Authors: Total Surrender
“Aye, it was.”
“You intentionally made it sound as if we’re . . . we’re involved.” Her stomach tickled at the delicious sentiment, but she easily feigned pique.
“Cross your fingers that everyone thought so.”
“But it’s a lie!”
“One that I trust will keep your sorry hide out of trouble.”
“Of all the nerve . . .”
“Though why I should bother is beyond me.” He sighed neavily, a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “You seem determined to plague me with your tribulations.”
“The only
tribulations
I’ve sustained”—she attempted to pull to a halt, but he tugged on her arm, maintaining a slow and casual pace as they paraded down the lawn—“have been with you, Mr. Stevens. Now, I’m just trying to enjoy a peaceful game of ball.”
“You’re so oblivious”—he made a derisive sound low in his throat—“you don’t even realize how badly you need my assistance.”
She chuckled, treasuring this chance to engage in capricious repartee. “You’re too rude and domineering to be of much help.”
“That’s what you think.” He tucked her arm more tightly into his own and reassuringly caressed her hand; goose bumps shot up her arm. “Stick close, and perhaps the lechers and perverts will keep their distance.”
Glancing around, she had to concede that those in viewing range were tediously normal, with nary a reprobate among them. “How will you contrive to restrain them?”
“I’ll scare them off.” He wiggled his brows. “I’m good at it.”
“They
do
look afraid of you.”
“They are.”
“Are you a brute?”
“I can be.”
“You certainly frighten me with little difficulty.” From various positions across the grass, the other players continued to furtively spy on them, and she couldn’t help but report, “They’re watching you as though you might do something nefarious.”
“They merely can’t believe I’ve joined the game,” he explained. “It’s common knowledge how much I loathe your kind.”
“My kind!” What was that supposed to mean? He was at a gathering full of the nobility! “There’s an insult buried in there somewhere.”
“Absolutely.” He stopped their momentum while they waited for the couple ahead of them to swipe at their ball. “Ignore them like I do,” he insisted, once the pair had moved off, shrugging them all away as inconsequential. “I’ve uncovered too many of their dirty little secrets, and they’re simply embarrassed by what I’ve learned.”
How interesting! What a mysterious man, and how wonderful that they’d met! Her musings were a jumble of possessive impulses and absurd longings that she couldn’t set aside. She suffered from an insane urge to inquire as to where he’d been all day, but she hadn’t a clue how to frame her question, because she’d never discerned how to engage in the coquettish flirtations at which other females excelled.
“If you abhor us all so much, why are you here?” Sarcastically, she batted her lashes. “What possessed you to grace us with your stupendous presence?”
“Would you rather I’d stayed upstairs and let Wilson fondle your pretty bottom?” He peered over her shoulder, baldly scanning her backside, and her knees weakened at the decidedly salacious gleam of approval he flashed once he’d finished. “While I admit it’s quite lovely, I’d thought you’d applaud my intervention, but if you’d like me to go . . .”
“No, you bounder.” Recalling how disgusted she’d been
by Mr. Wilson’s advance, she gripped his hand more firmly than she should have, and he rewarded her by snuggling her a bit closer than was proper. “Don’t you dare leave my side.”
“What’s the matter with your foot?”
The change of topic made her dizzy. “My foot?”
“You’re limping.”
Her ankle still throbbed from her ignominious fall off the stool, but she wasn’t about to reveal any details regarding her mishap!
“I tripped.”
“But you’re all right?”
“Yes.”
“You look very fetching”—her breath hitched at the unexpected compliment, and she peeked up at him from under the rim of her bonnet, when he appended—“with your clothes on.”
“Oh, you horrid man!” she reproached as a dimple creased his cheek, making him appear wicked and irresistible. His words induced a swarm of recollection, both wonderful and horrid, and a blush started to rise again, somewhere above her ankles, and it swept up her body, heating her chest and face.
“Too fetching, in fact,” he went on. He was distinctly flustered that he’d noted her comeliness, downright perplexed by their flourishing entanglement. “You can’t go prancing about, looking so
fetching
at this party.”
“My apologies for getting dressed,” she retorted facetiously.
“Why are you still here, anyway?” he inquired cantankerously. “You swore to me that you would go home this morning.”
“I made no such vow.” She dug in her heels, ready to argue the point, but he serenely continued on as though they weren’t having a bodily tug-of-war in the middle of the yard.
“I expected you to heed my advice, but perhaps I should
have stayed on the verandah, and let Wilson have his way with you.”
“Ooh! You’re an absolute cad to allude to such crude behavior.”
“Of course, I’ve seen what you have to offer, so I can’t blame him for trying.”
She was amazed that two adults, who scarcely knew each other, could carry on such a shameless conversation. Still, she wouldn’t have ended it for the world. Primly, she rebuked, “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“We’ve already established that fact.”
They approached their ball, and she stepped next to it, then froze. He was staring at her so intently that she was completely mesmerized by the magnificence of his blue eyes. Up close, they were sharp and clear, cool as shards of ice, and she could have stood there all day, studying them, for they made her absurdly, recklessly glad that he
wasn’t
a gentleman.
He pressed himself against her, and as they swung at the ball together, those idiotic butterflies swarmed anew, but she refused to chase them away. She was situated so that her backside was shielded from the prying eyes of their audience, and astonishingly, he indelicately stroked his palm across her flank.
“You have the most shapely ass.”
“Desist!”
She whipped to a vertical position and nailed him with the penetrating glower that regularly turned Hugh in a bumbling, prevaricating idiot, but the practiced look was wasted on Michael Stevens. Belligerently, he met it, then his focus dropped to her lips and lingered, as tangible as the kiss he’d bestowed the previous night. He was much better at intimidation than she’d ever conceived of being, and she bravely strove to rival his hot stare, but could only persevere for a moment.
Irritated by her lack of fortitude where he was concerned, she whirled away, but he matched her stride for
stride, moderating their progress so it seemed friendly and methodical.
Calmly, tenaciously, he propounded, “That’s what they’re all contemplating.”
“What?”
“They’re inspecting your bottom and your bust, and they’re imagining how arousing it would be to catch you by yourself.” They’d reached their ball, and she waved toward it so that he might strike at it alone.
“Be my guest,” she said.
“Rules of the game, darling”—the endearment rolled off his tongue as though he’d spoken it to hundreds of women in his life—“we have to hit the ball together. It is specifically designed to provide the men with infinite opportunities to be naughty in public.”
She peered about, cogitating as to whether he was telling the truth, because if he was, then the guests would infer that he’d come out onto the yard in order to touch her improperly, and with his disposition and posturing, he’d done nothing to squelch the notion. Plainly, they’d created a maelstrom of supposition, with the spectators patently curious as to why he’d sought her out.
The women regarded her jealously, wishing they’d secured similar prurient courtesy for themselves, but the men had a heightened awareness of her, as though—if Stevens was attracted—there must be something provocative they’d missed.
Were they all leering at her with indecent purpose? Or were Mr. Stevens’s admonitions inciting paranoia?
“If what you say is factual, then your conduct has made matters worse. Not better!”
“Hardly. Don’t forget that I’m the one who prevented Wilson from groping you.”
More cautious now, she let him slip his arms around her, and she liked how she tingled when his body made contact with her own. The surroundings were more extreme, the grass greener, the sky clearer, the air fresher. When his hands encompassed hers, and they mutually batted
with the stick, she relished the unadulterated power of his torso. He moved with a fluid grace, inducing a myriad of lurid images. Of his naked chest and brawny shoulders. Of his adept fingers and seeking tongue.
Of the naked woman with whom he’d cavorted in the small, dimly lit room.
Gad! She must never discount his natural proclivities!
The ball glided off, and she shifted away. “For some reason, you want to alarm me, but it’s not working.”
“He’ll try to sneak into your room.”
“What?”
“In the night, Wilson will strive to gain entry. I succeeded with little difficulty, so he’ll be able to prevail if he’s obstinate enough. Which he is.”
“You’re mad.”
“He will,” Mr. Stevens announced with such conviction that she shuddered involuntarily. “How will you protect yourself once he’s there?”
Desirous of knocking the arrogant oaf down a peg or two, but not sure how, she caustically stated, “I guess you’ll have to crash through our adjoining door and rush to my rescue.”
“What if I’m not about when it occurs?” He scowled at her, patently puzzled by his burgeoning involvement in her affairs. “I’m not joking,” he reiterated. “You’re not safe here. Please go. First thing tomorrow.” She glared at him but said nothing, so he added irascibly, “Promise me you will!”
“Mr. Stevens”—she was categorically exasperated by his caution—“why does it matter to you whether I remain or depart?”
For a single second—just one—she thought he would answer honestly. Stark worry and bleak concern were evident, and she braced to hear a heartwarming comment that would confound her common sense. Then, as though a screen fell into place, his emotions were deliberately masked.
“I can’t tolerate insipid women, Sarah, and you don’t
seem stupid. You must realize that dawdling here is foolish.”
Idiot!
she chided herself. As if this flinty scoundrel would have professed a kind sentiment!
The remark was issued just as they approached the end of the lawn, which precluded further discussion. All of the contestants’ balls were in the basket but theirs, and Mr. Stevens administered a quick swipe that spun it into the middle of the pile. His overbearing demeanor precluded any gay jesting with the other couples. Not dallying to sociably tally with the rest of the group while they established the winner, he briskly escorted her toward the verandah.
Once they were out of earshot, she scolded, “You are the most discourteous person I’ve ever met.”
“Yes, I am.”
“You go out of your way to be uncivil.”
“I thrive on it.”
“I can’t abide such churlish behavior.”
“I don’t care.”
In two more strides, they were at the porch, and it dawned on her that she’d been given the perfect excuse to probe him for personal details, and she’d squandered it. He addled her wits as though she was still an awkward adolescent girl, dazzled by a dapper male.
She climbed onto the lowest stair, while he resided on the grass, and the extra height put them eye to eye. Regarding him painstakingly, she’d have been perfectly content to tarry, daydreaming and seeking to understand him, but others were tracking their every move.
“Thank you for the game, Mr. Stevens.”
“My pleasure.” He bowed appropriately over her hand. “Have a pleasant evening.”
Brushing past her, he disappeared into the massive house without a backward glance, while she stood like a simpleton, reflecting on how terrible it would be if she never saw him again. For all his contemptuous manners and crude, imperious ways, she’d never hitherto encountered anyone like him, and she was undeniably enthralled.
At his departure, people gawked at her as if she’d sprouted a second head, and she yearned for privacy, but she couldn’t retire so early. Casually, she strolled into the residence, rambling about, until she deposited herself in the music salon where two women were performing duets on the pianoforte. She reclined on one of the couches and listened, the music washing over her and calming her racing heart.
On the mantel, the clock ticked aggravatingly, and she silently calculated how long it would be before she could plead fatigue and escape for the night, and even as she marked the slow passage of the minutes, she pondered whether Mr. Stevens would later visit the secret room, if he would cavort with another lover.
Sarah had no intention of forgoing the lewd distraction Pamela had so obligingly furnished. She planned to watch all; every riveting, disturbing, glorious aspect of Michael Stevens’s indiscreet exhibition.
Rebecca Monroe scrutinized her cousin from across the lawn. She had always liked Sarah in the abstract, though she was envious of her, too. Sarah was all that Rebecca was not. Strong-willed, determined, and headstrong while Rebecca imagined herself to be the opposite: inept, wavering, and inefficient. Plus, Sarah had the unfair advantage of being the daughter of an earl, while Rebecca had emerged from the indigent side of the family, the only child of a severe, incompetent merchant who’d died drunk and penniless.
For many years, Rebecca had soothed herself with the perception that she’d bested Sarah in looks and comportment, the only commodities that held any value for a woman. Rebecca had been born pretty, and Sarah had been gauche and plain. While growing up, Rebecca had seen Sarah on a handful of occasions, and she could vividly recall how people used to privately despair over how she would mature. Yet Sarah had blossomed, and her current
state of loveliness irritated Rebecca to no end.