Rules of Surrender (18 page)

”I owe it all to you, Lady Miss Charlotte.“ He put his arm around Robbie and turned him to face her. ”You see, Robbie, if you listen to your governess, you will be a proper English gentleman soon.“

Robbie wiggled, not understanding the undertones. ”It’s not hard to be a proper English gentleman. Just follow a bunch of dumb rules.“

Wynter rumpled his son’s hair. ”Is he doing well, Lady Miss Charlotte?“

”Very well indeed.“ She smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt. ”Your children are bright and eager to learn. Even Leila has admitted she will learn to ride sidesaddle, if I will teach her.“

Wynter’s eyes narrowed on Charlotte. ”I will have to see you ride, Charlotte, before I will give my daughter into your hand for training.“

He would have to see her ride.
He spoke of the future. He wasn’t going to dismiss her. Perhaps he didn’t despise her. Charlotte sagged with relief—but only inwardly.

Wynter swept on, imperiously trampling on her budding gratitude. ”Since the children’s manners have improved so much, it is time to take them out in public. Ah, you look dismayed, Lady Miss Charlotte, but I think—no, I know—the neighbors must be gossiping about our failure to attend the church in Wesford Village.“ Wynter was watching her much too closely. ”Tomorrow is Sunday. What better place to go and test our skills than at a church, where all will be in a charitable frame of mind?“

CHAPTER 16

On Sunday morning, as Wynter, Charlotte and the children entered the nave of the ancient stone church, the congregation cranked their heads around and stared at the newcomers like a pack of wolves eyeing a few stray sheep. Wynter almost rubbed his palms together with anticipation. He would learn much today about the stubbornly elusive Lady Charlotte Dalrumple and why she lied to him about her background.

Ah, there were those who would say she had not lied, but Wynter had told her of himself, his travels, his youthful indiscretions.

And what had she told him? Nothing. Nothing, but her very silence had led him astray. He believed she had no family, when her family resided not five miles from Austinpark Manor. In fact, the Norman church with its square steeple was on the hereditary lands held by the Earl of Porterbridge—Charlotte’s uncle.

Wynter smiled at the toothless old lady who stared at him so forbiddingly. His charm didn’t move her. She continued to stare, her black gloves folded in her lap, her black cap pinned firmly on her gray hair. ”Friendly place,“ he muttered in Charlotte’s ear.

She ignored him. Of course. She could never have been more proper than she was right now, with her chin tilted high and her back straight, even under the weight of her stiffly starched petticoats and gray wool gown. He could have never guessed the shadow that had blighted her life—but everyone in this church knew.

Most pews were marked with a family name. Each person seated therein had the look of someone who had been forever sitting in the same place every Sunday, as if the seat fit them only. Disapproval weighed heavy in the air. Even the saints glittering in the stained-glass windows stared as Charlotte made her way down the aisle.

His children could tell, too. Leila tucked her gloved hand in his. Robbie moved closer to Charlotte and took her arm as if he could protect her from hurt. The lad had good instincts. Wynter was proud of his son.

Wynter wondered how long Charlotte would have made a fool of him if it hadn’t been for Lady Howard. Knowing Charlotte and her everlasting discretion, she probably would have duped him forever.

Not that he’d been fool enough to believe everything that lying jade Lady Howard had told him. At first opportunity, he had cornered Adorna and questioned her. That had been a mistake, for in questioning his elusive, maddening mother, he’d come to wonder what other things she had ”forgotten“ to tell him. He’d been so busy trying to hide his intentions from Adorna, it hadn’t occurred to him before, but—what was Adorna trying to hide from
him‘?
For she was hiding some secret, he could tell.

Wynter and his little group made their way down the aisle to the front pew. On the left, Wynter remembered, sat the Viscount Ruskin and his family. And on the right since the dawn of time, or at least since William the Conqueror, sat the Earl of Porterbridge.

Porterbridge sat there now on the end. His wife and eight of their fourteen children were strung out beside him. Wynter viewed him in profile. The earl stared straight ahead, perfectly still, his gaze fixed at the pulpit, scowling as if his unspoken command would bring forth the vicar to get the sermon preached. He exuded impatience but not importance, wealth but not culture. His graying hair and eyebrows had been touched with pomade, but a cherry-red razor burn marred his lowest jowl. His jacket was clearly London-made, but nothing could make his shoulders broad or keep his paunch sequestered within his waistcoat. He was, in truth, the picture of a petty, insecure tyrant placed in a position beyond his capacity. He might not have noted their appearance at all, but like a train, silence fell behind them as they walked.

Everyone heard Lady Porterbridge’s exclamation of, ”My heavens!“

As they were meant to. Wynter judged Lady Porterbridge to be a woman who enjoyed a disturbance as a way to liven up her life. Pathetic.

Lord Porterbridge turned his head slowly, taking care not to break the starch on his upturned collar or ruin the knot on his black satin cravat. He stared at Wynter without recognition. Then his gaze moved to Charlotte, and his fair complexion went from pale to ruddy in a moment. His boots hit the flagstones with a thump.

Wynter took one look at Charlotte’s still, pale face and realized his mistake. He couldn’t fling this woman to the wolves for any reason. She’d been hurt too much, and by the very man who now pointed his finger and in stentorian rage bellowed, ”You!“

There was nothing civilized about her relationship with her uncle, and there was nothing civilized about Wynter’s feelings for Charlotte. He would protect her.

But she didn’t step back, or take Wynter’s arm, or do anything a woman in need of refuge might do.

Damn the woman.

She stood her ground, trembling but calm, and watched as her uncle rolled toward her like a belligerent barrel.

Wynter stepped between them in a smooth move, and as if Porterbridge had been talking to him, said, ”Yes, my lord,
me.
How good to see you, too, and how surprising that you remember me after so many years.“ Porterbridge stopped, but Wynter thought if he hadn’t been so much taller, the older man would have plowed right through him, if he could have.

Porterbridge didn’t waste respect or courtesy on the younger man. He blared, ”Who the—“

”I am Ruskin, my lord.“ Wynter forcibly took Porterbridge’s hand and shook it. ”Your neighbor from Austinpark Manor. I am back from El Bahar. But while we have much to talk about, we should do so after the service. Look, the holy man enters.“ And was hurrying up onto the pulpit as quickly as possible. The vicar wanted no scene in his church. ”We should seat ourselves and set an example for the congregation.“ Who were craning their necks unashamedly at the spectacle unfolding before their avid gazes.

Porterbridge’s face flushed redder, and his gruff voice rang out, ”Sir, there is one person here who would benefit from an example!“

Wynter allowed his accent full rein. ”Yes, I know my deficiencies, my lord, but I am an Englishman and would challenge any man who says I am not!“ He smiled. ”Your choice of weapon, of course.“

For the first time, Porterbridge looked, really looked, at Wynter, and obviously what he saw convinced him Wynter was both insulted and dangerous. ”I didn’t mean you, sir!“

”No offense taken.“ Wynter glared from his full height. ”Not by me, nor by my children, nor by my governess, for I know you by reputation, my lord, and you would not be so asinine—is that the correct word, Miss Dalrumple?“

From beside him, Charlotte said calmly, ”Correct, my lord, but impolite.“

”—Asinine as to challenge me.“

Porterbridge’s gaze darted between Wynter and his niece while his color fluctuated alarmingly. He wanted, so badly, to humiliate her. Yet his desire to browbeat Charlotte couldn’t compete with the fear that his unknown, foreign-sounding neighbor would smash him like a camel’s hoof crushed a scorpion.

Bristling with obvious rancor, Porterbridge nodded to Wynter and prepared to take his place.

But not before Charlotte curtsied and said, ”Good morning, Uncle.“

He turned a choleric red and half turned toward her, but Wynter took her elbow and shoved her into the pew, and the vicar began his sermon—on the return of the prodigal.

Leila had never been so miserable in her whole life. She hated this place. All of it. This church with all these people who stared at her and whispered with hissing sounds. Austinpark Manor with all its silly rules and the servants who called her and her brother and her papa foreigners right in front of her as if she were deaf. The whole stupid country of England, green and rainy all the time. She was cold even with an overcoat and a velvet dress and petticoats, and she was skinny, she’d heard an old lady say so.

And her Grandmama hated her.

Standing behind a pillar, Leila glowered at the people milling about the churchyard. Everyone wore stupid hats and stupid dresses and the stupid English shoes hurt her feet. They smiled at each other as if they liked each other, but she’d heard two women talking and they didn’t like anybody. They said nasty things in soft, gentle voices like Lady Miss Charlotte wanted Leila to use, and that made the nasty things sound even worse.

And that man—he hated Lady Miss Charlotte. He was ugly and he had a big belly, and Leila had thought he was going to strike Lady Miss Charlotte before church. Now he glared at her from a safe distance because he was afraid of Papa. The lady-voices thought that was funny. They said that man was mean and that they loved watching him try to avoid a confrontation with Papa.

But then they said why were Lady Miss Charlotte’s old friends talking to her? Didn’t they know she had been bad and deserved a good snub, and why was she clinging to Lord Ruskin in such a pathetic display? (Leila thought her papa was following Lady Miss Charlotte around. She didn’t like that any better, but she didn’t like the women talking in that snotty tone, either.) Had Charlotte finally come to her senses and decided to grab the first man who would have her? But she was a little long in the tooth (Leila thought Lady Miss Charlotte’s teeth were beautiful), and surely she didn’t imagine she could get Lord Ruskin. He was a good catch. She didn’t deserve him.

Leila didn’t understand any of it, except she understood she was more and more unhappy and no one cared. When she had suggested Lady Miss Charlotte marry Papa, she had imagined Papa and her governess sitting together with her in the middle, reading to her and kissing and hugging her and talking to her.

Instead, Papa and Lady Miss Charlotte were only paying attention to each other! Papa watched Lady Miss Charlotte openly. Lady Miss Charlotte pretended not to watch him. And all the while they were focused on each other. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t the way it was supposed to be.

Shouts of boyish delight drew Leila’s notice. Her lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

Robbie was her brother, but he didn’t care that she was sad. He was swaggering through the churchyard arm in arm with Alfred, his stupid new friend who called her a stupid girl and wouldn’t let her play.

Nobody loved her, and she wanted to go home.

Home. To El Bahar.

Mr. and Mrs. Burton walked through the drying puddles in the churchyard toward Charlotte, and she braced herself for who-knew-what kind of greeting from her parents’ dearest friends.

But Mrs. Burton held out her arms to Charlotte. ”Dear, how long have you been back?“

Stepping into the capacious lady’s clasp, Charlotte returned it with a tentative squeeze of her own. ”Several weeks, ma’am.“

”And do you have a hug for old Burt?“ Mr. Burton asked.

”Of course I do.“ As she embraced him, a sense of fantasy swept over her. For years she had had nightmares about the day of her return. Yet Mr. and Mrs. Burton hugged her in front of the whole gossiping congregation, and not one, but two of her old girl-friends came up and exchanged greetings.

”If you’d written us, Charlotte…“ Mrs. Burton frowned at her as she spoke of the days past, then straightened the bow on Charlotte’s bonnet as if she were still a child. ”I wish you’d written.“

But the Burtons had never offered to help her on her flight. No one had. In her youthful hurt and fury she had thought herself abandoned. Now, for the first time, it occurred to her that events had unfolded so quickly, perhaps people had been paralyzed with surprise. Or perhaps they had disapproved of her actions, but would have helped her anyway. Or, even more likely, they had waited to be asked.

Looking at Mr. and Mrs. Burton’s somber faces, she realized she might have been wrong when she thought herself completely alone.

”I’m sorry, ma’am,“ Charlotte said. ”From now on I will do better.“

”From now on, you’ll be here and I can talk to you. So you’re governess to this comely young man’s children?“ With her usual merry smile, Mrs. Burton pinched Wynter’s cheek. ”I’ll wager you don’t remember me, young Ruskin!“

Wynter captured her hand and bowed over it. ”Indeed I do, madam. How could I not remember the lady who glows with the gilded light of sunrise across the dunes?“

Her laughter boomed out, and heads turned from their intent and excited conversations. ”Ah, young Ruskin, you’ve changed. You used to be all brooding melodrama.“

Wynter shook back his hair so that his earring caught the sunshine that blinked in and out from the clouds. Charlotte noted that his accent grew more noticeable—more romantic—as he said, ”Now I am only… how do you say?… outrageous.“

”Good God!“ The razor-thin, impeccably dressed and old-fashioned Mr. Burton guffawed when he caught sight of the circle of gold. ”With that hair and that bobble in your ear, it’s hard to tell if you’re a lad or lass.“