My Surrender (19 page)

The Great North Road and Scotland
August 4 to August 9, 1806

T
HE JOURNEY NORTH
to St. Lyon’s Scottish castle was long and tedious, despite the luxurious appointments of the chaise St. Lyon had sent. Charlotte was miserable. Only the intermittent distraction provided by her maid made the trip endurable. As for Lizette, she seemed perfectly content with their situation, flirting with the muscular young outriders St. Lyon had hired to protect them from highwaymen, or chattering blithely on without stop when she wasn’t.

The soft padded leather seats and tasseled velvet curtains at the windows evidently impressed the luxury-loving maid. She took full advantage of the little tufted footrests, the down-filled pillows, and cashmere lap rugs. Charlotte could almost hear Lizette’s thoughts, they were so clearly reflected in her content expression: If this was coming down in the world, then a fall from grace might not be altogether undesirable.

Under normal circumstances, Charlotte would have found her maid’s pragmatism amusing, but now, here, My Surrender she was too preoccupied to pay much heed to Lizette. And when eventually Lizette realized Charlotte was attending very little of what she said, she demonstrated a truly wonderful ability to sleep under almost any conditions, leaving Charlotte alone with her thoughts. And uncomfortable ones they were, too…

The thing was…she could not stop
remembering.
The night she had shared with Dand filled her mind and played havoc with her resolve. She told herself that by leaving without telling him her intentions she had not so much deceived Dand as spared them both a difficult good-bye. Her stubborn heart would not believe it.

She stared out the window at the passing scenery, but each mile only led her further into a maze of self-doubt. How had he felt when he returned that evening to find her gone? But then, what would he have done had she told him that St. Lyon’s carriage would take her the next morning rather than a day later? What did she expect of him?

That he would demand she marry him and to hell with St. Lyon, the letter, and all of Great Britain?
Dand?
He’d held true to his course through torture, betrayal, changing fortunes, and great personal loss. Why would he change now? Because he’d taken her maidenhead? She allowed herself a small, sad smile. He hadn’t said he loved her.

Aye, he’d adored her with his body and that most eloquently. So eloquently, in fact, that she could not believe he did not feel
something
for her, something more than desire. But then, what did she know of lovemaking? she asked herself. Perhaps it was always so.

But she did not believe that, either. And she clung stubbornly to her belief that a man and a woman could not share such potent pleasure without the emotions,
both
of their emotions, being engaged. Because if she had told him she was leaving for St. Lyon’s castle within a few hours and he had done nothing to prevent it or at the very least try to persuade her not to, her heart would have broken. No, far better not to test his feelings for her. At least this way she could believe what she wanted, what she
needed
to believe.

Even if Dand had consigned the rest of the world to the devil for love of her, could she really purchase her happiness with the blood of young soldiers? She feared, greatly feared, that she could and this, more than anything else, convinced her that she must do this thing, alone, while she still had the…the
guts.
So that if the final die was cast and no other choice presented itself, she would become St. Lyon’s mistress.

Such were the thoughts that pursued Charlotte in ever-tightening circles of joy and despair, growing impatient as one day unfolded into the next. By the fifth day Charlotte was cursing St. Lyon’s tender regard for her comfort. If she had been a budding Cyprian, she would have probably appreciated his care. But though she promised the driver there would be no retribution should he dispense with their leisurely gait and move more swiftly, the grizzled old Frenchman remained obstinately determined to abide by his master’s wishes that the journey not tax the lady’s strength. So they plodded along, starting late and stopping early at the coaching inns St. Lyon had decided were suitable as with each mile Charlotte grew more tense.

As they traveled, the landscape gradually became as bleak as her thoughts. The cultivated fields awash with summer green that surrounded London became a rolling countryside patchworked with orchards and fieldstone fences. These gave way to the moors where the land grew steadily rougher, the inclines steeper, and the sky bent closer. Pine replaced maple and birch, and hay fields gave way to high flower-spangled meadows and finally slate-covered tors naked except for a thin blanket of gray-green gorse and wine-tinted bracken. The towns grew farther apart and smaller, too, the houses more tightly clustered, as though to present a united front against the vastness beyond their borders.

Finally, near noon of the sixth day, the carriage left the main road and followed a rutted lane up a low, bare hill. There, the driver stopped and called for her to enjoy the prospect. Eagerly, both Charlotte and Lizette poked their heads out of the windows. Lizette sucked in a breath of dismay. Charlotte empathized. She imagined Lizette thinking that “falling” was not so desirable after all, if one was forced to live in a place like this. So remote. So stark. So unattractive.

A mile away in the center of a broad valley stood St. Lyon’s castle. It rose straight up from the sheer side of a rocky shelf overlooking a broad, fast-moving river. Even from here she could appreciate the massive weight of the castle, the thick vines swarming the base of steel-colored stone. Narrow windows punctuated only the most upper stories. Nothing short of a catapult would breech those walls and the only egress Charlotte could see was a steeply pitched drive that led up to a massive wooden gate guarded by twin towers.

A fortress indeed. Charlotte sat back in the carriage and the driver clucked to the horses. No way in without the permission of the owner and no way out but by the same means. The open moors that surrounded the castle provided no place for concealment. The only bridge within sight spanned the river directly opposite the castle and thus within full view of the windows looking down from the very top of the crenulated guard towers. Around these twin towers the ivy crawled thicker and more abundantly, their leafy fingers almost reaching the dark casements.

They drove across the bridge and up the steep drive to the massive gates, which swung open at their arrival. Once inside, amazingly, magnificently, the forbidding aspect disappeared in the interior courtyard. Rather than the bleak cobbled quadrant of most castles, St. Lyon had developed inside a charming garden. Yew hedges clipped in fanciful shapes clustered in the corners while beds of blue and white flowers—the colors of the Bourbon kings, Charlotte realized—lined the well-raked gravel drive. In the center a marble fountain splashed amid a tangle of ivy and waiting beside this, his aquiline face relaxed into a welcoming expression, stood Maurice, Comte St. Lyon. Her soon-to-be lover.

Charlotte studied him thoughtfully. He was handsome if one preferred black curls over chestnut brown hair, or heavy Gallic features over square masculine ones, or a slender athleticism over a rangy grace. Or a wet-lipped mouth over a mouth as firm and masterful as its owner’s hands were. Which she didn’t.

She dug her nails deeply into the tender flesh of her palms, fighting a sudden surge of panic. St. Lyon must not suspect that she had come for any reason other than to inspect him as her potential protector. He must believe that she had no other designs on him and certainly no other reason for being here. The driver pulled the carriage to a halt and scrambled down to pull open the door and retrieve the block from inside.

Her foot had barely touched the step before St. Lyon was by her side, taking her gloved hand and assisting her to alight. Once she had emerged, he did not relinquish her hand but instead stepped back, his gaze sweeping over her from dusty kid shoes to what she feared was a sadly crumpled gown and wilted little bonnet.

Drat! A woman in search of a new lover would have stopped en route to repair her looks. She met his assessing gaze with a raised brow and a merry smile.

“I could not abide the thought of spending a moment in some rattletrap hovel when I knew a much more convivial greeting awaited me here, St. Lyon. I hope I do not disappoint you too much?”

His dark face lit appreciatively. “How could a lady as delightful as yourself disappoint anyone, Miss Nash?”

“As well spoken as ever, Comte.” She dimpled in a manner she had once overheard a gentleman describe as delectable.

St. Lyon’s hand tightened perceptibly before he released hers. “Let me express my unmitigated delight in welcoming you to my abode.”

“Your pleasure in receiving me can be no greater than mine at having arrived, I assure you,” she said, twinkling for all she was worth.

“You are, as ever, deliciously candid.” He looked beyond her shoulder to where Lizette was being handed out of the carriage by a strapping footman. “Ah, you have brought your maid. I am, for your sake, most glad. The servants here are not used to tending a lady.”

He was overdoing it, Charlotte thought, though she continued to smile. All these references to assure her that in his eyes, if not the world’s, she still deserved the title “lady.” He bowed and stepped aside, ushering her forward. “I will have my housekeeper, Madame Paule, show you to your rooms and then, perhaps you will do me the honor of joining me in my salon prior to dining?”

Already a closeted conversation? Through a sheer act of will she kept the lightness in her voice and a smile on her lips. “And what time would that be, Comte?”

“We dine at nine o’clock. Shall I have a footman come for you at, say, eight-thirty?”

“That will be fine,” she answered and nodded for Lizette.

He motioned toward the staff standing behind them, a quartet of footmen and a small, compactly made woman with a dark, almost masculine, face. She stepped forward and bobbed a quick curtsy, murmuring, “If you will follow me, ma’am?” before leading Charlotte and Lizette through an open doorway into the castle.

Inside, the impression that St. Lyon had transported a fashionable St. James mansion into the wilds of the Scottish Highlands continued. Though only a few high windows allowed in the afternoon sun, no expense had been spared in filling the great hall with light. Candles and lamps, sconces and mirrors lit even the darkest corner, setting to glow the gilt frames of the massive paintings that lined the freshly plastered walls, glinting in the silver candelabras and urns overflowing with exotic hothouse-raised fruits and flowers and adding luster to the exotic silk tapestries covering the walls. Beneath her feet, a thick Oriental carpet muted the sound of her heels as she followed the housekeeper toward the great staircase rising before them.

Silently, Madame Paule led them upstairs. At the top, they followed the minstrel’s gallery that overlooked the great hall to its far end and turned, entering a corridor. Tall windows overlooking the moors pierced the left wall while the right wall contained an equal number of closed doors. The housekeeper continued to the end where she stopped and, pushing open a door on noiseless hinges, stepped aside to allow Charlotte to pass ahead of her.

It was a western room, and as such filled with soft afternoon light that set the crimson damask-clad walls glowing. Vases the height of a child filled with towering peacock feathers and gilt palm fronds flanked the central panel of windows. Sumptuous, Charlotte thought. One might even say decadent.

A gold-filigreed black marble mantle dressed the fireplace next to an old-fashioned bed raised on a dais, the heavy crimson velvet curtains surrounding it embroidered with stylized hinds and hares in gold and royal blue. Dozens of soft pillows crowded the head of the bed and lay invitingly on a divan covered in royal blue brocade. A large ebony table inlaid with mother of pearl filled the near corner, its surface overflowing with crystal perfume bottles, jars of salves and creams, pots of delicately dried petals and powders, and a full set of ivory-backed brushes and combs.

It was all exquisite, lush, and impressive, but most impressive of all was the enormous gilt mirror that hung directly opposite the foot of the bed, the huge surface reflecting back most of the room.

“Here is everything you might want.” Madame Paule crossed the room and indicated a gold-tasseled silk rope. “And here is a bellpull should you need more.”

Curiously, Charlotte went to the window and looked out. Far below the river ran sparkling and swift, disappearing into a copse of trees some distance off.

“Now I must return to my duties,” Madame Paule said. “The castle is full of guests. Gaspard will have your luggage up directly. If there is nothing more you require, ma’am?”

Lizette, who had puffed herself up at the Frenchwoman’s subtly dismissive tones, answered. “Yes.
Mademoiselle
requires a bath. A
hot
bath. And a fire. At once.”

Madame Paule nodded politely though her raisin dark eyes held a touch of animosity. “But of course. I will have it seen to at once. And—”

“And where am I to sleep?” Lizette interrupted. “I don’t see a closet for me.”

“No,
miss,”
Madame Paule said, a little purr entering her voice. “You have rooms above stairs. With the rest of the servants.”

Poor Lizette. There was nothing Charlotte could do for her. How so, when there was nothing she could do for herself? The reason this bedchamber had no separate alcove for a servant was abundantly clear; a maid might interfere with late-night visits.

“Oh?” Lizette sniffed, but her cheeks looked a little rosier than usual. “Fine. You may show me later.
After
I have seen to
Mademoiselle
Nash’s needs.”

“Of course.” The Frenchwoman inclined her head. “Your bath shall be sent up directly. And I shall have one of the footmen escort you to the dining hall,” her gaze flickered toward Lizette, “and you to your bed, at half past eight. If this is convenient?”