Absolute Surrender (2 page)

The strange thing was that no thought had come before the twitch, as was common. Hugh
’
s hand tightened on hers as he handed her through the narrow doorway to the balcony, then followed without letting go. If she could just breathe.

Damn me twice. But his hands are on me. On me, touching me, on me.

Her arm jerked and managed to dislodge him, and she turned, her eyes wide. This was her chance to run. She shifted left, only to find the outside wall of the ballroom, and when she looked right, the high balustrade blocked her, the rest of the space taken by that giant ominous beast of a man who insisted on rescuing her.

Damn him again.
She huffed and stomped her foot. “Must you be so pervasive? Must you be so insistent? And why?” she whispered viciously to the floor before he could answer, as her eyes shifted around the balcony.

She knew he smiled.

Damn him twice.

She turned away from him toward the gardens, watching the moonlight paint the ground with patterns from the oldest trees in the county. She
’
d no idea how long she stood there before the air shifted behind her, and his hand brushed her neck.

“Amelia.”

The anger left her then like a muddied body diving into a clear blue lake—a cleansing. She closed her eyes. “Hugh.” But his name sounded more like “you” on a breath. She absorbed the calming effect of his very presence.
Why do I fight this?

“Yes, Amelia mine, none other than I. I only wish to help. You can put an end to my incessant pestering with one word. Should you choose to.”

Amelia could feel the words as he spoke against her neck, then the absence of heat when he stepped back. When she turned, he was gone, as though he
’
d never been there.

Perhaps just a memory.

You.

A powerful sob threatened to rend her stays, and she squeezed herself tightly as though to prevent herself from falling into a million tiny pieces on the balcony. The truth was, she couldn
’
t give him the word he wanted. She loved him, true, but her father would never agree to a match with a mere baron, particularly a baron with no income to speak of—no matter her dire circumstance.

“Ma belle!” her mother shrilled. “You should not be out here alone.”

Amelia turned to see her overbright mother traipsing toward her with the air of grace and the intent of mastery. No wonder Hugh had disappeared so quickly.

“Yes, Mother.”
Improper, improper, improper. How many noticed, how many wondered, how many remarked that he left me here?

“Back inside now,” her mother singsonged with saccharine sweetness in her fading French accent. “They
’
re waiting for you to return. Where is that smile?”

Amelia looked down and pulled from the depths of her toes the most brilliant smile possible, then strode lightly back toward the ballroom.

Hugh watched as Amelia stepped through the narrow door, and her very skin reacted, tightening as though she
’
d walked through a cloud. He saw her joints stiffen slightly, her fingers curl around her reticule, her chin rise just a touch. His head moved back and forth, not enough for a shake but plenty enough to show discontent.

Hugh could see her awareness of him ease her, relax the muscles between the blades of her shoulders. She dropped them slightly and allowed herself to float across the room, away from him and toward the man who would be her husband.

Damn me forever.

He turned to leave and nearly ran down a young lady.

“Pardon me—”

“No, my lord, I
’
m entirely at fault,” the girl said. She couldn
’
t have been more than eighteen and in her first, possibly second, season. He noticed a woman watching them to his left. The Countess Rigsby. Hugh was never one for the young chits put out every year because he preferred women with some experience, some…
seasoning
. He closed his eyes and groaned inwardly so as not to further fluster the child before him. He took her hand, as she
’
d been placed in his path, and bowed over it.

“The Lord Endsleigh, at your service.”

She curtsied. “Thank you, my lord, I am Miss Elliott,” she replied with a shy smile.

He released her hand and took a step back. He considered her. As the charge of the Countess Rigsby, this could be nothing but trouble, particularly as it seemed she wasn
’
t merely a charge, but a relation. Lady
Rigsby
was a gossip of the worst sort and tended to trap gentlemen into marriages for her daughters, nieces—anyone put in her charge. And many girls had been placed in her care for the season, because she was ever so successful. Hugh found it the worst sort of irony that her family tended to produce naught but girls, and by the lot of them as well.

“Miss…
Maitland
Elliott?
” he asked carefully. Her eyes widened, and she nodded stiffly. He closed his eyes momentarily to consider his next step, because he knew, now, who she was—and just how delicate. He determined the best course of action was to remove himself, as expediently as possible.

“It has been delightful to make your acquaintance. However, I was just on my way—”

“Why, Lord Endsleigh, I wasn
’
t aware you
’
d been made known to my niece,” Lady Rigsby said from behind him. Her tenor rankled, and he squared his shoulders.

“We had not, previously, been introduced, no, but we managed well enough after I nearly tripped over her,” he said, perhaps not as politely as he should have, as Lady Rigsby rounded him to stand next to the girl. She shied, and his heart sank. Hugh wasn
’
t sure whether it was a game meant to pull at his honor, or whether the girl was as much a victim of her aunt as the lady obviously hoped he would be. “She
’
s a delightful
young
lady, however. You should be proud,” Hugh said more politely.
He
was rather proud at just how politely, considering.

“Well, perhaps a dance? Miss Elliott is quite popular this evening, but I
’
m sure she has one dance available…for you.” Lady Rigsby
’
s smile was toxic as it sank past his guard.

He was not about to be trapped, but he didn
’
t wish to damage this girl in public with a refusal. He also knew the kind of gossip this woman could start, and he certainly didn
’
t need an enemy in her, particularly with Amelia in such a delicate position. A fact of which he was certain the lady was fully aware.

Hugh nodded stiffly as he watched Amelia remove from the ballroom on the arm of her duke. If only he
’
d been paying more attention, he could easily have avoided this and been gone by now. Instead, he took Miss Elliott
’
s hand and led her to the dance floor.

Amelia knew the moment Hugh quit watching because her skin tightened.
This is not going to end well.
She closed her eyes but for a moment, then lifted her chin defiantly to greet her intended. She could not give a thought to her friend, the boy she grew up with, the man who would forever hold her secrets. The sole light in her darkness.

It was wholly inappropriate, a man other than her husband privy to her innermost thoughts. Her body—
no, but that
’
s not what theirs was about,
was it?
Was it? Was it?
Amelia closed her eyes. She needed to concentrate and, as if to remind her, she received a sharp jab to the rib.

“Amelia Marie!” her mother whispered. The woman’s face did not shift, as though no word had been spoken. Her mother didn
’
t seem to understand that her idea of handling the “situation” was about the least helpful thing of all.

Amelia widened her eyes to fend off the tears, and when they glistened, she hoped Charles would think it from happiness. She saw him then, through the crowd, speaking with the inimitable Duke of Pembroke-by-the-Sea. Her father.

If my father had not been born a duke, we might have been happy.

Amelia shook off that thought as her mother clucked her tongue. She
’
d not seen Charles in nearly a year, but it seemed that this had been the year when everything had changed about him, yet he was more than recognizable, even though he was no longer the shy boy she remembered from their youth.

Charles turned toward her, his whiskey-colored eyes searching the room—for her, she knew. When he found her, his eyes smiled. Remarkable, that, as his mouth never moved. A full head taller than the whole of the ballroom, Charles was not merely a presence now, but a reckoning.

He
’
d grown into the gangly limbs that had seemed to be more of a hindrance than help when trying to keep up with her and Hugh at Pembroke. Charles
’s
appearance seemed at odds with the overly agreeable personality she remembered, and yet she could tell by the look in his eyes now that to misjudge him would mean a quick end.

Jackson and Endsleigh. Jacks and Ender. Charles and Hugh. Hugh had always been the light to her darkness; even outwardly, Hugh was the light and Charles the dark. Charles’s liquid brown eyes,
Hugh’s
bright as the sea. Charles’s deep, thick hair, and Hugh
’s
longer, sun-kissed blond. It was nearly humorous, the differences between the two.

She always wanted to reach first for Charles
’s
smooth hair, but she simply could not, of course. She felt the want in the tingle in her fingers, an itch she could not quite scratch. She wanted to touch, to feel, to explore Charles. Whereas with Hugh, she wanted to laugh, to chase, to sink into.

Her father took her hand, and the contact startled her. She hadn
’
t realized she was already here in the circle, because her mind, as it did, had wandered. She looked down to her father and softened instantly. He seemed so small in his wheelchair, a rug across his knees to prevent a chill to his worn bones.

His eyebrows pinched ever so slightly. “My dear, might I present the Duke of Castleberry. Of course you know of him.” He turned to Charles, eyebrows raised with a smile.

And of course she did, of course she knew him. Or, more specifically, knew
of
him, because she didn
’
t know this Charles, the one who now towered over her, the one who seemed to look straight through her. But she wanted to. This night had been planned, set up and determined for years now, and all that time she had done nothing but look forward to the reality of it. Now that it was upon her, she was frightened.

Charles nodded easily, his eyes never shifting from her. “My lady, it
’
s an honor.”

Amelia
’
s heart trembled at the deep baritone of his voice—something she didn
’
t remember—and she brought her hand to him slowly. Charles took that hand and bowed over it quickly. Her other hand pressed to her belly, attempting to constrain the loose feeling that once again threatened to spill.