My Surrender

by Connie Brockway

  “How so?” The comte picked up her hands and squeezed them gently. “Come. Speak.”

  “You told me you were coming here to ease the transition of your fellow French expatriates and yet, except for Monsieur Rousse, I count only one other Frenchman amongst your guests.”

  He stilled for a telling few seconds then, “I admit it. I was not forthcoming. You have caught me out.” He lifted his hands in a charmingly self-deprecating manner. “You know, of course, that I am something of a collector of rare and artistic things. Well, in the course of my collecting I occasionally come across something of a great deal of value to others. In which case I offer it to special guests at auction.”

  “Like Tattersall’s!” she exclaimed.

  He smiled with poorly masked superiority. “Yes, my dear. Like Tattersall’s. Only sometimes—how to put this delicately?—there are questions about the legalities of my selling some of these things.”

  “Ohh!” She regarded him in round-eyed speculation. “Such as,” she looked both right and left and whispered, “jewels? Royal jewels? Royal French jewels?”

  He placed a finger alongside his nose and nodded. “Just so.”

  The faith he put in her gullibility was truly marvelous.

  “How thrilling!” she said, drawing back and twirling lightly around. “I should love to wear royal jewels. Think of the envy I should provoke!”

  “And I would love to see you wear them. But, alas, you never would be able to appear in them in public. They are far too recognizable and to pry them from their setting would destroy much of their value. Far better to sell them and buy new jewels.”

  She schooled her features into a doubtful expression. “Hm. I suppose. But still, I must say, considering how valuable the jewels are, your composure is extraordinary. Aren’t you afraid someone will try and steal them? Why there aren’t even any guards about!”

  He laughed. “Should the need arise, my staff have varied and diverse skills, my dear. But it shan’t.”

  “You are very certain of yourself. Or your guests.”

  “Oh. I have no faith in my guests at all. And please, we are a little beyond your having to dredge up an approximation of shock at my comment, aren’t we?”

  She dimpled and laughed. “Just so!”

  “Well then,” he went on approvingly, “I was going to say I have no doubt that several, perhaps all of them, have at one time or another since their arrival gone poking about my private quarters, tipping over fruit bowls and peering under flowerpots. To no avail, I might add.”

  “Pride goeth before the fall,” Charlotte gently chided.

  “Oh, it’s not pride, darling girl. It’s a simple matter of not being able to find what isn’t here. Aha! You begin to see why my insistence on waiting for our final guest. He has the…jewels with him.”

  “Really?” She blinked at him in admiration while she cursed their foul luck.

  Damnation! St. Lyon had an accomplice. She must warn Dand not to hunt for the cylinder any longer. He would only put himself—their mission—at needless risk. She puckered her face. “But what if he steals them?”

  “So little trust for one so young. It’s rather charming,” St. Lyon said indulgently. “Fret not, little dove.” He was growing more comfortable with her by the moment, relishing his role of the worldly older man. He chucked her lightly under the chin. “My associate is not a brilliant man, but he is smart enough to know that he is incapable of orchestrating this sort of auction. Besides, he brought it to me in the first place.”

  “How clever. And when will this fellow arrive?”

  “Oh, that will be very soon.” St. Lyon said. “Punctual fellow, Rawsett.”

  “Rawsett?”

  “Perhaps you know the name? A fribble of the highest order, but a useful fribble nonetheless. Once he has arrived”—the smile he turned on her was ripe with confidence and pleasure—“I shall hold the auction and then what happens to the jewels shall no longer be my problem. And once my business is finished, I shall devote myself to making you forget Rousse.”

  “Who?” Charlotte asked archly.

  And St. Lyon laughed.

  22

  Comte St. Lyon’s castle, Scotland

  August 12, 1806

  “I ACCEPT THE WAGER, COMTE,” Charlotte’s gaze slid brazenly around the hazard table. “The silk stocking I am currently wearing against your thousand pounds.”

  The players at the other card table quieted, their hands forgotten as they heard Charlotte’s declaration. Because to a man they knew that the little soiled dove who’d fluttered into their midst had, until very, very recently, been a lady. Just as every one of them knew that the man responsible for her downfall was sitting at the very next table, his back to her back, his eyes fixed on his cards. His visage was as cold and remote as the mountains to the north.

  It was all so unimaginably, deliciously indecent! And in the middle of the afternoon! Who could tell what entertainment dinner might provide?

  “All’s fair in love and war,” the comte said, watching her closely.

  “Did you say ‘love,’ Comte?” The man, Rousse, turned and threw his arm over the back of his chair, regarding Charlotte Nash with haughty disdain. Though how any red-blooded male could look so coolly at one so vibrantly, lusciously feminine was beyond most of the other men’s capacity to understand.

  Her nutmeg-colored curls gleamed like polished metal and the thin sheath of tallow-colored silk that skimmed over the curving lines of her lithe young body accentuated her peach-flushed skin. Her lips, perpetually on the brink of a knowing smile, glistened with the succulent ripeness of youth and her eyes glowed beneath their fringe of gilt-tipped lashes. No matter that she was not the exotic beauty her older sisters were reputed to be, her chin too sharp, her bronze shot eyes languorous and down-turned at the corners as if she had just risen from bed, her mouth too full and saucy. She was naughty, coquettish, and fully awake on every suit. Much better than beautiful.

  The comte’s brows rose at Rousse’s unexpected interruption. “Indeed, I did, Monsieur Rousse. What of it?”

  “Nothing. Except after my own recent experiences”—his dark gaze flickered briefly over Charlotte Nash’s indecently clad body—“I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you that the tender sentiment you have enjoined is not within a certain individual’s capacity to feel.”

  “I am sure your concern would be appreciated were it not patently a matter of what these English call ‘sour grapes,’ ” the comte said.

  Charlotte stared past Dand, cursing him for making it all but impossible for her to drop a word in his ear about his search for the letter. Besides, if the fool did not have a care, the comte might decide the best way to win her affection would be to play knight errant to Dand’s vulgar brigand. The two men were regarding each other in a manner that put her in mind of stiff-legged curs meeting over a contested patch of ground, the air roiling with masculine pride and the potential for violence.

  And what good would Dand be to their mission, injured or worse? She wouldn’t allow it. She’d given up far too much to see her plans ruined by petty masculine posturing.

  She turned calmly back around, as if Dand hadn’t spoken. “I always insist on seeing the color of the gold on the table when I play. I suspect it is the same for you gentlemen.”

  She stretched out her leg and slipped her satin slipper off her foot.

  “My dear? Would you not prefer a more private—”

  “I do not need any privacy. At least not for this.” She glanced up. Every pair of masculine eyes in the room, including the comte’s, were trained on her foot. Every set except Dand’s. He met her gaze with a cold, warning glare. To blazes with him! Since he’d cast her into the role of diversion, she wouldn’t want to disappoint him.

  “I declare, I don’t know what any of you gentlemen could want with this. Perhaps I should have wagered a few minutes alone in the outer closet?” She held Dand’s gaze meaningfully. Around them, a dozen men blust
ered or cleared their throats. “Too late, gentlemen,” Charlotte declared with a feline smile. “You only wanted my stocking. Next time you might consider asking for more.”

  She leaned over, sliding her hands beneath the hem of her skirt and finding the tops of the stocking tied with a ribbon garter just below her knee. Dand’s jaw muscle tightened. A little tic moved beneath the wicked-looking scar.

  Don’t.

  Had he actually whispered the word or did she simply want to hear it? No matter. She was wed to her role now. With a flirtatious glance around at her rapt audience she rolled the sheer embroidered bit of silk down her calf, the movement hidden by her skirts. Then, with a pert show of ankle, she pulled it free of her foot and gaily held it aloft.

  Dand stood up. No one but she seemed to notice. Nor did they notice when without a word, he strode from the room as though he could no longer bear the sight of her.

  She smiled. Gaily. Confidently. “Here, Comte, is my wager. If you would deal the cards?”

  With an appreciative smile, the comte dealt out the three cards. Charlotte picked them up, trying to simulate interest. She had none. She did not want his money—though she knew that is precisely the appearance she must give—and she didn’t care if she lost her damn stocking. The vulgarity with which she had shed it could hardly be outdone by simply losing it.

  Two queens and a four of hearts. She did not even bother drawing another card, and when the comte turned over his own pair of tens and she flipped over hers and said, “I win,” she felt rather that she’d lost. Still she smiled. Laughed. Dimpled and glowed with avarice and triumph and accepted the congratulations of the other men in the room and the other ladies, too, who were far less enthusiastic.

  “And now, if you will excuse me, Comte? Gentlemen?” She picked up the wisp of silk lying on the table and slipped her bare foot into her shoe.

  “I will leave you while I go and change for the evening. You will not disappoint me by stopping play while I am gone? I shall return anon and insist on playing until the footman announces dinner.” She was rewarded by a chorus of gruff masculine assurances that while they would eagerly await her return they would indeed continue to play.

  Glad to escape, Charlotte hurried into the great hall where those guests who had chosen not to play cards loitered in front of the huge open fireplace. Though they stood or sat within close proximity of one another, they still remained distinctly separate. Only a few leaned toward each other speaking in low voices. Most covertly studied their companions or stared at the fire, their expression thoughtful and assessing.

  Rivalry for the coveted prize St. Lyon offered had brought them here and that same rivalry kept them apart. Which of these men worked for Napoleon? Which for the Austrians? Which followed a personal agenda or, even more likely, had business that a treaty between nations would threaten? The last two years had taught Charlotte to appreciate that in every nation—including Great Britain—lived men who profited greatly by war.

  She did not waste time worrying over their various reasons for being here but looked about hoping that Dand had taken her hint and waited out here for her so that she could tell him that the letter was not yet in the castle and that he needn’t risk exposure by looking for it. He was nowhere to be seen.

  Mentally cursing, she hurried to her room, her nerves stretched to the breaking point. How long could she play on St. Lyon’s attraction without succumbing to his increasing demands? God help her, she was not cut out for this. She could talk a good game, but when it came to the actual moment when she would lie in his arms—She closed her eyes, fighting the panic and the revulsion. It was just a physical act. She would pretend it was someone else. She would pretend, she thought bitterly, that he was—

  A movement behind alerted her. She began to turn. A muscled arm snaked around her waist, jerking her back against a hard masculine chest while a broad hand clamped over her mouth.

  “Quietly,” Dand whispered. “St. Lyon is a jealous suitor. He has his servants watching you. Watching this room.” His breath was warm, stirring the soft tendrils behind her ear, his mouth so close that when he spoke his lips brushed the side of her neck. “Will you stay quiet?”

  She nodded and he uncovered her mouth though his arm stayed, locking her in intimate contact with his body. A thrill of fear ran through her. Yes, she’d had glimpses of something within him that eroded her peace of mind, little hints of a purposefulness that would stop at nothing to achieve its end, but she’d still trusted him. No more.

  “If my room is being watched, how did you get in?” she asked coolly.

  “The window. I should hate to mount an assault from the base of the castle, but slipping down from the room above was not too great a task for a man of my talents.” His lips moved against her ear, velvety soft but firm and warm. She steeled herself against the treacherous temptation to melt in his embrace.

  “There’s no need to look for the letter. It isn’t here.”

  “What?” His arm loosened. Without looking at him, she jerked away and moved casually toward the huge mirror opposite her bed. She studied her reflection with bitter satisfaction. Not a trace of the upheaval his presence caused appeared in her face. She looked unconcerned, indifferent. Good.

  “He anticipated that some of his guests would search for it, perhaps even be prepared to take it by force, so he sent it away with a confederate. A man named Rawsett. He is due to arrive any day now. With the letter. So you can dispense with your nocturnal hunt.”

  She glanced at his image in the mirror. He was regarding her closely. “You should leave then. At once.”

  She laughed. “Oh, no. Too late for that, I should think. Besides, there’s no saying where St. Lyon will stow the letter. You’ll still need to hunt for it. I’ll still be a good diversion. At least”—she tilted her head and after a second of deliberation, pulled her already dangerously low neckline a little lower—“I shall do my best.”

  “Diversion?”

  “Yes. Once Rawsett has arrived, you shall doubtless need me to provide a further distraction. Isn’t that the role you assigned me?”

  “Is that what you think?” His voice was colorless, his eyes narrowed.

  “What else? Oh, it was all very clever of you. I stand in awe. You manipulated me like an impresario. You knew I would not fall in with your plot in so auxiliary a role. So you allowed me to think I had a more vital one, a starring role.”

  She laughed again, proud of how amused she sounded, how careless. “Imagine, I actually thought your bedding me was my idea.” She turned around, wanting to hurt him, to repay him in the same coin. “And of course, once that little hurdle had been passed, what did I have to lose?” My heart. “Nothing of consequence.

  “So, here I am, groomed, ruined, and ready. At your service, as it were. There is one little question that has been nagging at me. Tell me, however did you manage to arrive before me?”

  “A boat,” he clipped out.

  “I see.” She smiled, nodding as if that was the only thing that had occupied her thoughts, as she delighted in seeing the flickers of fury dancing in his eyes. And then, turning in a little pirouette, “What do you think, Dand? Will I do? Am I appealing enough to keep St. Lyon occupied while you search?”

  “Occupied,” he said flatly. “You have occupied an entire room of men with your earlier exhibition, Charlotte. But have a care. St. Lyon is only mortal. If you keep provoking him as you did tonight you might find him in your bedchamber yet.”

  How dare he caution her? When he could have stopped her from this—had it suited his plans. “You sound jealous, Dand. One would think that you had forgotten that your role of lover is merely that: a role,” she said coolly and then, “Besides, how do you know that St. Lyon hasn’t already been to my bed?”

  He was across the room, seizing her arms and jerking her back against him before she had finished. “You little witch, what new hell are you trying to consign me to?”

  She ignored his anger. She had h
er own hurt to tend. “Tell me. Because I am curious, you understand. Was everything, even your initial resistance to my request that you take my maidenhead, designed to lead me here, to this place? To St. Lyon’s bed?”

  She could feel his physical reaction, a sudden stillness that translated into a subtle tensing of the muscular body pressed so closely against her own. Damn! Why did she have to react so strongly to him? Why could she not explain to the nerve endings flooding with visceral memory and muscles shivering in anticipation of his touch that he had used her.

  She’d come to London green and frightened but determined to make her way without her sisters’ aid. She had used her frivolity and insouciance as camouflage to mask her fear and uncertainty. At first they had been an aid, helping her find and hold a place in Society. Later she sustained the masquerade because it provided a unique opportunity to do something, to be something more than a coquette who would become a romp and a cipher.

  But she had allowed Dand Ross past those trappings, shyly opened the door to not only who she was but how she wanted him to see her—as someone honorable, determined, worthy. Even her own sisters didn’t know her so well. Not like Dand. And then—betrayal.

  She didn’t bother waiting for his answer. She was too hurt, wanting only that he should feel some of the pain he’d caused her in return.

  “Not that I would have resisted, mind you.” Her low voice throbbed with the anger humming in her veins. “Not that I would have questioned you. Not that I would have protested. But you daren’t take that chance, did you? You used me.

  “Well, Dand. You, of all people, must appreciate this as well as accept it. Now I am using you. To keep St. Lyon jealous, his interest piqued and ready.”

  When she finished, her breasts rose and fell in agitation against the bolster of his arm, her shoulder blades pressed like knives into his chest as every fiber of her grew tight. For a long moment he was silent. She started to turn, but he kept her imprisoned facing forward, his strength as implacable as his silence.