My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  “I understand. Having decided my future lay elsewhere, no looking back over my shoulder.”

  “Exactly.” She saw the flash of his white teeth and her heart turned over. “So this is the last time we will talk for a while.”

  A great while. And when they saw one another again everything would have changed.

  “But,” he went on, “if you should need me in the next few days, I’ll have taken rooms in Bedford Square. Afterward, at any time afterward, you have only to contact Father Tarkin in order to find me. He will know how to reach me.”

  His concern touched her and she covered her emotions with a bright smile and a little shake of her head. “Should I send a yellow rose, too? If it’s in season, that is?”

  When he didn’t reply, she reached out and lightly touched his hand. “Oh, Dand. Let us be done with your oath so you can cease looking all grimly resolved and spending heaven knows how many of your future years waiting in dread anticipation for the arrival of a flower.”

  She sat back, smiling gallantly. “Here then is my official word: I, Charlotte Nash, hereby release you from your pledge.”

  “It is not for you to release me, Lottie,” he said, his quiet voice filling the darkness. “Only my heart can judge when I have paid my debt.”

  “Poor heart,” she whispered.

  “Constant though, pitiful thing,” he agreed and suddenly leaned forward reaching across the short distance separating them and touched her cheek lightly with the very tips of his fingers.

  Damn him anyway! She told him so often that he had to wear gloves. He always forgot and now the electricity of his bare touch set her eyelids drifting shut on a wave of longing.

  “Darlin’ Lottie,” he murmured softly, “if ever you have need of me, call for me and I will come to you.” His fingers skated down her cheek to the side of her neck and curled lightly behind, combing through the short curls at the nape of her neck to cup her head. He drew closer, his breath was soft with the scent of brandy and warm in the closed carriage and she heard her heartbeat because she’d stopped breathing.

  “Should you require anything of me, anything at all, no night will be too dark, no road too long, no ocean wide enough, nor any king’s army great enough, to keep me from doing your bidding or dying in the attempt.”

  Her heart leapt at the suddenly vibrant tones, the dark power of his words and she wanted—my Lord, how she desired!—to believe there was something more than honor here. Something deeper than sheer, obstinate nobility.

  His mouth touched hers, a bittersweet kiss unlike any they’d shared, gentle and yearning and just as he lifted his hands to capture her face between them and deepen it, the carriage rattled to a halt and swayed as the driver jumped to the ground. Reluctantly he released her and sank back in his seat, his eyes gleaming in the semidarkness.

  “And,” he said in a low, throbbing voice as the door swung open, “I will need no bloody rose to guide me to you.”

  “Told her she’d be making a spectacle of herself,” Monsieur Andre Rousse declared loudly, but to whom it was unclear. Several near him turned at his loud, slightly slurred declaration.

  “Can only believe that’s what she wants. And what is that, you might ask yourself?” he snarled, his wild-eyed gaze riveted on the object of his treatise. “I’ll tell you. Any woman who appears in public in such a state of undress does so in anticipation of hanging from more men’s necks than a secondhand cravat!”

  Not since the great actors Sarah Siddons and John Kemble had last appeared together on the stage over two decades earlier had the ton enjoyed such a spectacle. A hush fell over the crush that had formed in the foyer leading to the Hamstead dining tables. Heads swiveled, lips stilled, breaths held.

  The tall, handsome Frenchman, Monsieur Rousse, having spied his paramour, Charlotte Nash, bellowed the words at her as she stood flirtatiously tapping her folded fan against the chest of a besotted-looking knight. Upon hearing the vile accusation, the lady turned as pale as her gold tissue gown—which honesty compelled any objective viewer to admit was fashioned in such a manner as to leave little to the imagination as to what charms lay beneath the thin gauze. Derisive dames would later scathingly declare that the gown had been moistened to better cling to what all must admit was indeed a spectacular figure.

  Slowly, the ginger-haired vixen turned and leveled her catlike eyes on the man all Society assumed was her lover. “A secondhand cravat? Yet another thing you can ill afford, Rousse?”

  The push toward the doors ceased altogether. The current scene had been building all evening. Monsieur Rousse—whom nobody knew, yet everyone knew of—had entered with Charlotte Nash on his arm, ignoring the titters of amazement and hisses of disapproval that followed. Miss Nash had abandoned him at once, and he had proceeded to drink himself into a state one old general had admiringly admitted would have seen him—and he a three-bottle man—on his face.

  Contrarily, Miss Nash contented herself by flirting in the most outrageous manner possible with any man who did not shun her company, which, several wise old matrons pointed out, was a far greater number than various wives, mothers, and sweethearts would have liked.

  Rousse had watched her sport with a black-eyed glare as he tipped glass after glass of port down his throat, ignoring the come-hither glances from the more adventurous matrons who in their midnight confession or hastily scribbled journals admitted to understanding—in a purely conjectural sense—why someone as flighty and passionate as Charlotte Nash had ruined herself upon him.

  But when Charlotte leaned forward and whispered something that caused a moon-eyed youngster, and heir to a vast and vastly vulgar trade, to go scarlet with pleasure, Rousse had stormed across the room and snatched her away, pulling her into a small closet. For the next ten moments pacifying murmurs and sporadic roars of outrage could be heard from its interior. However, whatever balm Miss Nash had used to attempt to soothe her beastly lover had apparently failed. He emerged from the closet with a curse on his lips and the devil in his eye. A few minutes later Miss Nash appeared, sighing with annoyance before returning to her winsome ways.

  That had been two hours ago.

  Now, with a savage sound, Rousse was pushing his way through the throng with the apparent intent of doing bodily harm to Miss Nash’s person! He got to within a dozen feet of the girl who stood with an imperious look of disdain before several gentlemen, fearing the worst, laid hold of him.

  He thrashed angrily in their grip. “Let me go. Release me, you devils! Unless you poor wretches are in her thrall, too!”

  “Let him go,” drawled Miss Nash with a derisive flick of her hand. “He will never leave until he has made an exhibition of himself.”

  Reluctantly, the gentlemen released Rousse’s arms. His fine eyes lost their wild glare and he moved past the last few people separating him from his quarry until he stood before her, shuddering with emotion.

  “Yes, Rousse?” she inquired in a bored voice. “What further remonstrations must you make? Pray be quick about it, though. A quadrille is forming, and I do love a quadrille.”

  “You are cruel.”

  “If refusing to perpetuate an uncomfortable delusion is cruel, then I confess my guilt.”

  “Heartless trollop! I would have worshipped you!”

  A little smile tilted her lips. “Then I have saved your soul from certain sacrilege and you should be thanking me for bidding you adieu. And I am,” she continued in stony tones, “bidding you adieu.”

  And with that she started to turn away. But by now Rousse was in the throes of an agony one could only guess at and fervently hope never to have to endure. His face was terrible—wretched and despairing and furious. He seized her arm as she passed. Without a hitch, she swung around. The sound of her gloved palm striking his cheek resonated over the mesmerized crowd.

  He dropped her arm, stunned, drunk, mortified.

  “And now that you have humiliated us both, perhaps you would be good enough to leave?” Her voice had
lost its chill indifference. For the first time, she sounded overset. Her eyes gleamed with what might have been tears.

  For a long moment they stood staring at one another, emotions playing across Miss Nash’s face that no one, not even the most opinionated termagant, could interpret. And then with a bow—quite a good bow for one so well in the boughs—Rousse made an elegant leg and whispered softly, “Your servant, ma’am. Your slave.”

  And while Miss Nash stayed on until the wee, wee hour and danced, tongues began to wag, whispers following her as closely as her shadow.

  “She all but declared he could not keep her in a style she wanted.”

  “Just as she all but declared that she was looking for someone who could.”

  “I always thought her too forward.”

  “But this forward? I know her sister, the marchioness of Cottrell. She will be devastated.”

  “Probably not. She would know to expect such a thing. Unlike my poor naïve son, Jeff.”

  “Or my innocent nephew Carl.”

  “And my unsuspecting husband.”

  15

  Culholland Square, Mayfair

  August 3, 1806

  WAITING WAS THE HARDEST PART, Charlotte decided four days later as she listlessly threaded another skein of blue silk through the eye of a needle. She had studied the blueprints of St. Lyon’s castle renovations for so many hours she could have made copies to scale from memory. She knew to within a foot where every window and every servants’ hall led, which closets were deep enough to hide in, which doors led to stairwells and which panels hid priests’ holes. After that…she filled the hours.

  She was sick of needlework, tired of reading, fed up with her own company and the only other person she cared to talk to was ensconced in some Bedford Square apartment putting on a fine show as her cast-off lover—or so Ginny informed her. He was drinking, gaming, and wenching—at least she assumed he was wenching—while she embroidered pillow shams!

  It wasn’t fair. Oh, she had invitations. Invitations to go on carriage rides in the country, take the night air at public pleasure gardens, or dine tête-à-tête with a number of wealthy gentlemen. She was so bored she’d almost accepted the last such invitation she’d received from a rising politician. At least the conversation might prove interesting. But then the conversation was unlikely to be about politics, wasn’t it?

  So she sat. And played whist with Ginny during the courtesan’s daily visit, and tapped her fingers as she stared out her window at the little square across the road and thought about Dand. And wanted to be with Dand. And practiced a few of his more colorful words.

  She took a deep breath. This was getting her nowhere. She must think of other things. For instance, by now St. Lyon would have received Ginny’s letter and presumably answered it. What if he didn’t take the bait? No. She refused to believe it. She would not allow herself to think along such disastrous lines.

  So, since she didn’t allow herself to dwell on Dand and his despicable dalliances, and she dare not consider the unimaginable—that all she had done had been for naught—she was left scant little to think about other than…than…pillow shams.

  Blowing out her cheeks, Charlotte set aside her embroidery and wandered disconsolately toward the candy box an admirer had sent her. Already half a dozen little gold tissue nests stood relieved of their almond paste creations. No wonder, she thought sardonically, so many of the soiled doves pointed out to her at the opera houses were plump little pigeons.

  She had just picked up a little marzipan rose when the door to the parlor burst open. Ginny stood framed within, balancing atop yet another elegantly wrought pair of crutches. Her pretty face was vivid with ill-suppressed excitement and she was waving a piece of paper like a flag at the king’s birthday.

  “It’s come! Your invitation!” she breathed, clomping into the room, pivoting neatly on one crutch and with the other slamming the door shut. “I arrived at the same time as the messenger and took it upon myself to pay the postage. I know his hand, Charlotte. ’Tis from St. Lyon!”

  She swung across the room, her crutches banging loudly against the floor, and thrust the letter at Charlotte. “Read!”

  Charlotte took the paper and without bothering to find an opener, slipped her finger beneath the seal. Proud that her hand did not shake, she snapped the folded sheet open and read.

  So that was it, then. She took a deep breath. Another.

  “What does he say?” Ginny demanded. Wordlessly, Charlotte handed her the letter.

  Dear Miss Nash,

  How aggrieved I was to hear of the nefarious and distasteful attentions to which you have been subjected of late. I flatter myself to think that I might know something of what you are experiencing, having myself been cast out from all I once knew and then finding myself in a different, though I hasten to say not necessarily inferior, situation.

  It can be most distressing, especially if one does not have friends nearby upon whom one can rely to offer not only support and sympathy, but also companionship and gaiety, in order to remind one that life, with all its rich and ample rewards, continues to be an adventure for those bold enough to accept its challenges. Please, I beg you, let me offer you the use of my castle and my friendship during this unsettling time.

  Unless you send word otherwise to my driver Jeffries, I shall send my carriage for you on Saturday morning with the intention of conveying you to my castle.

  With the most ardent hope that you will accept my offer and eagerly anticipating the pleasure of your charming company,

  Maurice, Comte St. Lyon

  Ginny looked up, her expression a little amazed. “That’s it, then. We’ve done it, Charlotte. He’s sending his carriage for you tomorrow.”

  “So soon?” Charlotte murmured.

  “Well, my dear, it only proves his ardor. You ought to be flattered.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I should be.” She squared her shoulders, as if physically assuming a burden, but when her gaze met Ginny’s it was lucid and uncompromising.

  “Now, the hard part is done and the simple matter of finding the letter and replacing it with a fake remains,” she said. “Oh, and I suppose I shall have to make myself agreeable, too, in order to hold St. Lyon’s attention. And yet not so agreeable that he cannot bear to be apart from me for those hours I will need to search.”

  She smiled—a new smile, harder and tighter. “I shall simply have to find some means of suppressing my colossal magnetism.”

  Ginny was not having it. The courtesan knew Charlotte too well. Her dark eyes narrowed with pity. But pity is not what Charlotte needed now. She needed strength.

  “As soon as you find that letter,” Ginny said, “you must contrive an excuse to leave immediately.”

  “In the nick of time, you mean?” Charlotte could not help the dry cut to her retort. There likely would be no nick of time and they both knew it.

  Ginny turned her head, chewing at her lower lip. “He’s…a considerate lover, Lottie,” she said in a low voice. “He is kind during…during intimacy.”

  Kind? the word caught Charlotte by the throat.

  She didn’t want St. Lyon’s kindness. Regardless of what “kindness” St. Lyon showed her body, there could be no possible way in which he could become more “intimate” with her than Dand. She had spent weeks playing at being in love with Dand Ross, while falling in love with him in truth, refusing to think of another in his place, of another man touching her.

  She knew every variation of the color in Dand’s eyes, from the warm amberine color of melted toffee to near black of burnt coffee. She knew every scar that etched his hands, the way his brows crooked up an instant before he smiled; the lazy way he moved; his careless grace; his idle strength, the purpose prowling beneath his lassitude.

  She understood the keen intellect that hid beneath casual curiosity, the hard realist that held sway over the easygoing rogue. She knew the way he tasted. She knew the way he smelled. She had but to close her eyes and every
sense she possessed conspired to construct his image in perfect detail.

  How could she be more intimate with anyone? Only with the physical act of making love.

  The answer fell upon her with terrible weight and with it a stunning realization.

  Because she was still a virgin, St. Lyon would be able to tell she hadn’t been intimate with anyone.

  The room was stuffy and overheated, but since the rain was driving against the window from the east, he had little choice but to keep it shut. Outside the night sky was black and dense and thick with the promise of a greater storm to come.

  With an irritation he seldom felt, he yanked his shirt from his torso and tossed it to a chair and then lay down on the narrow bed that came with the apartment. He crossed his boots at the ankle and laced his fingers behind his head and contemplated a spider industriously weaving a web directly overhead. There was a portent in that spider’s machinations, he thought with a return of dark humor.

  Had everything in the last six years been part of God’s plan to bring him to his knees?

  Probably.

  In spite of every effort, he’d been unable to extradite his life from being so tightly bound to Charlotte Nash’s. He smiled in the darkness. Damn the little hoyden, anyway. He had thought that by playing an accommodating scoundrel, he could keep a surreptitious eye on her while deftly keeping her out of the other threads that comprised the fabric of his life. It only made it worse. It only made her trust him. She had let herself relax with him, did not bother to put up defenses, to guard herself.

  Dear God, if she knew the extent of the self-restraint with which he’d met her shattering little caresses; if she understood the physical pain he’d endured under the scourge of her familiarities, her kisses and sighs; the self-control he’d practiced in not responding fully to those innocent provocations—she wouldn’t have shared the same room with him, let alone the same house!

  He didn’t just want her; he wanted her entirely. He closed his eyes tightly, his jaw muscles working in frustration and anger. He should have been able to eschew these entanglements, this desire, this—