Rules of Surrender (12 page)

”Take, take, take! I cannot eat so many grapes or I will have wind.“

She almost strangled herself trying to subdue her gasp of horror—or her spurt of laughter. Under Wynter’s influence, she could no longer tell the difference. To give herself a moment, she broke off a grape and popped it in her mouth. It was sweet, wonderfully fresh, and full of seeds, and in the time she spent discreetly removing seeds from her mouth, he had taken the momentum.

Like a force of nature, he swept into the room. He wore his black waistcoat, black trousers and white shirt, and one should have been able, if one ignored the bare feet, to see him as an ordinary nobleman. But the shirt was open at the neck, revealing the slightest hint of curling hair, his thighs bulged with muscle and she couldn’t ignore those feet. She just couldn’t.

He stepped into the circle of light and took his usual stance, feet apart, fists clenched at his waist, chin tilted at an imperious angle. ”So. We begin.“

Hastily, she tossed the seeds into the fire and composed herself. ”Indeed we do. I wish to say that, although I didn’t want to take on the task of polishing you to fit society’s setting, I will do my best to—“

”Yes, yes, I know that. You are a woman who always does her best. That is not a matter which bears discussion. Now, what should we do first?“

She was annoyed that he’d interrupted her well-thought-out speech of welcome, but maintained a placid demeanor. ”Of a certainty, the first thing we should discuss is your penchant for discussing personal matters.“

He cocked his head. ”Personal matters? I should not discuss my children?“

”No, personal matters as they relate to your body. We don’t mention… your internal workings, at least not in mixed company.“ She waited while he thought about her euphemism.

Light broke over his face. ”Ah! I should not speak of my wind.“

”Most definitely not your… no. And no discussions of illness or physical discomfort.“

”But the
proper
ladies and gentlemen ask me how I am.“

She ignored the faint hint of sarcasm. ”A rhetorical question only. When someone asks how you are, the correct reply is, “I feel well, thank you, and you?”

“That explains why most of the ladies no longer greet me by questioning my health.” Striding to the low table, he seated himself on a large cushion.

Her heart sank. Exactly as she feared. He was showing her his barbarian ways, perhaps to tease her, perhaps as a protest against the tutoring which he had not sought. Certainly not because he thought it would attract her to see a man loafing about on the floor.

“May I inquire about the health of the ladies?” he asked.

“Only in the most general way.” He faced her, his back to the fire and his legs crossed loosely at the ankles, and he looked very at home on his cushion, not at all recalcitrant. Perhaps, she admitted, this was nothing more than a man relaxing after a hard day at the desk.

He plucked at his lower lip. “Lady Scott recently gave birth, and I asked about her new son.”

“Perfectly acceptable.”

“And about her labor.”

Charlotte closed her eyes briefly in pain. “Women seldom discuss such details between themselves, much less with a gentleman.”

He nodded. “In El Bahar, the women speak of such things, but the men do not.”

At last! A moment of concord, however brief. “There, you see, even in El Bahar the same rules apply.”

“But I’m interested!” He protested like a little boy.

“Your interest should not supersede custom and protocol.”

“In El Bahar, a man’s interest supersedes all other practice.”

Because he was spoiled like a little boy.

“You will say I am not in El Bahar any longer, and here protocol rules all.” Much as she had, he sniffed the bread and grapes. Noticing she had edged outside the circle of light, he said, “I beg your permission to eat, Lady Miss Charlotte, for I have not yet dined.”

“Of course, my lord. It’s late. You must be hungry.”

“As hungry as a camel seeking a date palm.” At her expression, he reconsidered his more colorful language. “Yes, I am hungry.” He gestured over the table. “You would do me honor if you would join me. You are too thin, although the lushness of your breasts brings to mind an oasis abounding with date palms and sweet libations.”

She was shocked and… she was shocked. “You must not say such things!”

“Only to you, Lady Miss Charlotte. Most women are not so thin. But if you will not eat, then sit.”

Dithering was not an activity in which Charlotte normally indulged, but she couldn’t bring herself to explain to Wynter that her breasts were not a fit topic of conversation. Her breasts, or any other woman’s breasts, although she couldn’t rid herself of the notion that somehow he should know that. Still, he looked so unruffled. Later, when they were no longer speaking of
her
body parts, she would find a way to suggest he not mention such intimate topics.

“Please sit,” he snapped. “I cannot learn if you tower over me.”

Obviously, he wasn’t thinking of her in any amorous context. Although what his purpose had been the night before in the portrait gallery, she still could not decipher. But then, she seldom understood men. “I could bring in a chair…”

“Still you would tower. I bid you to come here be-cause I am weary, and here I can be alone. Cannot an Englishwoman find comfort on a cushion?”

“Not easily,” she said wryly, but she couldn’t explain to Wynter the trouble three stiff petticoats presented to a woman seeking to lower herself to the floor. As she placed one wide, flat pillow on top of another, she turned aside to hide a suddenly irrepressible smile. In many ways, Wynter was a man untouched by society’s hypocrisy, and she had to wonder how the sophisticated ladies and gentlemen reacted to his observations. She would almost have paid to see the look on Lady Scott’s face when he asked about her labor.

But by the time she turned back to Wynter, she had her facial expression under control.

He frowned at her hemline, although what he could see there she didn’t know. “You have removed your shoes, of course.”

“Removed my… ?” She barely refrained from calling him a barbarian. “No, I haven’t removed my shoes!”

“But you tell me to do what is proper at all times.”

“That does not include—”

“Lady Miss Charlotte, this is my sanctuary. I brought this carpet and these cushions back from El Bahar as a precious remembrance of my days there. I have no way of replacing them, and I shudder to think that someday they will be worn out and threadbare, leaving me no tokens of the home I found so precious.”

His soft, rich voice spoke both lyrically and reproachfully. She couldn’t rid herself of the suspicion he was manipulating her, yet… well, she knew he had loved El Bahar, and she surmised he missed it. If these were indeed his only mementos, he was surely within his rights to ask that she do what she could to preserve the vivid weave.

But to take off her shoes… she stared at him for a full minute, waiting to see if he was jesting.

He was not.

“Very well, my lord”—she spaced the words precisely—“when I am seated, I will remove my footware.”

“As always, you honor me with your courtesy.”

If he were laughing about his victory, he hid it well, for she could not perceive even a twinkle in his eyes, and she thought she might make herself mad seeking mockery in his every word. Wisely, she let the matter drop.

The earthy, roasted odor of coffee reached her, she noted the ceramic pot placed close to the flames. “Would you like me to pour you a cup?”

He paused in the act of peeling the rind from the cheese. “Will you join me in that, at least?”

“If you’d like.” She dragged her stack of velvet cushions close to the table, then brought the pot and the two cups, comfortably warm from the fire. It took a few moments of arranging her skirts before she was able to gracefully sink, and the cushions, when she reached them, gave more than she expected. She was almost seated on the floor, with Wynter across the narrow table. Not directly across—she sat near the end while he sat in the middle—but only a few feet separated them. She didn’t know how to arrange her legs. Straight out? Feet flat on the floor and knees raised and pressed together? At last she decided her skirts provided ample camouflage, and she sat as he sat— with her ankles crossed and her knees wide. When at last she had settled, she found he observed her with fascination.

He said softly, “You make a performance of such a simple act.”

It almost sounded as if he were chiding her, as if she should know how to sit on a cushion, to loll on the floor in absolute relaxation as he did. But she hadn’t sat on the floor since she was twelve, and she didn’t miss the freedom of rolling about, or listening as her mother read her a story, or just lying there looking at the ceiling and dreaming.

“And your footware?” he prompted.

She leaned forward and, without showing so much as a hint of stocking, unlaced her ankle-height shoes and slipped them off.

He watched as she placed the worn black shoes off to the side of her cushion, and with his hand on his chest over his heart, said, “My thanks to you, Lady Miss Charlotte.”

Torn between annoyance at him and the pleasure she felt at ridding herself of the pinching leather, she could only smile tightly. With a steady hand, she poured the coffee into dainty cups and presented him with his. “I trust your day in London went well.”

He sliced the cheese cleanly and efficiently with a knife of the type she’d given Robbie, except the blade was longer, curved, and the honed edge glittered in the light. “London spreads across ancient land, land that sings of its history and its royalty. The palaces and the churches rise in splendor, each different, yet each proud of its place in the city. The docks and tenements rot and smell, a decaying underbelly that roils with deceit.” Picking up the cheese, he examined the marbled veins and said matter-of-factly, “London is a city that reflects its people.”

When he spoke, it was almost poetry and much too much truth—two sins the
ton
would not easily forgive. She hated to chide him, but…

When she hesitated, he chuckled. “Of course. I forgot. The question is for appearances only, for empty conversation with no content or depth. The correct answer is, ‘My day went well, Lady Miss Charlotte. How was your day?’ ”

“Very well, thank you,” she began, but she couldn’t ignore his observations without answering them. “My lord, conversation is an art, one that allows two people to meet and in the slow dance of words become acquaintances and then, if one is lucky, to become friends. One surely does not wish to bare one’s soul to every passing visitor, unless one wishes to have the precious secrets of one’s soul distributed about to provide amusement to the spiteful.”

He paused in the act of tearing the bread with his fingers, and she thought he would comment on her earnest and revealing remark. However, he only said, “As always, you are ever wise. It pleases me to hear your day went well. If you would be so kind, could you tell me how my children are progressing?”

She smiled at him, sure that this conversation, at least, was without pitfalls. “Your children are a joy to teach, my lord. Both are much advanced for their ages in mathematics, and their ability to pick up languages is nothing less than astonishing. They are rapidly learning the sciences, elocution, penmanship, sketching, and Robbie is progressing rapidly in his reading.”

Wynter had been smiling much as any man who heard his children praised would smile, but now he sobered. “And Leila? Is she not progressing rapidly in reading?”

Reluctantly, Charlotte shook her head. “Leila will not read.”

“You mean she cannot learn.”

“I mean she will not try.” Charlotte hated to discuss her own inadequacies, but in all fairness she thought she must. “I blame myself, my lord. I am not as experienced at dealing with younger children as other governesses may be, and I don’t know why Leila crosses her arms and refuses, or how to coax her into wanting to learn. I have pointed out to her that when she can read, a whole new world will open up to her.”

“She likes to hear you read.” Wynter took a bite of the bread and a sip of coffee.

“Yes, the children and I have particularly enjoyed
The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.
I’ve told her that when she can read, she will not need to wait for me to know the stories. She can read to herself. But she is adamant.”

His eyes gleamed as if he knew something she didn’t.

“What is it, my lord? Is there something about Leila I should know?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Leila will read when the time is right.”

Worry still pulled at Charlotte’s brow, and he reached across the table. Startled, she leaned away. With his hand still outstretched, he stared at her reprovingly until she relented and sat forward again.

Then he smoothed the lines of her forehead with his thumb. “You must not worry. Before your arrival, my concern was that a governess would hem the children in with restrictions and lessons, slap their hands when they were naughty and despise them for their heritage. You think I do not see, Charlotte, but I have observed you with my children, and listened to their praise for you, and I thank you for guiding them into these strange ways with such skill and grace.”

She let him stroke her forehead and temples because she thought he didn’t know such affection was frowned upon. She let his words stroke her pride because… well, she needed to hear his praise. Always before, her competence had been taken for granted. Now, when she worried her competence had failed to serve those who she most wished to help, Wynter reassured her.

Silence enfolded the old nursery. The flames crackled as they consumed the wood. Night pressed in at the bare windows, crept along the hardwood floor, played with the fringe of the carpet. The flickering candles cast a cape of light around the two figures seated, staring at each other intently. His fingertips slid down her cheek, over her nose, brushed the tips of her eyelashes as if the planes of her features brought him pleasure. And she found herself fascinated by the rough calluses on his skin and how his touch raffled and soothed at the same time.