Rules of Surrender (26 page)

He moved with deceptive leisure, snaring her between wall and table before she could flee down the corridor. ”Be careful, Lady Miss Charlotte. You wouldn’t want to topple my mother’s prized bit of trumpery.“ His ringers stroked her throat. ”That would bring our guests running, for they badly want to observe our mating rites. You do not want that, do you?“

He smelled of leather and horses, and that put her in mind of the gentle kiss on the hill. This moment could not have been more distinctly different. She turned her head away. ”No, I don’t want that, but I seldom get what I want.“ She heard the bitterness and self-pity, and thought, just once, that she deserved to indulge herself.

He, of course, paid those fruitless emotions no heed, but leaned to look into her face. ”My delight will be to give you what you want—on our wedding night.“ He smiled at her, a golden barbarian, a predatory lion. ”By the time we have stood in the church and said our vows, you will be throbbing with need for me. I will have tasted each sweet corner of your body, kissed you with fervor and with passion, caressed you until your nipples tighten and the dampness blossoms between your legs.“

Damn him! How could a woman maintain her equanimity in the face of such vulgarity? Worse, to hear such matters openly spoken of caused her nipples to tighten, and dampness did blossom between her legs. She exerted every ounce of willpower to hold his gaze, and she whispered fiercely, ”This is the kind of improper conversation I have warned you against pursuing.“

”Actually, Lady Miss Charlotte, I don’t believe you ever broached such a matter.“ His brow wrinkled as he pretended to consider, and his fingers pressed against the place where her heart throbbed in her throat. ”No. No. You warned me against too-specific compliments, against speaking my mind, against criticizing the English way of life, but never did you tell me I should not make love to my woman with words.“

What to say? Which point to argue? And would her meager voice be up to a diatribe of the length and insistence she longed for? All she managed was, ”I’m telling you now.“

”You will tell me a great many things before our wedding night, Lady Miss Charlotte, and I will not listen. You will say no, then you will say maybe, then you will cry out for me, but your words will be as a woman’s breath upon a glowing fire.“

Her knees shook. He was so intent, so serious. Only the servants belowstairs indulged in such tawdry sensuality. But when he spoke, it didn’t seem tawdry. It seemed… seemed… too thrilling.

”Do you know what the Bedouins call a dimple such as yours?“ His fingers wandered up to press the indentation on her chin. ”They call it an angel’s kiss, and they say one so blessed will have a long and happy life. I will see to it.“

”You will not—“

He kissed her, crushing her soft mouth beneath his. This wasn’t the soft, eager, mutual kiss of this afternoon—but then everything had changed since that afternoon. Now she knew he was serious about wedding her. Now she had agreed to the ceremony.

Now he wasn’t cruel, but he was definite, not allowing her to deny him. He wrapped her in his arms, threaded his hand into her hair and cupped her head. He closed his eyes as he kissed her, concentrating like a gourmet sampling vintage champagne. He surrounded her with his scent. Familiar arms, familiar scent, familiar Wynter, but different from every time that had come before.

He caught her lower lip in his teeth and, when she gasped, took her mouth with his tongue. He filled her with his flavor, probed her, enticed her, when all she wanted to do was get away. Desperate enough to try anything, she placed her fingers on his arms and dug them deep.

”Don’t hurt me,“ he murmured against her lips.

As if she could. He was bigger and stronger.

More than that—as if she would. She didn’t have the stomach for violence. She couldn’t sustain a rage. She didn’t want this battle, yet day after day Wynter brought turmoil into her peaceful existence. Damn him! Bunching her fists, she punched them into his sides.

He arched her form into his. Like a blacksmith’s red-hot iron, his heat struck her. His hand in her hair, his mouth on hers, his arm around her waist, the length of him dominating, and her own body relaxing, tensing, reveling… betraying.

Embarrassed and enthralled, she whimpered.

His kiss lightened, became less imperious and more seductive. Slowly, he loosened his hold, easing her back against the wall, sliding his hand around to cup her chin, and, finally, lifting his mouth.

To her mortification, her lips clung to his.

She didn’t dare open her eyes. She couldn’t bear to look at him.

”I will not shame you, my darling. I will treat you with the utmost tenderness and care, and demand for you all the honor due my wife. But I will not be denied.“

Blindly, she turned to flee. She struck the table. The vase wobbled, then smashed to the floor.

She stood, horrified, and stared at the shards scattered across the hardwood. This was what she had come to. Unrestrained panic, inelegant motion, and the ultimate social
faux pas.

Her life was shattered into as many pieces as the vase, and all because of him.

His voice was smooth and deep as Lucifer’s own. ”Charlotte, my darling girl…“

As if a single endearment could mend the vase! Or her life.

She fled down the hallway to the sanctity of her bedchamber.

CHAPTER 23

My dear Pamela and Hannah,

I can think of no way to announce this with any amount of dignity or grace. Because of circumstances which occurred today, and which I assure you were most innocent, I am forced to marry. Lord Ruskin is my betrothed, and although in many ways he is a worthy man, he is also exasperating and I foresee no love in our future. The rush is obscene, the wedding is planned for the Monday morning after the last of the banns had been called, and might have been avoided if not for the Sereminian reception which looms one month after the nuptials!

As you can imagine, I miss you dreadfully, my dear friends. Not only for the reasons which you already know, but because I issued a most ridiculous challenge to Lord Ruskin and I fear he will feel he must answer it every chance he gets…

Never before had Charlotte thought twice when she crossed the long, shadowy gallery filled with portraits of stiffly posed, long-dead lords and ladies. Tonight, a mere twenty-four hours after the dreadful scene on the stairway, she was nervous.

She could admit the truth to herself, at least.
Wynter
made her nervous, relentlessly watching her from his portrait on the wall. She’d paid little heed to that picture of the youthful Wynter and his spaniel before. Now she couldn’t stop glancing at it as she hurried from Adorna’s apartments back to her own bedchamber.

Even though Wynter had left for London this morning, still he stalked her.

On her previous journeys along this very route, she had never wondered what hid behind the closed doors in the portrait wall. Tonight she was convinced something waited to spring out at her. And in fact one stood open…

She slowed as she approached. The darkness in that inner chamber was absolute, unillutninated by the feeble light of the candle in the wall sconce just outside, and even by straining her eyes she couldn’t see within. Yet she wasn’t a fanciful woman. She could think of a dozen reasons why the door would be open. Probably the maids had been cleaning. Or the children had been playing hide and seek. Or…

”Lady Miss Charlotte.“

She shrieked.

She never shrieked.

But Wynter’s voice coming from a darkened chair directly in front of her startled her so much— She clasped her hand to her chest. ”What are you doing there? Here? Now?“

He rose, uncoiling his six-foot height as smoothly as any snake from the garden of Eden.

Charlotte rattled on. ”I thought you were in London.“

”I was.“ He snagged her wrist. ”Did you think I would leave you for more than a day?“

She’d
hoped
he would. Indeed, she’d depended on his absence to recapture her equilibrium. Obviously, he hadn’t been gone long enough—and, she suspected, it might not matter how long he was gone. She might never regain her equilibrium again.

Oh, dread thought! To have so lost herself!

He was drawing her toward him, a darkly golden male gleaming with intent.

She found herself bursting into speech. ”My lord, it is not seemly that we be alone before our wedding.“

”Or after it, so
you
say.“ He sounded amused, but in the feeble light she saw no smile on his lips. ”Or have you forgotten that?“

”No.“

”Have you changed your mind? Will you welcome me into your bed?“

She couldn’t win; she knew it. He pulled her close against him as though he could overcome her objections with nothing more than his proximity. She craned her neck to see his face. His height was greater than hers, his strength far superior to her own.

The contrast between his power and hers was vast; even more weighty was the reality of the law. When Wynter was her husband he would have the right to do with her body as he wished. He could beat her, or lock her away. He wouldn’t; she knew that. But he would take his conjugal rights, and if she dared complain or bemoan her fate, the men who made the laws would shrug and turn away. More important, hundreds of women less blessed in their mates would rise up against her and browbeat her into submission. She had no choice. He would have her.

Perhaps if she retracted her challenge, he might leave her alone until her unhappy wedding night.

But she couldn’t. When she thought about allowing him the freedom of her body… she just couldn’t. Useless or not, she had to fight him, for if she didn’t she would lose some vital piece of herself.

Even knowing he wouldn’t understand, she spoke her mind. ”If love were real, we would give our bodies to each other. But love isn’t real, is it? You told me it was not. So I refuse to give you anything. Anything.“

His arms tightened on her, and she felt frustration vibrating through him. ”How do you dare defy me? I could crush you between my two hands should I desire, yet still you tilt your chin and tell me no.“

”If I thought you would crush me, my lord, I would obey you out of fear of your brutality. But for what you wish of me, I believe you want me pink and healthy.“

He smiled, a smooth half curl of his lips. ”In that you are right, my light of the morning, my angel of desire.“ They might have been waltzing, so quickly and smoothly did he whirl her into the open chamber. He shut the door with his foot. The air inside was cool and still, and darkness pressed around them like a living entity.

She wasn’t afraid of the darkness. Only fools and weaklings feared the night, but she didn’t know what was in here. She couldn’t make a move without Wynter. She depended on him totally, and that, she knew, must be his strategy. The warrior she had challenged contrived and executed his pursuit of her as surely as he plotted his desert battles.

Apparently his vision was unimpaired, for he seated himself on… something… and pulled her between his legs.

More for the form than because she thought it would do any good, she lodged a protest. ”I’m not comfortable with our isolation, my lord.“

His hands rested on her waist. ”It is not our isolation which discomfits you, my sweetheart, my princess.“ He brought her closer to him. ”It is your reliance on me.“

She could have informed him that it was more than that. Shared with him that the warmth of the chamber, its closeness and night’s dark shadows gave her a sense of security, as if they’d found a place apart from their day-to-day life where whatever they did would be between them only.

She was, she realized, weary of all the years of being on show. This lonely room fulfilled a compulsion she didn’t even know existed.

As usual, she wore her sensible governess gown of dark blue with the white collar pinned close at the base of her throat. As he bent her over his arm, his breath touched her neck just below her ear. Merely the warmth and the air brought a chill to her skin.

She resisted him, not with struggles, but with her stiff and uncooperative body. ”What is this place?“

”A guest room.“ One hand slid up to her breast. Not to touch it, but to circle like a hawk circling for a kill. ”The maids have been working here, preparing for the wedding company.“

She could smell the scent of beeswax and soap. She could also smell the scent of Wynter, of starch and clean flesh and knavery.

”There is an aired bed with clean linens waiting for us should we desire,“ he added.

Every muscle in her body clutched in panic. ”You said I had until our wedding night.“

He chuckled, a deep, warm puff of air against her cheek. ”So I did. But I will listen to pleas to take you now.“

She fortified herself with scorn. ”As if I would.“

Putting his mouth against her ear, he breathed, ”You will.“

His hand cupped her. His fingers found her nipple and gently massaged.

She came up on her toes.

Her gaze searched the darkness, seeking something to fix on, something that would distract her from the rhythmic movement of his fingers. But it was so dark in here! And he was so insistent, caressing her as if he had the right to make her miserable. Or perhaps ’miserable‘ was the wrong word. Perhaps the word was… ’disturbed.‘ Restless. Desperate.

She shifted her weight, trying to move away from him.

He halted her before she had done more than shuffle. ”Trying to escape already? Ah, Lady Miss Charlotte, we’ve barely begun.“

She struggled to sound dignified and managed to sound unbearably stuffy. ”I wish you would stop touching me there.“

”As you command, oh siren most seductive.“ His hand slid up to her collar. He manipulated the brooch that held it together.

She relaxed and grinned. As if he could open the pin with one hand! She couldn’t even open the pin with one hand, and she’d had years of—

Her collar loosened. Her brooch slipped away.

By what trick had he contrived that?

She grabbed, but she heard it drop to the floor. ”That’s mine!“