Rules of Surrender (4 page)

He had truly grown tall in his sojourn away from England; he topped her by more than a foot. His bulk filled her gaze, but she kept her vision properly affixed to his countenance.

He might have been a geometry proof, for angles of every kind made up his face. His forehead was a handsome rectangle, his cheeks jutted out from the point of his chin, his nose was a sharp, beaked triangle. A long scar tugged at the edge of one eye and bisected his right cheek. His brown eyes, she noted, no longer contrasted with his fair complexion. The sun in El Bahar had tanned him to the color of toast, and lightened his hair in streaks. He still sported those unusually dark eyelashes and brows, but he no longer allowed them to droop in Byronesque brooding. He looked at the world with such direct and avid interest, some lesser beings might find themselves discomfited.

”Mother, does she fulfill all our requirements?“

He directed his question to Adorna, acting as if Charlotte were either deaf or invisible. Notables did behave so to their servants, of course, but governesses lurked in that ill-defined domain of neither servant nor aristocrat. Charlotte, especially, as a doyen of deportment, tended to be treated with respect. But Wynter was obviously oblivious to the niceties.

Charlotte would be offended—was offended— except she wanted to hear the answer.

”Mother?“ Wynter repeated.

”Hmm?“ Adorna was still holding Lord Bucknell’s hands in her own and paying very little attention to the scene at the edge of the veranda. ”Yes, she’s perfect.“

”She’s very young and very pretty.“ Wynter’s years in the desert had apparently stripped him of artifice.

Charlotte’s fingers tightened around the handle of her bag and she put a crisp edge to her voice. ”Youth and prettiness are not a barrier to efficiency.“

”No? We shall see.“

A rush of blood flooded her cheeks. And for no reason, she assured herself. In every new employment, she had been initially disdained by
someone.
But to have this man, this
brute,
so openly doubt her… ah, that set her teeth on edge.

Adorna hastily provided introductions. ”Miss Dalrumple, may I present my son, Wynter, Viscount Ruskin. Wynter, this is Lady Charlotte Dalrumple, the governess for… or rather, an expert in manners.“

Lord Bucknell coughed, and Charlotte correctly interpreted that as censure. But she paid him no heed. It was Wynter, Lord Ruskin, who commanded her attention. Determined to behave as if the personal comments, the cross-conversation, the insolent inspection were quite normal, Charlotte curtsied. ”I am delighted to make your acquaintance, my lord.“

Lord Wynter just gazed at her rather stupidly. ”What should I do?“ he asked, apparently to the thin air.

Acting on reflex, she placed the bag on the floor beside her. ”You bow and repeat, ’I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Dalrumple.‘ “

”But you have a title.“

”Only because my father was an earl, and besides, using one’s title to excess is considered uncouth. Even Her Majesty Queen Victoria is frequently called ’Ma’am‘ by her attendants.“

”I see.“ He bowed, a sweep of courtesy. ”I should bow like this?“

”Exactly like that.“

”And I should say“—he took her hand and bent over it, then looked into her eyes—”I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Dalrumple.“

At that moment, she realized he made a game of her. He knew exactly what he should do.

She didn’t like the man. She didn’t like him at all, but if he was similar to the other fathers she’d had truck with, she would never see him past this initial meeting.

Only he looked at her as if she were a person who now merited his full attention. The gaze that before had been analytical now searched her as if he wished to know her in some intimate manner. And when he brought her hand to his cheek and smoothed it across the skin, she thought she knew exactly why.

The slight growth of his beard caught at the cotton of her glove. She knew her eyes had grown wide. She glanced at Adorna and Lord Bucknell, but they were engrossed in a conversation of their own. So she tugged at her hand, and when Wynter released her, she said, ”If you would allow me, my lord, to offer a critique of your conduct?“

He straightened, still watching her. ”Of course.“

”I believe I may have pinpointed the reason for Lady Howard’s flirtatious manner. That gesture of hand to cheek is quite unusual in English society. She may have read into it interest on your part. Perhaps it would be best if you dispensed with such gestures until you once again regain your sense of propriety.“

He tucked his hands behind his back and straightened his shoulders. ”Actually, I believe my sense of propriety is alive and well.“

Now she looked at him, seeing him as others would; a swaggering, powerful, experienced man of the world. ”But it is not British.“

”You think the British have defined propriety?“

”Certainly. In your situation, where you have been gone for many years, to be a paragon of British propriety would prove a social advantage.“

Wynter laughed, a wholehearted bellow of amusement. ”You are lovely, oh moon of my delight. Without you, my life has been as barren and cold as the night desert when the harmattan blows with its endless, sorrowful breath.“

Charlotte wanted to respond, to somehow point out that such an unrestrained babble of words was indelicate and most improper.

Yet with his head lifted, his hair swung back. In one small, neat earlobe, she saw a gold loop.

She couldn’t have been more shocked.

An earring. In his ear. Only low-class women and gypsies wore earbobs, and he was neither. Yet undeniably gold glinted in the sun.

”Come inside, you two,“ Adorna called gaily, her hand tucked into Lord Bucknell’s arm. ”Charlotte and I have been hours on the road, so we shall have tea.“

Wynter padded behind Charlotte as she walked toward the door. His barefooted step whispered on the smooth, sunlit stone while appalled astonishment rioted through her mind. Had the Bedouins held Wynter down and forced the ring through his earlobe? Had they tortured him, withheld water, tied him to a camel? No Englishman would allow such a ring without extreme measures.

Lord Bucknell and Adorna had entered the shadowy interior of the manor when Wynter stepped around Charlotte and bowed again. As he stood, again she saw that earring, and she realized: Perhaps he had been forced to accept the ring, but he was back in England.

He didn’t have to wear it.

Before Charlotte stepped into the manor’s long gallery, Wynter laid his hand on her arm and, when she halted, stepped close. His accent strengthened as he lowered his voice. ”Lady… Miss… Charlotte.“ He tried out each word as if confused, then smiled in delight, a stranger of obnoxious seductiveness. ”Lady Miss Charlotte, in all fairness I must inform you—I did not bring Lady Howard’s hand to my cheek, for I am not interested in the sensation of her touch on my skin.“

Without a thought to the Governess School, to civility, to the respect due a man society deemed her superior, she drew herself up to her full height and haughtiness and stared right into his impudent, mocking face. ”In all fairness, Lord Ruskin, I must inform

you
—I am not interested in the sensation of
your
touch on
my
skin, and if you imagine part of my duties to be to suffer such a touch, tell me now so I may catch Skeets and have him transport me back to London.“

CHAPTER 4

By the dunes, Lady Miss Charlotte Dalrumple was a fierce little thing! Wynter quite enjoyed the frosty bite of her glare and that ruffled indignation. Lady Miss Charlotte—how it amused him to call her that!—was passing every test.

”My lord?“ she snapped, not backing off, although he towered over her.

Smoothly he stepped back and offered her an obeisance. ”All shall be as you wish, oh sunshine most brilliant.“

Lord Bucknell harrumphed—something he’d done frequently since his arrival—and, when Wynter glanced his way, turned his gaze aside with so much obvious discomfiture he might have been interrupting a prolonged session of lovemaking.

Lord Bucknell did not approve of Wynter. But this was Wynter’s home. Wynter was not the one on trial here. With the impassivity he’d learned at Sheik Barakah’s side, Wynter inclined his head to Lord Bucknell and gestured for Charlotte to enter. She hesitated, perceiving the risk she took by accepting his offer of shelter and sustenance. But with their stifling clothing and hypocritical decorum, his English countrymen at-tempted to cloak the basic, primitive urges. Urges that drove a man to master and protect an unclaimed woman.

Because Charlotte had been raised with, and believed in, that travesty of civilization, she failed to heed the cry of her instincts. She stepped over the threshold into his home.

Her naiveté made him chuckle, and at the sound she looked back at him. Their eyes met.

Her eyes widened and lit that smooth, cool face.

Then Adorna called, ”Come in, Charlotte.“

Deliberately, Charlotte turned her gaze from his and sank back into the artificial safety created by her beloved culture.

And, he admitted grudgingly, if she became his children’s governess, she
was
safe. It did not matter that he looked at her prim-pressed lips and carefully trussed body and wanted to open them both to his mouth and his body. He’d been long without a woman, but he couldn’t imagine why he was attracted to a scowl and a corset. Yet he’d lived with the fatalism of the Bedouin long enough to accept the attraction while knowing with English certainty that only a cad would seek to take her.

Speaking of cads… when Adorna introduced her to Lord Bucknell, Lord Bucknell’s bow was swift and shallow.

Bucknell’s behavior astonished Wynter. Since his arrival a few hours ago, Lord Bucknell had been thoroughly correct, yet he turned a fisheye on Charlotte. Admittedly, Wynter might no longer completely understand the complexities of English social structure, but his mother wouldn’t treat a governess with such warmth if that behavior was unacceptable.

Yet Charlotte seemed imperturbable, as though she’d suffered other such cuts in other households and considered them beneath her notice. ”Lady Ruskin, you have a beautiful home,“ she said, as she looked around the long salon with its acres of shiny polished wood floors, the wall of windows that looked out onto the terrace and the gardens, the portraits and bookshelves and rugs.

”So it was on my first sight of Austinpark Manor, and I’ve changed little. One doesn’t improve perfection.“ Adorna indicated the grouping of chairs and tables around one of the merrily burning fireplaces where the maids were assembling cakes and biscuits. ”We’ll take our tea there. For all the sun is shining, one is still aware of the bite of winter past in the air.“

With a glance at Lord Bucknell, now studiously examining some of the titles on the bookshelves, Charlotte said, ”That would be lovely, Lady Ruskin, but I would really like to meet the children.“

”Yes, you are certainly going to have to meet them.“ A faint sigh quivered from his mother. ”I insist you have fortification first.“

Wynter’s smile faded. While his son Robbie found England a fascinating adventure, Leila threw tantrums and begged to be taken home. Taken back to El Bahar, when in fact he’d left that place for her.

She didn’t understand. How could she? She’d only known the wild freedom of being his little daughter, of riding and training horses, of traveling with the caravans and ordering the skinny native boys about. Only the skinny boys were becoming men and Leila… Leila would soon be a woman. Whenever Wynter struggled with the restrictions of English society, he had only to think of Leila to know he had done the right thing.

Several footmen were bringing in the baggage from the carriage, and Charlotte suddenly called, ”Wait! I need that bag!“

Wynter watched with interest as she retrieved a large carpetbag from one footman. It was heavy, its sides bulging. Again he moved closer and studied her. She placed the bag against the wall and allowed the maid to help her from her coat. She seemed everything his mother had hoped to find: cold, impersonal, emotionless. He couldn’t imagine a woman like this dealing with a volatile child like Leila. If Charlotte showed herself incapable of handling Leila, she was useless.

Charlotte untied the bow under her chin and lifted the hat from her head—and Wynter found himself fascinated. Fascinated as he had not been for too many years. ”My God, woman,“ he boomed, ”why didn’t you tell me you had red hair?“

Charlotte froze, her arms raised.

With his index finger and thumb, Wynter took the strand that swooped from the peak of her forehead into her chignon. ”I’ve never seen anything like this. A man could warm his hands by your fire.“

Then he became aware of a muffled sound from his mother. A laugh.

When he looked at her, she hastily moved toward her seat—but not before he saw her hand pressed over her mouth or the dancing amusement in her eyes. Another fatuous English dictum broken.

Charlotte handed her hat to the maid, then took his wrist in her hand and moved it aside. ”Actually, my lord, it is considered uncouth to comment so freely on another’s physical attributes.“

”But what is the point of a woman displaying her charms if a man may not like them?“

”I am not displaying my charms! My red hair is…“

She took a long breath. ”You may appreciate a lady’s attributes, only… more quietly.“

Her fingers shook where she held him. While he could see her chagrin in the color that flooded her pale complexion, it in no way commanded her voice. Charlotte had a formidable facade, and he wondered at the need for it. ”Then may I say—your coloring is most agreeable to me.“

”That is better, yes, but it actually would be best in our roles of employer and employee if you give me no compliments at all.“

”But I do not find that pleasing.“

She dropped his wrist. ”To conform to society’s edicts, it is sometimes necessary to do that which does not please one.“

He scowled at her. ”This I remember.“