won't let you do this, Avenel!" she cried out. "You will not lift my skirts again!"

  "I'll give you a choice, Brienne. Which would you rather feel on your backside—the sting of my hand or the burn of my mouth?" He laughed, obviously enjoying tormenting her.

  "Oh," she moaned. "How unfair your tactics are! That you even speak such words to me—"

  "Which is it?" he interrupted, already having stripped one leg of her stocking and garter. He nipped at the bare calf of her kicking leg, and as she boiled with rage, he only chuckled.

  "Stop, you evil man!" she gasped out when she felt his tongue licking the sensitive area behind her knee. "I said stop!"

  "For what?"

  "For the ball. I'll go to your ball!"

  "Willingly?" His fingers slid up her thigh, stroking her tender flesh.

  "Willingly!" she screeched.

  Abruptly and without ceremony he stood and dumped her at the foot of the bed. She swept down her skirts and gave him a look of pure hatred.

  But without giving her a backward glance, he went to the jib door. Calling Vivie, he directed, "Have Lady Brienne ready at eight o'clock."

  "Out, Monsieur." Brienne heard Vivie's subdued voice and realized that the maid must have been listening at the door. Quickly Avenel departed in silence.

  When Vivie entered, she began unpacking all the dresses Brienne had put back into the trunks. But Brienne merely looked on; every now and then she bestowing a baleful glance in die direction of the door.

  "You must powder my hair, Vivie. I will not have the guests laughing at me another night." Brienne spied her own pale face in the looking glass by the dressing table. Her nerves were as raw and tight as chafed laces, and she wondered how she would ever get through the evening. Every time she closed her eyes, she envisioned a new situation to worry about. She saw Lady Venetia sneering at her unpowdered hair while her own soared gracefully high to the ceiling, carrying all kinds of trinkets such as artificial flowers, fruit, ribbons, and pearls among its waves. Brienne also had the awful thought that she would have to speak to Rose and again endure the horrific look that she'd seen on the woman's face. Thinking of Rose, Brienne's very soul felt pierced with unfounded guilt and remorse. She placed her head between her hands and moaned, "Oh, how I shall hate this evening!"

  "Mais non! You will have a wonderful time. What is it that makes you fret so, ma demoiselle?" Vivie started up in French, which was common when the two women needed to speak intimately.

  "You know I'm being forced to attend this mockery of a ball," Brienne answered Vivie in French, grateful to speak with someone about her mounting apprehensions. "I don't know why Avenel has insisted upon this charade—unless he knows I've little experience with these kinds of social func­tions. Unless he wants his friends to laugh at me!" Brienne angrily shoved aside several perfume bottles. "How I detest them all!"

  "My lady! You must forget them! Their laughter is hollow, for they laugh out of envy!"

  "Vivie, you must powder my hair! I don't care what Avenel said. Tonight I refuse to be the Colonial cousin. Tonight I will be who I am!" She looked at Vivie with fresh determination.

  "Do not ask me!" Vivie seemed torn between loyalties.

  "It's so important. I would not ask you to go against your master's wishes if it were not vital."

  "All right. I will try." Vivie backed down and went to get the hair grease. After taking a small scoop of the thick, gray- brown fat into her hand, she palmed it until it was warm and liquid and then turned to Brienne's willing head with its shin­ing, dark burgundy tresses.

  "I cannot." Vivie looked down, whispering sheepishly in French. She instantly found a linen cloth and wiped the grease from her hands, shaking her head. "I cannot cover that beauti­ful color with this." She held the grease-laden linen up to show its dulling effect.

  In frustration, Brienne rose from her dressing table and be­gan to pace the carpet. "Is there no part of my life Avenel Slane doesn't control? Am I not even free to choose my own hairstyle?"

  "Come, let me dress you. Then I can show you how success­ful you will be." Vivie sympathetically took her by the hand and led her to the settee. There she laid out a gown, one that Brienne hadn't yet seen. It was a purple brocaded satin, so deep in color that it could almost pass for black. With a match­ing petticoat and stomacher lightly embroidered with shining gold thread?, the gown would become her, Brienne knew, but she had yet to see a dress so unfashionably dark.

  "The color, is it not . . . ?"

  "Monsieur Slane, he asked for this one. Could it be more exquisite?"

  "No. All the gowns are beautiful beyond belief. I just can't understand how you were able to fit them."

  "I took the measurements from your other gowns. But the master, he was the one who ordered them. As I understand it, he was very particular. There is not one article of clothing here that does not complement your coloring perfectly. He is to be congratulated, non?"

  Brienne merely shrugged noncommittally and stepped into the rich brocade. The stays were built into the gown so that only the thin cotton batiste of her shift came between her and the dress. This turned out to be a blessing, for the material was unbelievably heavy and would have been hot if not for the gown's ingenious design.

  "You are ready, my lady." Vivie stood beside her, breath­lessly awaiting her approval. /

  Brienne looked at herself in the gilt mirror and was shocked to find in it such a lovely woman. The gown was cut appealingly low; her shell pink skin was set off perfectly by the dark material. Her face had a dusky glow about it, and the eyes that looked back at her through thick, dark lashes were sultry and promising.

  "Are you not most beautiful?" Vivie touched up a long auburn curl that was nestled in Brienne's bosom. "The master will find himself a jealous man tonight."

  Brienne gave a wry laugh. "My only hope is that he will have his hands so full with Lady Venetia and his other demoi­selles that he will not be able to spare me a glance."

  "He will prove otherwise," Vivie said, resuming her En­glish. "I must leave you now. But the Monsieur will be here soon." Quickly Vivie
went about the bedchamber, picking up stray linens and straightening chairs. Going out through the dressing room, she whispered to Brienne, "Vive I'amour!" and left with a shining smile of confidence.

  Brienne watched her go, and her nerves jangled as. the first bars of music came up from the gallery. There was a bustling in the hallway as she heard Lady Venetia and Rose being es­corted by Cumberland down the great staircase, but no one came to call for her. She sat down on a corner of her bedstead gingerly so as not to wrinkle her gown, and soon she grew edgy.

  After several minutes, she began to wonder if the whole evening had been built up as some preposterous prank. Per­haps she was not expected to attend. Perhaps Venetia had in­sisted she not be present, or maybe Rose thought she would shame . . .

  Suddenly there was a light knock on the door. Brienne stood up and then smoothed the rich satin over her new bum roll. Licking her lips, which had suddenly gone dry, she said in a suitably impersonal voice, "Come in."

  The door opened, and Avenel appeared, dressed splendidly in black satin breeches and matching topcoat. There was a severe lack of decoration on his person; the only embroidery was found on his brilliant white-on-white waistcoat, which lent his eyes a crystalline gleam.

  As she took in every aspect of his appearance, she noted that no detail of her own attire was lost on him. His gaze swept over her gown and hair, then rested on her face. Finally he was able to say, "As I expected, you're lovely, wildflower. I only wish it were possible to keep you to myself tonight."

  "Then perhaps it would be best if I did not attend." She made one last effort to extract herself from the evening. How­ever, she was wary of being too insistent, for she could still feel the tingle of his touch on her thigh.

  "My decision is made. I'm glad you've had the sense to take it to heart." His eyes again took in her attire. He lingered on her dress, obviously appreciating the laced-up curves of her waist and the generous display of her bosom. After a full pause, he said, "Unfortunately, with you in that gown, I can see that there will be many inquiries about Rose's American cousin."

  "I suppose I should have brushed up on the Colonies so that I can keep my story straight this time," she said coldly.

  "Yes, particularly about the Castles. I'm afraid to tell you, there are none." He laughed, but it was a harsh, uncomfort­able laugh. Taking her hand, he placed on its back a gentle­manly kiss. His lips seemed to scald her flesh where they touched it, and Brienne quickly took her hand away. Un­nerved, she started out the door. "Wait." He pulled her by the waist nearer to him and then placed a heavy silk purse in her hands.

  "Whatever is this?" She looked up warily.

  "Open it," he said. His eyes were hooded, and she could hardly fathom what emotion was in them. Was there a shim­mer of regret in those icy depths? No, she told herself, she wouldn't believe it.

  She opened the purse slowly and spilled the contents onto the seat of the settee. Her comb she recognized instantly, but it took a moment before she recognized the other item. It was a close-fitting necklace of large square-cut diamonds and pear- shaped amethysts, and it appeared to be as old as her comb. It was obvious that it matched the hairpiece, but she couldn't understand why Avenel would have such a thing made for her.

  Avenel bent down and silently pulled the necklace around her delicate throat. He fastened it tenderly in the back, saying, "Tonight it will be your turn to look down upon everyone."

  "It's lovely." She touched the jewels at her throat and looked up. "You had it made to match my comb. Why?"

  "It does seem to have been made for you" was all he said.

  Abruptly he handed her the matching comb and beckoned her to the looking glass. Avenel's eyes seemed to caress her as she looked at their reflection in the glass. With a trembling hand, she placed the comb in the waves of her dark auburn hair. Then, knowing her questions would have to wait until a more suitable time, she took the arm he extended to her and allowed him to lead her out the door to whatever the evening offered.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  "After all the money he spent redecorating this place, can you believe that awful man sold it?"

  "Well, I say good riddance! He was a nasty one, that Lord Oliver. I never trusted him, what with his abnormal appetites, shall we say."

  "I heard finishing the Etruscan room nearly broke him. Of course, that could have forced him to give it up."

  "But what do you think of the new master? He's not even among the peerage."

  "A far cry from the old earl, at least! And Lady Venetia seems quite taken with him, I must say." With this last com­ment, all eyes at the table, including Brienne's, moved to where Avenel and his party were having their meal. Three tables had been set up in the eating room; the first had been set for the master of Osterley and his more distinguished guests. Lady Venetia sat at Avenel's right; the other notables at his table, besides Rose and Cumberland, included the Duke and Duchess of Haldington and the Earl of Culpepper.

  Brienne had been sitting all evening at one of the other tables, having been abandoned by Avenel as soon as they en­tered the gallery. After descending from her bedchamber, his attention had been quickly taken up and jealously guarded by Venetia, who had walked up to them and bestowed only a curt nod of recognition on Brienne. Then, taking his arm, Venetia bade Avenel get her a claret. Brienne watched them go and felt a sudden panic at being left alone in the large gallery with so many strangers. But soon Cumberland joined her, and she felt a little better. Always the gentleman, Cumberland intro­duced her to a Lord and Lady Somebody, and Rose had put on her friendly face to greet her; their encounter had been brief and at the very least painless.

  A delightful and colorful sight had met her eyes when Brienne first entered the gallery. She soon found herself en­joying the tableau of women curtseying and dancing in their intricate figured silks and rich colorful satins. Most of the men, except Avenel, were dressed even more elaborately than the women, and Brienne was struck dumb more than once when Cumberland introduced her to a fashionable dandy clad in a rainbow of silk and embroidery.

  They had walked to the eating room soon after her arrival. Her dinner partner had been introduced to her, and Brienne had gratefully sat in the chair he offered. He was Osterley township's minister, a Reverend Trumbell, a shy, fat, aging man with a red face. Brienne thought him kindly, however, and made several attempts to draw him out, but eventually she realized she was even boring herself with her simple talk, and she fell silent, choosing to listen instead to the chatter at the table. She had been slightly unnerved when she first sat down at the dinner table, and perhaps a little hurt that she had not been included with anyone she knew. But her dinner compan­ions proved to be a harmless if gossipy lot.

  "My daughter said she met Master Slane in London at a soiree. There must have been a hundred women who set their caps for him at that party alone." An overweight matron eyed Avenel owlishly. She then looked over to her dinner partner and tapped him gently on his arm with her painted fan. "I heard tell it was scandalous! Every party after that where it was even rumored he would attend turned into a mad crush. You should have seen how it pleased the dowagers!"

  Brienne looked over to the host's table and saw Venetia familiarly place her hand on Avenel's strong satin-clad arm. It was a simple gesture, seemingly to get his attention, but she knew it held more meaning than that. Venetia looked particu­larly magnificent in a gown of palest yellow, completely em­broidered with ribbons of iridescent light blue and gold. Looking down at her own purple brocaded gown, Brienne wondered if it appeared overly simple; but looking at Lord Culpepper's daughter, she felt relieved that at least it was new.

  Suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck prickled, and she moved her gaze over to the Earl of Culpepper. As she had thought, he was staring at her again. Quickly she pulled her eyes from the other table and began on her dinner with re­newed vigor. She felt a chill run down her spine and won­dered what it was about her that made the man stare at her. It seemed from the mom
ent she had entered the gallery, he had been taken with her. Not that he had begged an introduction; nor had he tried to speak to her. But still she had felt his narrow eyes on her from the start, continually following her across the gallery and now here at dinner from the other table. She had disliked him immediately. There was something to distrust in his pale face and thin figure. He appeared to have imbibed too many spirits before they even had sat down to dinner, and from time to time she could hear his loud, con­ceited talk from clear across the room.

  Cautiously, she looked up from her dinner plate to see if he was still staring. She was relieved to note that he had struck up a conversation with die duchess. Moving her eyes quickly over the rest of his dinner partners, she was caught off guard by Avenel, who raised his head and looked directly at her. Her skin warmed under his gaze. As much as she wanted to show her indifference, Brienne found she couldn't look away. She was lost in the slate gray depths of his eyes, which seemed to pull at her clothes until modesty bade her hand go to her pinkening bosom. She was deliciously trapped under his stare until Venetia spoke to him, breaking the spell. Avenel quickly turned away, but Brienne found herself continuing to stare, unwilling to give up the sight of him just yet.

  "How do you find England, little Brienne?" The large ma­tron tried to make conversation, having tired the rest of the table with her talk.

  "I find it comfortable," she answered reluctantly, exploring her footed glass of claret as a convenient way to hide her annoyance. She had never used her title before coming to Osterley, but she found it terribly irritating this evening that it was Lady Venetia to all and sundry, while she was known simply as little Brienne, the backward waif from the Colonies.

  The dinner seemed interminable, but when it finally did end, the ladies retired to the drawing room to chat and attend to their toilets while the men remained in the eating room. Brienne followed the women, trying very hard not to call at­tention to herself by taking a seat near the wall. Lady Venetia and the duchess engaged in a stirring conversation about the merits of taking or not taking the cure at Bath, which all the women in the room appeared to find fascinating. It seemed that every woman had a word or two to add to the discussion. Brienne was thankful that there was so much going on that she did not have to converse. She had never actually been to the fashionable city except to pass by it on her way from Tenby and to visit it in her dreams during her first nights at Osterley.