Surrender To Ruin

by Carolyn Jewel

  “I should like to know what, exactly, was your plan tonight if I had snuck away with your dog.”

  “To post my letters immediately upon discovering my predicament warranted doing so.”

  He’d never have guessed she was capable of this sort of war planning, and he was at once impressed and insulted. “And then?”

  “If no one came in three days, and if I was without funds, I intended to walk to Bartley Green. Assuming I was not in jail.”

  “In jail.”

  She swallowed once. “You have paid for tonight’s accommodations, but how would I pay for lodging over multiple nights? People are jailed for such offenses.”

  “Not people such as you.” He snorted. The very idea was ludicrous.

  “No? Yet I know for a fact that when one is owed money, it is exceedingly disagreeable to learn that you will not be repaid.” She twisted her garnet ring. “I would have sold this to pay for tomorrow night’s room. If necessary, I was prepared to sleep outside while I awaited responses to my letters.”

  “My God.”

  “Think what you will of me, but I considered the possibilities and planned accordingly.” She gripped the edge of the table with one hand. “I was prepared for the worst. Do you honestly think I would do nothing until the innkeeper came knocking on the door, demanding to be paid from funds I do not possess?”

  “As if anyone would ignore your request for help. Shed a few tears and men bend to your will.”

  “How lovely you assume I possess such powers as that.” She gave him a hard stare. “Jail is a penalty I had rather not risk.”

  “Your mind is an absolute labyrinth.”

  “To be clear, my lord, I believed that last to be very unlikely.” For half a second, her voice trembled, but she mastered herself. “My goal is always to consider the worst outcomes and be prepared for each. Such a habit has stood me in good stead.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew a mesh wallet. “I have these funds because I knew better than to hide my savings at the Cooperage. That was Lucy’s mistake.”

  She referred to that infamous day when Sinclair had stolen the present Lady Thrale’s savings and spent every penny on a new carriage and horses.

  “There are consequences for a lack of preparation or for trust not warranted by fact or experience. I have this ring—” she held up her left hand “—only because I was wearing it the day Papa removed the contents of my jewelry box. I learn from my mistakes, you see, for I never again put my valuables where he might find them.”

  The picture Emily was painting of her life at the Cooperage disturbed him—: her sister’s stolen money, the offhand reference to her father having taken her jewelry, the fact that she, like her sisters before her, had hidden money and valuables away to guard against financial disaster.

  “All that might be so,” he said, “but I have not abandoned you.”

  “Not yet.”

  “I shall not. You may trust in that.”

  Her mouth firmed, and she squared her shoulders. “I do not trust anyone.”

  “What have you ever encountered in your life that would lead you to believe the world is such a dark and dismal place? If you were stranded here, you would be inundated with offers of assistance at your first murmur of distress. As we speak, there must be fifty men who would give their lives for nothing more than a smile from you.”

  “Would they?”

  “Of course.”

  “People lie all the time, if not in words, then in deed. Gentlemen admire my appearance; they do not admire me.”

  “There’s no difference.” He gestured at her. “Look at you.”

  “Others overlook my defects at every turn. They are kinder to me than to others, simply because of my face. My appearance does not warrant better treatment. As to being stranded, you know as well as I that it’s happened to other women. Just last month, a woman appeared in a village claiming to have been abandoned. Everyone was kind to her, offering every comfort and amenity. Only, as it happened, she was not whom she said she was. Given that this story has appeared in several publications, I feel it is possible no one would believe a similar story from me.” She sucked in a breath. “In any event, the innkeeper has a right to be paid for the rooms he lets, and while I have some funds, I doubt I have enough to pay for my food and lodgings for three or four days and post to Rosefeld.”

  “Emily, this . . . I—”

  She waved him off. “It’s not necessarily that you would leave me, it’s what might happen if you did. Perhaps that makes no sense to you, but it does to me, and that’s what matters. I cannot be easy unless I am prepared for the worst.”

  “I’m forced to question my own sanity, for I understood that.”

  She went still, and he saw he had offended her. “Pray do not condescend to me in that manner.”

  “I apologize.”

  She stayed as she was, motionless, the very picture of unconcern, yet as he watched her, he had the most peculiar feeling there was more beneath that perfect exterior than appeared. He shook himself, for that was nonsense.

  “I shall do better in the future.” He fetched his valise and placed it on the table beside the washbasin. Emily had evidently already washed up since there was moisture at the bottom of the basin. He poured in fresh water.

  He was alone with the Divine Sinclair, a woman he’d lusted after since the day he’d begun to rebuild his life after Anne’s marriage. He and Emily were to be married. This, no matter what Emily thought, was fact. He was done denying himself. Done. “You will not be stranded anywhere. I’m insulted you think so.”

  “You might have been set upon by thieves or murdered or kidnapped.”

  He retrieved his shaving kit and set it nearby. He missed Keller’s expertise, but he was capable of managing for himself; in the days when he’d been Mr. Devon Carlisle, impoverished and disgraced younger son, he and Gopal had played valet for each other. “I think it unlikely I would have been murdered or lost.”

  “Why do you have those pistols?” she asked in a calm voice.

  He put his hands on either side of the washbasin and bent his head. “I am compelled to point out that preparedness—” How on Earth did one counteract such an astonishing conviction that the world was a perilous place and that no one, himself included, would protect her? He took a deep breath and gave in. “Never mind. I concede your point.”

  “Thank you.”

  He unbuttoned his waistcoat and loosened his neckcloth and shirt. He set aside the linen. He could not get his mind away from her fear that she would find herself abandoned. Except . . . except, if one were to look at the situation solely from her point of view, she was right to wonder about his sincerity. He had told her revenge was his motive. He had told her bluntly he had no interest in her, and he had avoided her for more than a year. What reason had she to trust him? He looked at her over his shoulder. “I would never leave you in straits. I intend to marry you.”

  “No one intends to be robbed or murdered.”

  “Again, point taken. However, I hold out hope of convincing you I shall do everything in my power to see to your safety.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said softly.

  Only then did it occur to him that she was as unsettled as him by the reality of their flight to Scotland. Emily understood that the nobility of Lord Bracebridge was but a veneer, and one too easily pulled away. The man beneath that shell was no gentleman, and she knew it. Devon Carlisle had been a prizefighter, was a past owner and operator of three brothels, and to this day maintained his interest in a gaming hell. Moreover, he had not always treated her as a young innocent to be protected from one’s baser urges.

  Devon Carlisle had wanted to fuck Emily Sinclair for going on three years. He still did. She was right. She wasn’t safe.

  In silence, he washed his hands and face, then the back of his neck and his upper chest. Deftly, he prepared the lather and spread it over his face. He stropped his razor, and when he saw her interest in the process, he turn
ed and addressed her in a calm manner. “As to being set on by murderous thieves,” he said, “even without pistols, I’ve a fair chance of defending myself.”

  “I’m sure so.”

  He turned back to the stand and the provided mirror. He drew the razor along his cheek and continued shaving. He cleaned up and rearranged his clothes until he was Lord Bracebridge again, gentleman and nobleman. She did not need to deal with Devon Carlisle tonight or ever.

  When he was done, he joined her at the table where their dinner awaited.

  “Down, Frieda,” she said when the dog came to investigate. Her command had no effect, though eventually, with a sigh, Frieda lay down by his chair. They ate in silence, and he, for one, was grateful. If they were silent, they would not argue.

  A tap on the door interrupted them. Frieda perked up. “Excuse me,” he said.

  “Of course.”

  He dropped his napkin on the table and answered the door to a maid with an armful of the clothes he’d requested. “Ah,” he said. “Thank you. Your promptness is appreciated.” He slipped a coin into the servant’s hand. He closed and locked the door one-handed. Lacy trim from one of the items he held flipped up and touched his chin. “I took the liberty of asking for additional garments for you. I hope they’ll do until we are able to retrieve your belongings from the Cooperage.”

  “How thoughtful. Thank you.” She was so smoothly gracious, yet he now distrusted his ability to correctly divine her mood. No doubt she was, even now, planning what to do if her clothing became lost or a fire obliged them to decamp without any of their effects.

  He looked through the items as he walked. “A clean shift, serviceable stockings from the looks of them, a petticoat. They’ll do for now. No gloves.” He frowned. With the weather turning as it was, she needed a better pair of gloves than the cotton ones she had been wearing when she walked out of the Cooperage.

  He returned to their meal once he’d put the items on the bed. He poured a small amount of wine into a glass for himself and tasted it before filling hers. The stone in her ring caught the light from the lantern when she picked up her glass. He nodded. “What was your plan if your ruse was discovered?” He waggled his fingers at her hand.

  “To say I had recently reduced.” She turned the ring back and forth. “So loose it constantly turns.”

  He leaned against his chair and stretched out one leg. His boot knocked against her foot, and he drew his leg back.

  Their meal had been excellent, the wine better than decent. He was feeling quite well, thank you. “Your pardon. With chairs like this, there is no comfortable position for a man my size.”

  “That’s no more your fault than I am at fault for being shorter than you.”

  At least they were not arguing. “I suppose not.”

  “Do you hurt?” She touched the hand he’d used to punch Davener and his pulse leaped, both because of her touch and because of the unintended ambiguity of her question. The answer was yes. Yes, he hurt. His soul always ached, even though there were days he did not recall why.

  “Some.” He examined his hands. The tops of his knuckles were scarred. A long, thin scar extended across the entire back of his left hand. Across that landscape, bruises darkened his skin. A small cut, though no longer bleeding, hurt whenever he moved his fingers. He’d had much worse. “It was worth it to have laid out Davener like that.”

  “I imagine his chin hurts a good deal.”

  His response was a laugh.

  “I am sorry.”

  “As you say, not your fault.” He moved his fingers and embraced the pain. He had touched her with his hard-worked hands. His arms had been around her shoulders, his breath warm against her ear, balancing them on the precipice of ruin. “I am inured.”

  “When do you intend for us to depart?”

  He looked away from his hands. She had left Bartley Green wearing a practical wool spencer and a lightweight wool traveling gown. She could be clad in canvas, and she’d still take his breath away. “The earlier, the better,” he said.

  “Very well.”

  He pushed his chair back an inch or two. “We’ll drive for as long as there is light. Longer, weather permitting. If we change horses often and limit our stops, we may expect to be on the road fifteen or sixteen hours at least. I want to reach Scotland no later than three days from now.”

  She nodded.

  The open bedroom door was no safe place to look, but what was he to do when just past her shoulder, he could see a corner of the bed? “I’ll wake you in time,” he said.

  Her eyebrows arched. “Tell me when you want to leave, and I’ll be ready in time. I always am.”

  “Four.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Emily was several years younger than Anne. He remembered meeting her—a girl, for pity’s sake—and thinking Anne would have her hands full when that girl was old enough to join the adults. “In the morning.”

  She bristled. “You don’t believe I can awaken at will.”

  “I doubt my own ability to awaken in time.” He was alone with Emily Sinclair. Alone, with all the social barriers gone.

  “No, you don’t.”

  She was right, and he found that annoying.

  “If you think I need an hour to be ready, you are mistaken. Twenty or thirty minutes is sufficient.”

  “Very well then. But I’ll carry you out to the carriage in your nightrobe if you are not prepared to leave.”

  Her fork clinked against her plate. “See if I’m not.”

  “Then I hope you’ll awaken me in the morning.” Reprobate that he was, part of him entertained the possibility that they’d still be awake at four in the morning.

  “We ought to drive straight through until we are in Scotland and our business there is done.”

  “Not even I am prepared for a trek that brutal.”

  She pushed her food around her plate. “No stopping for anything not absolutely necessary.”

  How many plans were spinning through her head? What to do if she overslept, or if he did, or if they both did. Or if the horses bolted. What if there were no fresh horses available after all? “Em,” he said.

  “Yes?”

  He pushed away the remains of his dinner and gave in to Devon Carlisle’s basest nature. “Will I sleep on a chair tonight?”

  Chapter Seven

  Bracebridge’s question paralyzed her. She could not answer him, because there was no safe answer. Then words tumbled out, all in a rush, without her able to take in enough air to steady herself, and they weren’t remotely the right ones. “I want so badly to be at home. In my room with Mrs. Elliot to bring me tea and bread and my own maid to dress me.”

  He cocked his head.

  Oh, heavens. She wanted to disappear. She was tired and on edge, and now she’d said something that could only reinforce his poor opinion of her. “That’s how I want to imagine home. Just Mrs. Elliot.”

  Bracebridge replied with unexpected gentleness. “We’ve had a long and tiring day full of the unexpected.”

  She did not want him to be kind. How could she live if he was kind to her? She wanted—needed—the safety of his disdain, and now it was gone. Underneath the table, she clasped her hands so hard her fingers hurt. She forced herself to release her grip. “I never want to see him again. Anne only sees him because of me and her sense of duty, but she’s as frustrated and angry as any of us. The same for Mary. I don’t think Lucy intends to see him again. I know I shan’t. He’s done enough.”

  She struggled to maintain her calm. He wanted to engage in intimate relations. Tonight.

  As the silence lengthened, she exhaled slowly. She wanted to know what happened beyond kisses and embraces. She wanted. Wanted.

  Bracebridge stood and held out his hand, and she stared at his fingers, her stomach a knot of pain. He flashed that sinister, wicked grin that always made her heart fly away with her breath. That look was full of secrets kept from proper young ladies and lines never crossed.

  As if there
were nothing shocking about his asking where he would sleep, he said, “Shall I be your lady’s maid tonight?”

  She held herself still. What if she’d misunderstood him? Thoughts whirled through her head too fast for her to examine but for these few facts. He could have arranged for one of the tavern maids to assist her tonight. He could have taken adjoining rooms. He could have said nothing at all. He could have left the bedroom to her without ever raising the subject. He could have. He should have.

  Why hadn’t he?

  Shall I be your lady’s maid?

  “Does your silence mean the chair is my bed tonight?” His voice was deliberately light, completely the opposite of how their exchanges usually progressed. He spoke to Anne that way. Not her. “Never fear if it is. I’ve slept in worse places and been more uncomfortable than I would be here.”

  She touched her napkin to her lips, then dropped the linen to the table before she rose. She had no idea what to say. She knew what it was like to be in his arms. To have his mouth on hers. Every time she was near him, she was aware of him, the size of him, the way he was so at ease with his body. She wanted him.

  “Bracebridge,” she managed to say.

  He gave her a lopsided grin as he came around to stand beside her. “I’ll borrow a pillow and a blanket, if I may, and be up before you in the morning. There’s no need for you to sleep in your clothes, though. I’ll help you ready yourself for bed.” He held out his hand. “Nothing more.”

  She turned his hand palm down and gently kissed his knuckles. “I’m sorry you were hurt because of me.”

  He did not speak or withdraw his hand. Not right away. He turned his hand over and, two fingers under her chin, tipped her head up. All the air in the room disappeared. His kisses had been brutal, savage, and overwhelming, and she wanted more of that. She wanted to know what lay on the other side.

  She’d often wondered whether he understood the potent effect he had on women. She was now certain he did; he was far too confident of himself.

  He trailed a finger from the point of her chin along her jaw. Tomorrow did not exist. There was no future to be ruined, no family to be shocked. There was only Bracebridge and right now.