Absolute Surrender (7 page)

“Yet you must. He
’
s coming. We are to go to the park. He
’
s to speak with Father. You know what that means.”

He looked at her then in a way that she could feel his eyes within and without and knew to the toes of her boots he meant what he said next.

“I
’
m bound by no man
’
s wishes. And neither are you—yet.” Hugh turned and walked out.

Wait
was on the edge of her tongue.
Do not go
tried its level best to free itself from her mind. “Please,” was all that came out, on a breath, and that—much too late.

She raised her hand to her lips, whether to feel the softness, pliant and warmed by his kiss, or to attempt to expunge the memory, she was unsure.

Hugh strode from the house without a backward glance. He
’
d no idea what he was to do next. He stopped beside Termagant and leaned over, resting his hands on his knees, attempting to catch his breath. He felt as though his soul had been torn from his chest and what was left was but the empty, angry, shell of a man. If it had been up to him, he
’
d quit London this very moment and return to his estate. But he would not, could not simply give her up.

Damn me.

Hugh heard the rattle of harnesses and looked down the street to see the carriage with the ducal crest of Castleberry emblazoned on the side, and a roar boiled in his gut. He straightened, took his mount from the waiting groom, and jumped to his seat. He would be damned to be standing on the same footing with Jacks when he arrived.

The carriage slowed, and the outriders jumped down, securing the horses and opening the carriage door.

Hugh waited, though he knew he shouldn
’
t.

Charles sat in the coach, his mind twisting around the possibilities of why Ender was here. Ender had made it clear to him last evening that he
’
d no intention of helping. Charles knew that Ender was a part of Amelia
’
s life, and he was prepared to be tolerant until their marriage was final, but he didn
’
t feel quite so prepared today.

Charles tapped his cane on the floorboards as he glanced out the door. He could see Endsleigh sitting his horse in an arrogant fashion. Ender should have dismounted if his intention was to greet him.

They both knew it.

Charles tapped his cane again and looked to the house to see Amelia in the window of the parlor. He could see her hand pressed to the glass as she watched Ender. She lifted a delicate white cloth to her eyes, and he knew she cried.

He looked back to Ender, the tension rippling through the man, his mount restless under it.

Charles moved to the door and stepped out and saw the curtain in the window swing in his periphery as Amelia stepped away. He took a deep breath and turned toward Ender. Charles looked up, then bent at the waist in the most respectful bow he could pull from his ducal training. Perhaps this bit of regard would prove his worth. When he straightened, he found Ender
’
s angry gaze boring into him. Ender gave a stiff nod and kicked his mount, who reared and took to the street in a dead run.

Had Ender done it? Had he broken with her? Was she to be his? Charles looked back to Pembroke House. Why did he not feel as though this were a victory?

He shook the thoughts off and walked slowly to the door as Smythe opened it wide. Charles stepped in line behind him as he was led to the parlor.

“His Grace.” The butler’s voice cracked. “The Duke of Castleberry.”
Was the entire household affected badly by this turn?

Amelia turned toward him, and it was as though the sun had risen for him in this room.

Charles moved to her as another woman entered the room behind him, pulling him up short. The chaperone, of course.

“Your Grace, how wonderful to see you again. This is my aunt, Lady Mathorpe.”

“My lady,” he said as he took Amelia’s hand, only to feel the tremble within. He paused, considered, and then said, “If you
’
re not well enough for an outing today, I would—”

“No, Your Grace, nothing would please me more.” But her voice had caught on the word
please
.  

Her smile was the brilliance of a thousand daffodils opening at once to him.
When did I become so maudlin?
Charles thought. He shook his head.

If he managed to get her out to the park, they might have a moment to speak on these things that were so very important. He smiled to reassure her as he saw the edges of her lips waver.

“My lady, shall we?” He proffered his arm, and she took it so gently, it was almost a whisper of a touch. He had to look to see that her hand was actually touching his sleeve, she was so cautious. He turned for the door, nodding to her chaperone. “Lady Mathorpe, an honor.”

Lady Mathorpe nodded but seemed a bit annoyed. Charles knew Amelia was aware of her aunt
’
s annoyance by the grip of her fingers,
no longer delicate.

He placed his other hand over hers, stroking her fingers gently through the dual layers of gloves, and felt them ease a bit. His smile widened, and he led her to the carriage.

Lady Mathorpe took the seat next to Amelia, leaving him to ride facing the rear. He shuffled past their hems, careful not to step on the delicate fabrics that seemed to fill the carriage floor, then shifted his knees as he sat so as not to bump either lady. Once carefully seated, he smiled at both in turn and nodded to his outrider, who shut the door soundly, and they were off.

Amelia turned her head toward the carriage window. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then relaxed her features and opened her eyes slowly. She marveled at how the duke filled the carriage, and it was not a mere conveyance, by any means. The carriage was impressive, and this man
’
s presence was formidable. And he was watching her.

Charles did not appear frightened or nervous—she hated nervous—and he definitely did not watch her with any pity, but he was cautious and perhaps concerned. That was acceptable after this morning. She would be silly to think he was not aware something had transpired in her parlor.

The fact is, if it had been anyone else, if it had been her mother—God save her—she would have already faced the inquisition for simply being a bit out of sorts.

But Charles—he simply watched.

He had held her hands, not the duke,
him
. Hugh had held her hands and taken her mouth and effectively declared war on her future, and Charles merely waited for her to be ready to inform him. She turned her face to hide the shock of pain, revisited so suddenly.

Amelia concentrated on the sounds of the horses, the pounding hooves, the turn of the wheels on the cobbles, the creak of the outrider on the rear step. She heard more hooves at the rear, not from the team at the front. Those hooves, just to her right just beyond the carriage, those hooves…belonged to him.
Him
. She knew Hugh followed.

She felt a gentle sweep at her hand and saw his hand there, the duke
’
s, with a handkerchief, and she reached up to find a tear on her cheek. Charles’s offer was so very personal, so very thoughtful, not condemning, not judging, but concerned. And given with caution.

She should take it.

She could feel her aunt’s gaze on the handkerchief. The heavy weight of tension doubled.

Take the handkerchief. Take it. Take the cloth from his hand,
she thought.

Her hand twitched as she willed herself to move, and she nodded when she did. “Thank you, I seem to have something…” She waved her hand and let herself trail off for the benefit of Lady Mathorpe. As well as for the duke. She hid behind the cloth momentarily, breathing. Feeling his warmth invade her, his personal scent—leather and polish, masculine and strong. She breathed deeper, attempting to catch more of him in her senses. There was something else below those scents, but she could not manage past her aunt’s cloying odor. It seemed to cling and hang from everything inside the carriage. Like the Spanish moss draped across the trees in paintings she
’
d seen of the American South.

She dabbed at her eyes then held the warm, scented cloth just below her nose and breathed again. There it was. Below the leather—or perhaps buffering it—strength, fresh cotton, and man. Time slowed, it stood, it waited.

Time would wait for Hugh no longer—

STOP
.

She breathed again, then looked to the window, as she did not trust herself to look at him. Not
him
, the duke him.
Was he now him?
Another tear fell.

Get yourself together.
Her hands shook.

The carriage made its way along the street to the park then pulled into an open spot on the walk. The carriage lurched from the jerk of the reins. She heard the boots hit the ground. One set, two, a third, then Hugh’s.

They were last—they were cautious. His boots were whispering his discomfort to her. Not commanding, not demanding, not jumping from the carriage to purpose. His boots were silently stepping down from his mount, quietly shuffling behind the carriage as he tied his horse to the bar at the back.

Amelia
’
s eyes dried. She tested her smile and pushed Hugh to the back of her mind for the moment.
But only for a moment,
she promised, as though he could hear her. Only a moment. She turned to Charles to return the handkerchief, but he raised his hand.

“It would honor me if you would keep it.” The deep rumble of his voice soothed as it spoke of his want for intimacy.
With her.

Amelia froze when she heard her aunt huff in the seat next to her. She saw Charles’s indifference to the woman’s opinion and smiled. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.” It was a revelation presented in a sentence. She
’
d always been nervous that he
’
d been chosen for her because he could be controlled by her family—so this was a mollification of sorts.

The door opened quickly, pulling the air from the carriage with it, and she startled. Charles stepped down, then handed her out to the green of the park, the laughter of children, the singing of birds and rushing of water. She inhaled the gardens and sighed heavily, her very being relaxing incrementally.