Rules of Surrender (13 page)

Then he removed his hand and settled back, and Charlotte found she could draw a much-needed breath. He drew such heretical reactions from her, she might have believed him to be a necromancer such as lived in the Arabian Nights. But Lady Charlotte Dalrumple didn’t believe in necromancers.

“You haven’t touched your coffee,” he said. “Probably you drink it sweet.”

“No, I don’t drink… I don’t require sugar.” His brows lifted in disbelief, so she lifted the cup and took a sip.

Vile stuff. Burned and bitter, more different from its aromatic scent than any beverage had the right to be. She gritted her teeth and swallowed, barely restraining a shudder.

His intent concentration changed to amusement. “Lady Miss Charlotte, you do not like coffee.” it would do her no good to lie. Not unless she learned to dissemble better. “Well… no.”

“You do not like brandy, either.”

“Most definitely not.”

“Yet you drink with me to set me at my ease, and drink with my mother to support her in her rebellion. I think you are too kind, Lady Miss Charlotte.”

Right now she didn’t feel kind. She felt bedazzled at being alone with a man she had suspected of base intent, yet who displayed nothing more than a sincere, if foreign, courtesy.

He’d touched her, yes, but not salaciously. Wynter made her uncomfortably aware that too many restrictions and too little hope bound her to her plebeian existence.

“I fear few people would agree with you, my lord,” she said.

“I do not seek agreement among dilettantes and fools. I have eyes to see.” He tapped his forehead. “A mind to think. And I think as I wish, not as others would have me do.”

In that moment, she realized she
liked
Wynter. Liked his forthright manner, his informality, and most of all his assurance. If not for the Sereminian reception, he might never have made the effort to fit into society, for he was satisfied with himself and all he had accomplished in his life.

She was alarmed, for she knew it to be a dangerous thing, this liking of a man.

He pushed her cup away from her. “Tomorrow night, I will arrange to have tea for you. Now, Lady Miss Charlotte, I must ask you whether it is permissible for me to carry my father’s old card case with the castle top. It was fashionable in its day, but as I move through the drawing rooms in London, I have noticed people eyeing it askance.”

As Charlotte began in earnest to teach Wynter, in another part of the house the newest scullery maid sidled toward her bedchamber on the third floor. Normally Frances went to bed with everyone else, when the housekeeper carried a candelabra to light their way down the corridor that housed all the maids. But Trev James, the finest lad Frances had ever seen, had enticed her to visit him in the stable, and now she found herself returning to her dark room down a dark corridor. She could make out the contours of the hallway, but strain as she might, she could see nothing more.

All kinds of horrors flitted through her impressionable fifteen-year-old mind. She’d heard the stories. She knew old houses were rife with ghoulies and ghosties, and this manor was older than her granny, and her granny remembered the mad King George. Not the one who came before Queen Victoria, God save her, but the one even before that.

A board creaked beneath Frances’s foot. She jumped, clutching her apron and swearing she would never again view Trev with longing, no matter how sweetly he smiled.

Who knew what crimes had been committed here, and what ghosts walked the hallways looking for peace or vengeance? Certainly not a quaking scullery maid newly come from her granny’s cottage. And for the last few nights as she’d lain in her bed, she’d heard sounds from above. Spooky sounds, like hushed footsteps. Once, there had even been the clatter of something as it hit the floor. Something that sounded like metal, like the chains forged in hell for the damned.

Putting her back against the wall, she crept along, counting the doorways as she passed. Her bedchamber was the last one on the right, just before the corridor took a crook and headed toward the access to the fourth-floor attics.

Frances had been in the attics. First good day in the spring, Miss Symes had marched an army of housemaids and serving boys up to clean out six months’ accumulation of dust. The big attic wasn’t bad, with windowed dormers that let in the light, but smaller attics tumbled off in every direction, and some were barely more than closets. It had given Frances the shivers to crawl inside and sweep them out.

Now she wished her bedchamber was closer to Miss Symes’s. No ghost—or mouse, for that matter—would dare disturb the formidable housekeeper.

With only one door to go, Frances had almost reached her goal, when she heard a long, thin creak, like hinges on a door. She froze, barely breathing, hoping she was wrong, that her hearing had fooled her. But no—ahead she saw a dim light from beyond the crook in the corridor, almost as if someone, or some
thing,
had opened the attic door.

Faintly she heard a scuffling, then a heavy sigh as once again the hinges creaked.

As she told the bevy of wide-eyed maids the next day, her hair stood on end from ear to ear. She slid back one step, then another, her gaze fixed on the dark square where the corridor turned. The light was growing stronger, and Frances could hear the slight patter of feet.

It was someone playing a joke. Or someone hiding in the attic to avoid Miss Symes and her everlasting beeswax. Or—

Something rounded the corner. Something short in a white flowing gown, holding a candle close to its hideous face.

Frances screamed at the top of her lungs. Screamed again, then turned and raced down the corridor as tinderboxes clattered, doors opened and the ghostly figure scampered out of sight.

CHAPTER 12

To refresh her memory about the evening’s lessons, Charlotte flipped open the notebook filled with her rules for gentlemen. “Ah, yes.” She settled deeper into the mound of cushions placed before the fire, trying to make herself as comfortable being proper as Wynter looked lolling about on the carpet. “Tonight, we’ll discuss the conduct of the gentleman in the city.”

Wynter grunted, stuffed a pillow under his armpit and leaned his head on his hand.

She dug her stockinged toes into the carpet. “A gentleman always walks between a lady and the street, for in that way he imposes his body between her and any runaway horses.”

“What if I don’t like her?”

She kept her gaze fixed on her book and pretended not to notice how close his bare foot came to the stocking that peeked from beneath her skirt. Was he at last trying to take advantage of their isolation?

Not that he could. Or that she would let him. But it was a puzzle. During the past week he had seldom even given the appearance of listening to her lectures, much less desiring her. He ate, he lounged about, he fixed the fire and trimmed the candles. Yet she found no reason for complaint, for when she quizzed him on his duties as an English gentleman, he always answered correctly. The suspicions he had aroused in the picture gallery had slipped away, to be replaced by… well, a sense of flatness.

Tonight was different. He watched her without appearing to, he moved closer under the guise of restlessness. He was argumentative.

“I don’t understand your question, my lord.”

“You say, Lady Miss Charlotte, that I should impose my body between a lady and a runaway horse, but such an endeavor seems fraught with danger. The lady must be very special to me before I would risk my life for her.”

Why she imagined any of this signaled an interest in her, she couldn’t understand. Perhaps it was because his behavior caused a similar rebellion in her own self. Tonight, when she occasionally allowed herself a glance at him, the flickering of the candles illuminated a man of solid build. Tonight she noted he had left off his waistcoat as well as his shoes, his stockings, his necktie, his cuffs and collar… the man was wearing virtually nothing but his trousers and his shirt, hanging white, wrinkled and loose. And of course he wore his undergarments. Surely he did. “A true gentleman will risk his life for any lady.”

“How many true gentlemen are there in this country of England, Lady Miss Charlotte?”

She lifted her head at last, because she had to, because she couldn’t avoid looking directly at him any longer. She had to glare at the impious man, and she did
not
contemplate his undergarments or lack thereof. “A true gentleman would not even think about his own jeopardy, but would show courage and fearlessness even unto his own death.”

Me, I would think first. He scratched his neck. “Maybe push the lady out of the way instead of imposing my body in front of the rampaging horse.”

With a jolt, she realized he was laughing at her. He wasn’t hooting like a lad, just pointing out the absurdity of the ideal. Very well. Probably he was right. Probably there were no gentlemen alive who would imperil themselves for a chivalric model, but she didn’t have to admit it. Determined to regain control, she made a point of leafing through her book. “Pushing her out of the way is acceptable, also. The other reason a gentleman walks between the street and a lady is it’s likely to be cleaner against the building.”

“Yes, the maids are always throwing stinking slops out of the upper windows in your London.” He flopped flat on his back, stared at the ceiling and threaded his fingers together across his stomach. “Must a gentleman impose his body between a lady and
that,
too?”

Right now she rather hoped the slops would hit him straight on, so she gathered her book to her chest and half rose. “I sense this is a bad night for a lesson, my lord. Perhaps we should postpone until tomorrow evening.”

Rolling to his side, he slapped the carpet with the flat of his hand. “No! Tonight!”

She jumped. For a moment, in the firelight, he looked fierce, savage, not at all the torpid pasha she had come to expect but the desert warrior she had imagined. By Lady Ruskin’s demeanor, Charlotte had judged that all was not well in the city, but whether in their business or socially, Charlotte couldn’t begin to imagine. If it was the business, Charlotte could do nothing. But socially… With a delicacy she could not help but be proud of, she asked, “Is there some etiquette query I could help you with?”

“Etiquette. Does no one in this godforsaken society think of anything else? The ladies, they say I do not know etiquette, but I say they do not know manners.”

It would seem Charlotte had found the source of his disturbance. “What are the ladies doing?”

‘They are spreading rumors around London, false rumors, that I am a ruffian.“

Charlotte grew indignant on her pupil’s behalf. ”That is indeed a false rumor, my lord! You are not conversant with all forms of etiquette, but you are not a ruffian!“ Or perhaps. But only a little bit.

”Lady Howard and Mrs. Morant are wicked.“

”Soon your etiquette will be the envy of all the wicked ladies in London.“

”Etiquette! Even you! Do you think of nothing else? Every night we talk about me.“ He tapped his chest with his forefinger. ”What I should say and how to say it. How high to tip my hat and when. To make morning calls in the afternoon, and what I must wear on every occasion. By the dunes, you have stuffed more rules into my head that the desert skies have stars!“

”That was Lady Ruskin’s desire.“

”I respect my mother. I adore my mother. But her desires are her own. So now—we will talk about you.“

”Indeed we shall not, sir. I am a governess, not an entertainer. You have already approved me as a fit teacher and companion to your children, and as you just said, I am more than capable of helping you freshen your manners. That is all you need to know about me.“

He reared back with every appearance of astonishment. ”You do not wish to tell me about yourself?“

”I do not wish,“ she said firmly.

”But women always like to talk about themselves.“

Nothing irritated her as much as these sweeping generalizations men, even the most civilized of men, were prone to make. ”I don’t know what women you have been associating with, my lord, but most women never get the chance to speak because of the constant and self-important conversation of men.“

”I do not like these sweeping generalizations women make about men.“

Had he plucked the thought from her head?

He demanded, ”Have I told you anything about myself?“

”Very little,“ she admitted grudgingly.

”But perhaps this is what you wish. You wish to think me a barbarian, stupid and uncaring.“ His free hand played with the fringe on his cushion, and he watched her ceaselessly. ”It is easier than getting to know me for who I am.“

”I assure you that is not true.“

”I will tell you now.“ He sat straight up, and when she would have interrupted, he pointed his finger at her admonishingly. ”You will listen.“

She didn’t want to listen. She didn’t want to raise the level of their intimacy, not when she had already conjectured seduction from ridicule. ”We have much more ground to cover, my lord“—she showed him the pages held between finger and thumb—”and very little time until the Sereminian reception. If you don’t wish to discuss life in the city, perhaps we could discuss horses and hunting. That would be more to your taste, I believe.“

He ignored her as regally as a potentate from
The Arabian Nights’ Entertainments.
”You’ve heard the gossip behind my escape to El Bahar.“

”I believe you left after your father’s death.“

”You have been curious about me?“ He sounded rather pleased. ”You needn’t be ashamed, Lady Miss Charlotte. I am also curious about you.“

This familiarity is what came of conversing when she should be teaching. She bent her head to her book and read the first heading aloud. ” ’A Gentleman in the Hunt.‘ “

”You do not wish to talk about you. Very well. When my father died, I was fifteen, and his passing caused me much pain.“

She quoted, ” ’A gentleman picks his steed for endurance and speed, and trains to jump with him until both move as one.‘ “

”My father had always been older than other fathers, but he shook off every illness. I thought he was indestructible.“