Absolute Surrender (56 page)

The Rake And The Recluse on Amazon

His Grace Gideon Alrick Trumbull, the tenth Duke of Roxleigh, held a countenance both foreboding and powerful. His ability to terrify people with his demeanor only helped his business dealings, creating a sense of either security or terror—depending on which side of the table one was seated—and tonight he clearly seated himself on the wrong side of his own table.

He had nearly killed a girl. If he’d been paying more attention he was sure he’d have taken note of her sooner, but his mind was on the railroad plans. Now he paced nervously in the sitting room outside the guest bedchamber, raking his hands through his hair with a growl so deep in his chest it was nearly inaudible.

When his household manager Mrs. Weston emerged, he turned on her. She stood before him, her face stricken and pale, wringing her stout fingers together. She was a short but sturdy woman with graying, mahogany brown hair gathered in a knot above the nape of her neck. She had a muddled accent that belied her history; based in cockney, then thickening in Glasgow and finishing in the service of a blue blood. She’d attended the Trumbull household for most of her life after she met and lost her husband, helping to raise the children. In all the years Roxleigh had presented Mrs. Weston with the challenges of his adventurous youth she’d not generally been taken to fits of unease when faced with an injury, and that fact alone served to worry him further.

“Your Grace,” she started, trembling. “Pardon, Your Grace,” she said again.

Roxleigh slowly curled his outstretched hands into claws while she continued wringing hers. She peered around him, as if looking for someone to save her. He clenched his jaw.

“What is it, woman?” he bellowed.

“Beg pardon, Your Grace. I am not sure what to say.”

“Well,” he began, “let us start with something simple.” He straightened, clasping his hands behind his back and squaring his shoulders.

Mrs. Weston squeaked.

“Is she alive?” he asked calmly.

“Well yes, Your Grace, she—she is that.”

“Good.” he responded, then waited. “How about this,” he said a moment later, rather sardonically, “Is she speaking?”

Mrs. Weston shifted her eyes. “Oh well, that she is, Your Grace. Yes…quite.” Her eyes grew as round as saucers. “She goes on and on about where she is, and where she should be and what year it is—and she thinks we have absconded with her! She wants us to
call
her office, and notify—”

Roxleigh cut the woman off with a drastic exhale, deflating his chest as though the world needed the air worse than he.

“Fine then, Mrs. Weston, she is alive and she is speaking.” He paused. “Did you say ‘what year it is?’”

Mrs. Weston nodded slowly and he paced again, then stopped, waving the statement off. “Indeed, and beyond that what exactly seems to be the difficulty?” He opened his arms. “I know she lost no limbs and seemed to be—”

He was interrupted by the loud crash of something hitting the wall directly behind Mrs. Weston, who jumped forward into his outstretched arms. They both glanced over her shoulder at the spot on the wall, then he caught her gaze with a silent, pointed question.

Mrs. Weston realized herself and pushed away from him, casting her eyes downward. “That is just it, Your Grace. You see, she is a bit upset. I mean—she is not quite herself. Well, we do not know who she is, so it is difficult to say that, exactly. But she does seem to be a bit—” She hesitated. “Cross.”

“I see.”

Mrs. Weston shook her head. “That is to say, she does not act quite as a lady should, of course, assuming that she is a lady. She is not very ladylike, certainly. There is something about her, the way she speaks, Your Grace. She is just not quite right. We have tried, Your Grace, truly, we have tried, but we cannot pacify—”

He placed his hands on her quivering shoulders in a last attempt to calm her.

“Oh, Your Grace, I cannot—I simply have never seen anything so—”

“Well then.” Roxleigh halted her maundering. “I will just have to see what I can make of it.” He straightened and moved her aside. He opened the door to the bedchamber and nudged the silver tray on the floor with the toe of his boot, scowling as he looked back at his wall and spied the splintered panel where it had hit.

He scanned the room. The barefoot girl was pacing in front of the windows at the far wall of the bedchamber, explaining in a raspy voice—to no one in particular—that she didn’t appreciate the assumptions being made. She had naught on but a thin, sleeveless chemise and ankle-length drawers, and her long brown hair was tangled with leaves and fodder.

Dr. Walcott stood to Roxleigh’s right, in front of the hearth, his white comb-over floating in disarray. Two housemaids, Meggie and Carole, cowered behind the doctor like mice tracked by a tomcat. Meggie had hold of her apron, which she twisted relentlessly in her hands. Dr. Walcott saw Roxleigh and shook his head, his hair flying in tufts around his ears.

The girl turned on him. “You!” she said, her voice catching on the force of the word as she marched determinedly for Roxleigh. “Are you in charge?”

“Am I— Pardon?” His eyes narrowed. “This is my estate, my land, my manor, the seat of the Roxleigh dukedom. Everything you see from these windows is within my purview, if that is what you ask.” He slid his gaze over her.  

She stunned him. She was not a small girl, but rather tall, though not as tall as he. His eyes traveled her womanly curves, remembering the soft feel of her weight in his arms. He could see the gash on her forehead, but she otherwise appeared healthy—angry, but healthy. He shook off his improper gaze and looked at Dr. Walcott questioningly before walking toward the settee.

“Perhaps you should put this on,” he said as he reached for a robe.

The girl walked directly to him, fisting her hands on her hips as she inspected him. He felt her gaze measuring, as if to determine his very soul, and he flinched. From the corner of his vision he saw the doctor drop his hands, which had been suspended in midair as if to ward off some sort of attack.

The strange woman caught up to him, her temper evident. “The fact that I have no clothes on is an issue for both of us, but I’m not doing anything until you tell me what the hell is going on! Where am I?” The words came out on a croak, and she poked him in the chest before continuing. “I don’t know what kind of damn joke this is, but I’ve had enough!”

The doctor and two housemaids gasped at the boldness of her speech, and Roxleigh felt the tension of their reactions weigh heavily. He released the robe and slowly straightened again as the woman went on, apparently heedless of his growing ire.

“I don’t understand the problem. I want to know where I am.” She started ticking off fingers as she spoke. “I want to know how I got here, and these people,” she ground out between her teeth, “won’t explain anything to me. They just insist I cover myself, calm down, and get back in bed. Screw your bed!” she yelled toward Dr. Walcott, who winced in return before her gaze swung back to Roxleigh. “I had a presentation today. I’ve been working on this for months— No! Gah! My whole life!” Her voice broke on the last word and she rubbed her throat gently as she looked down. “I sound like I smoked a pack of reds.” She straightened her spine and looked him square in the eyes. “This crap isn’t funny. Explain how I ended up here in this drafty room, in someone else’s underwear, and how you are going to get me home!” Her voice cut out again and she held her throat as she swayed, drifting closer to him, her other hand flattening against his chest to steady herself.

Roxleigh looked from the woman to the doctor, then back. He watched as she steadied herself, then clasped his large hands together behind his back as he considered her with narrowed eyes. She spoke French, but English as well, although he couldn’t place the dialect. He took a deep breath to gather his frayed nerves. He didn’t much care for surprises, and was having a difficult time reconciling the soft, injured figure he’d carried from the track with the angry young lady who stood before him now. He fancied himself quite a patient man, but this behavior was more than enough to cause his control to slip.

“First of all, miss, you must remove your prodding hand from my waistcoat and gather your wits. I am more than interested in assisting you, as
soon as you
are able to compose yourself.”

•

Francine glanced at her hand and suddenly felt the heat of him sinking into her skin. She yanked the appendage back.
Compose?
Her gaze snapped to his. “Compose this, jackass!” she yelled, ignoring the searing pain that knifed through her throat and head as she flipped him off.

His jaw twitched.

Taking one more step forward, she drew herself up and let her hands fall to her sides. She realized, rather abruptly, that the difference between them was not slight and she wished she had her heels on so as to even it a bit. He must have been more than six feet, and it wasn’t just his height that was overwhelming. He was broad through the shoulders, which was greatly emphasized by his stark white shirt, brocade vest, and well-tailored suit.
Was I at a wedding?

She looked back up. His jaw was wide and sharp, his full lips drawn against a set of straight, gleaming teeth, and his dark hair curled at the ends. She met his eyes. They were curious but stern--deep pools of emerald green with a few hints of topaz near the edges. Her mind swirled.

She leaned toward him, inexplicably drawn as a fly to a web, and she closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. His scent was soap and spice, slightly dusty, with a hint of salty exertion and something else she couldn’t quite place. She gazed into his face, and his tense expression had the most overwhelmingly comforting effect on her.

She took a deep breath and felt her eyelids start to flutter. He seized her by both arms above the elbows and pulled her toward his chest. He held a wide stance and lifted her, her thighs drifting between his as she worked to keep her toes on the ground.

“You will show some semblance of respect when you address me within the boundaries of my estate. Is that understood?” The words rolled from the depth of his cavernous chest as his eyes smoldered, and though it was posed as a question, there was no debating the rhetorical nature with which it was delivered.

Francine glanced to the servants, wondering if they would help or hinder her, but they were frozen in place. She tried to break free of his hold as she looked back to his ferocious countenance. She felt the corded muscles of his thighs surrounding her own, his proximity overwhelming as she tried to figure out what to do with her arms. She alternated pushing her hands against his hard, unforgiving chest, then curling them toward hers. Finally, his heaving breaths accentuating his strength, she began to hyperventilate.

“Calm yourself,” he said fiercely.

She turned her head away from his brutal visage only to catch sight of herself in a tall polished mirror—then forgot him altogether. Her jaw dropped and she quit her struggle as she gazed at a woman standing in her place, half-naked and covered with bruises, her hair tangled with twigs and soil. But what troubled her most was the color and length. The deep brown hair fell like water cascading over rapids, well past her waist, the curling tips gently brushing her backside. “Madeleine,” she said, sotto voce. The eyes in the mirror grew wide as she lost control of her breathing entirely and stared at the reflection of who she wasn’t. She tried to scream, but the sound caught and heat flooded her throat as she fell limply against him.