Authors: Theresa Romain

Season for Surrender (3 page)

BOOK: Season for Surrender

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Let us bow before his majesty.
Wasn't that what she was expected to feel now?

Ha. Spending time with Lord Xavier was like juggling wax tapers: if one wasn't very careful, one would get burned, or at the very least, wind up with dirtied hands.

Louisa was always very careful. Always had been.

So perhaps it was time she learned to juggle.

“Would you care for lemon in your tea? Or milk?” A young woman bent close to Louisa and added in a softer voice, “Or a splash of brandy, like your aunt?”

At Louisa's side, Lady Irving sat bolt upright with a sniff.

Louisa offered the astute young woman a smile. She was slight, with light brown hair and impish hazel eyes. “Thank you, but I'll leave my tea black. One of our party must remain sober.”

“There is such a thing as
too
sober, you know,” Lady Irving murmured into Louisa's ear.

They were seated next to one another on a damask-covered rosewood settee of Grecian style. The elegant piece was well suited to the airy room in which a dozen and a half of London's respectable and notorious were now fortifying themselves. The room was papered in the delicate green of a new leaf. Overhead hung a Wedgwood chandelier, its dishes and fonts of black basalt ornamented with graceful figures of the Muses. Evergreen was wound through its metalwork, suffusing the room with a faint, crisp scent.

This carefully tasteful room was, to say the least, not what Louisa had expected in the home of Lord Xavier. Nor was the young woman with the prim pink muslin gown and rebellious face, who had now turned her attention to Lady Irving. “Do you enjoy an afternoon brandy, then, my lady? I would be pleased to join you in a cupful. I am Miss Tindall. Jane.”

Louisa crowded over on the settee to make room. Her aunt harrumphed, and Louisa covered a grin with her teacup, inhaling the bracing aroma. It was warm and fragrant, as if the leaves held the summer sun under which they'd been picked and dried. Surely not even brandy had so much power to soothe.

“Strong spirits are not suitable for unmarried ladies.” Lady Irving took a dainty sip.

“Drat,” Miss Tindall said. “I am constantly being told that the most entertaining experiences are unsuitable for unmarried ladies. My mother's serving as hostess, you see.”

With a crook of her finger, she indicated a round, ruddy-faced woman in a stiff, glazed-cotton gown who sat across the room. As Louisa watched, Mrs. Tindall stuffed an entire ginger biscuit into her mouth and chewed with an expression of transported delight.

“That's how I came to recognize you,” Miss Tindall explained. “You are the Countess of Irving and Miss Oliver, yes? I've been poring over Xavier's guest list since he created it, hoping something truly dreadful will happen this year.”

She spoke the words with such relish that Louisa smiled. “I'll hazard a guess, Miss Tindall, that you have a liking for Gothic novels.”

The young woman shrugged. “I have a liking for anything interesting. For the last three days, I've had the choice of only two activities: sewing or writing letters. Since I cannot embroider without stabbing myself with the needle, I have instead been forced to stab myself with a quill. Lord knows there's been nothing worth writing about so far.”

Lady Irving clicked her tongue. “I'll wager there will be plenty to fill your letters before the first week's out.”

“Do you think so?” The slight young woman perked up visibly.

“I've been told there will be cards tonight,” Louisa offered.

“Oh.” Miss Tindall's shoulders sank again. “I hate playing cards with Xavier. He is so repulsively competent.”

Before either Louisa or her aunt could respond to this puzzling statement, the man himself stood before them. “Jane, you rapscallion. I should have you locked in the dungeon.”

Louisa blinked, surprised, but the subject of his threat only raised a contemptuous eyebrow. “You don't have a dungeon. Empty threats will avail you nothing, Xavier.”

He cocked his head at Louisa. “Miss Oliver. I'm glad you have met Miss Tindall. I'd like to ask you to serve as a steadying influence on my cousin, though that would be unfairly burdensome to one of my guests.”

“Second cousin once removed,” added Miss Tindall. “You shouldn't assume I wish to own you as a closer relative. Especially not of my own generation, because you are much older than I.”

Xavier grimaced. “There is only eight years' difference in our ages,” he explained. “However, it is enough that I did help teach Jane to walk. She was remarkably backward. I believe she was three years old before she could cross a room without falling down.”

“That's a shameful lie,” Jane said calmly to Louisa. “He loves to tell people that I took forever to learn to walk. What he doesn't tell them is that it was because he broke my leg.”

“Pure accident,” Xavier sallied, and Louisa had the feeling they had had this conversation many times before. “How was I to know you would try to follow me up the apple tree after you had been forbidden?”

Jane rolled her eyes. “It has been nearly two decades, yet the lies continue. He is my only cousin, which is why I tolerate this nonsense.” She flicked a hand airily. “I am a positive slave to my own better nature.”

Louisa grinned at her new acquaintance. “Don't worry yourself, Miss Tindall. Ancient history matters little to the
ton
; it's fresh blood they love.”

Miss Tindall smiled back. “How marvelous. You simply must call me Jane.”

Lady Irving smothered a hiccup. “And you must call me in time for dinner, Xavier. Very good
tea
, young fellow. But now I find myself in need of a rest.”

“Of course, my lady.” Xavier assisted the countess to her feet. “You'd best muster your strength so you can lose to me at cards tonight.”

“I never lose,” she sniffed.

“I'm not in the habit of it, either.” He turned to Louisa, his expression expectant. “And you, Miss Oliver? Do you require a rest before dinner, so that you can astound us all at the card table?”

She shook her head, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. “I fear no amount of repose will affect my game, my lord. I've never had much luck with cards.”

“You never know.” His mouth curved, sudden and wicked as a saber cut. “Perhaps this is the day your luck will change.”

Chapter 3

Containing Speculation and Secrets

Xavier's unusually polite house party was off to an unusually quiet start.

He'd been pleased when he hit on this scheme. He had flirted with respectability instead of the demimonde, mixing a few of his favorite impolite guests with permissive members of polite society.

It wasn't the party he'd have convened if he could have consulted his own preference, which ran more hedonistic. But he couldn't expect to have everything as he liked it while in pursuit of his lofty goal: winning a wager by keeping a respectable maiden at Clifton Hall for two weeks under semi-false pretenses.

Well, that was as lofty as his goals usually were.

Still, the polite babble of conversation at dinner seemed flat. All the women remained fully clothed, no one danced on the table, and only once did Lord Weatherwax slide drunkenly from his seat. Miss Oliver sat far down the table from Xavier, glossed by candlelight, conversing with the pea-brained Freddie Pellington and seeming perfectly at ease.

She damn well ought to be. He'd changed everything for her sake. For the sake of the wager. Which came to the same thing.

The lone disturbance during the sumptuous dinner was created by Signora Frittarelli, who used one of the candles on the table to light a tiny Spanish cigar during the first course. When Lady Alleyneham huffed her disapproval,
la signora
extinguished the cigarillo in her ladyship's soup.

That had brightened Xavier's mood considerably.

After the meal, he shepherded the men through port and cigars, then brought them together with the ladies for the inevitable game of cards in the drawing room.

Lockwood drew him aside before he could join the card players. “I hope you are pleased with how the wager's going, Coz,” he hissed. “You certainly went to great lengths to accommodate it.”

Xavier shook Lockwood's hand off his arm. “I'm pleased enough. As you see, Miss Oliver is here. And here she'll stay for the next two weeks, through Christmas and the New Year.”

His eyes caught on the subject of their conversation. She was standing at her aunt's side, tall and cool in primrose silk, looking around the drawing room with as much curiosity as though she were at a zoological garden. Likely she'd never seen the polite world's edges roughened by the likes of
la signora
. Well, he'd smoothed the way as much as he could.

Too much for Lockwood's tastes, for the marquess narrowed his eyes and clamped fingers onto Xavier's arm again.

“If you weren't my relation, Coz, I'd say you had cheated. Inviting dull sticks like Lady Alleyneham, and watery little maidens like Jane, just so Miss Oliver will feel more at her ease.”

Deliberately, Xavier peeled Lockwood's fingers from his arm once more. “If you weren't my relation, I'd call you out for your accusation. As this is
my
house party, I can invite whomever I like. Our wager stipulated only that I invite Miss Oliver. You made no restrictions on the rest of the guests. Besides, I invited
la signora
, as you wished.”

The singer had already proved amusing. She might yet provide a more intimate amusement, too. He hadn't decided yet. Lockwood seemed interested in her, and as Xavier was annoyed with Lockwood for forcing their wager, he was inclined to thwart his cousin, out of pique.

“This isn't over,” Lockwood said in a low voice. His eyes were now fixed on Miss Oliver, and his jaw set. “You needn't think you've got this victory in your pocket.”

“Yet I always do,” Xavier said smoothly, to annoy Lockwood. The marquess glared at him before stalking toward Miss Oliver.

Xavier had collected a deck of cards and seated himself at a round table by the time Lockwood returned with Miss Oliver and Jane in tow.

Lockwood rolled his shoulders, limbering himself for hours of play. “What'll we play tonight, Coz? Whist?”

“Speculation,” said Jane. “Whist is for old biddies, Lockwood.”

Xavier savored the look of shock on Lockwood's face for a second; diminutive Jane made an unlikely but effective markswoman. “Speculation will do admirably.”

“And I'll be the dealer,” Jane added brightly.

“You will not,” Xavier said. “You'll gamble away your entire trust. I will be the dealer.”

Jane looked mutinous. “I wouldn't gamble away
all
of it. Besides, you're not considering the possibility that I might win.”

“You won't win,” Xavier said, helping the ladies into seats. He knew he wore his most insufferable version of Expression Number Four, Condescension, and was surprised when Miss Oliver only chuckled.

“I don't know why you won't let me gamble, Xavier. It's not as though the trust would help me,” Jane muttered, slumping in her chair. “Look at this horrible thing my mother made me wear. She thinks I'll behave better if I look like a complete frump.”

The dress in question was a stiff, fussy apricot organdy, unfashionably high at the neckline. Xavier couldn't deny that she looked dreadful, so overwhelmed by fabric.

“It's not the dress that matters, Jane,” Miss Oliver said with a determined shake of her head. “It is the woman within it.”

“How well you have worded the matter, Miss Oliver,” Lockwood said. He shifted his chair closer to her and ran his eyes over her body, from face to chest. “The woman within your dress appears to be finely formed indeed.”

Xavier blinked, his blood running a little hotter.
What?
Lockwood never flirted with the marriageable.

Miss Oliver's head snapped back, and she folded her arms with decisive force. “You have begun the game of speculation early, my lord. But some things are not to be wagered on.”

“Most things are for wager, if the stakes are high enough,” Lockwood said, studying the creamy skin above the fitted bodice of her gown. “I only wish your . . .
stakes
. . . ran a little lower.”

Xavier frowned. Lockwood met his gaze and winked broadly.

Oh.
In an instant, it made sense: Lockwood was taunting Miss Oliver. He meant to scandalize her, to chase her from the house party early.

That was as devious as Xavier's own tinkering with the guest list. If he had not been serving as host, he would have invented a new expression on the spot. Number Six: Blatantly Annoyed. He would have to keep Lockwood in line if he meant Miss Oliver to stay.

He might as well be a governess, for all the amusement this house party would yield.

“Suppose we speculate only on our cards,” he said. “As you know, for this game, you must all provide a stake and compensate me as dealer.”

Miss Oliver relaxed a bit. “For what stakes do we play?”

Xavier considered. “I assume none of you has a purse full of guineas, so I am happy to permit other methods of payment.”

“My sister, Julia, and I used to play for hairpins,” Miss Oliver suggested with a wry smile. “Though I doubt your lordships can match that stake.”

Lockwood looked horrified. “Lord, no. We need a much more adult wager than that. What about sips of brandy? All drink save for the winner.”

“I'd love to see you explain to Mrs. Tindall why her daughter has a bad head tomorrow,” Xavier said, ignoring Jane's protest. “No, that won't do for a mixed game.”

Miss Oliver broke in. “What about time?”

The others turned to look at her. “What do you mean?” Xavier asked.

“Let us wager time.” Her dark eyes lit as she explained. “We all have an equal and finite measure of it to promise. So in that sense, none of us has an advantage.” She gave a little smile to Jane. “Surely not even your mother would mind that.”

Lockwood looked skeptical. “I never heard of wagering time. Sounds a bit flat.”

Xavier had never heard of such a stake, either, but he mulled it over. It was proper on the surface, yet fraught with possibility.

“It will do admirably,” he decided, and was rewarded with a startlingly lovely smile from Miss Oliver. Not a tight little polite affair, but a joyful grin. Like a crescent moon coming out from behind a cloud, caressing the ground with its soft glow.

His skin prickled, and he shook himself. Poetic nonsense. He'd been reading too much Dante lately.

“Fine, fine,” Jane grumbled as reluctantly as if Miss Oliver had suggested she clean out fireplace grates. “I don't have anything else to wager. Since
someone
won't let me touch my money until I'm of age.”

Xavier ignored his cousin. “Shall we begin with a stake of fifteen minutes?” He slid three cards to each of the others, then took three for himself. “As dealer, I must contribute ninety minutes, and you would each then begin by risking one hour of your time.”

“If I win, I am going to have you wear a dress,” Jane said. “Not you, Louisa. You, Xavier.”

Miss Oliver smiled, though Xavier noticed a pucker between her brows as she shifted her face-down cards into a neat line before her. “That would be a sight worth capturing in oils, if only I were an artist. But what would I be required to wear, Jane?”

“I can suggest something, I'm sure,” Lockwood said in an oily voice. Xavier glared at him; Lockwood returned a smug smile.

“You can wear Xavier's clothes,” Jane suggested, her expression pleased. “It will be like a pantomime.”

“Could we defer this discussion of clothes-swapping until you actually win, Jane?” Xavier said, hiding the rough edges of his thoughts under a smooth voice. “Which, I might add, you will not.”

He flipped over the top card from the deck and sat back in his chair. “Seven of diamonds. There's our trump.”

Jane looked disgusted and slapped her hand on her own cards. “A seven? That's the worst card possible to decide on. Do you cheat, Xavier?”

“How suspicious you are,” Xavier replied. “You wound my honor. Or you would, if I thought you knew what you were talking about at all.”

Jane put out her tongue like a child, and Miss Oliver laughed. “I feel like I'm home with my four young siblings, trying to keep them from fighting over puzzle pieces.”

“It was an excellent retort,” Xavier agreed. “I am a noted wit. All the world concurs.” He noticed with some pleasure that Lockwood looked annoyed.

Miss Oliver bit her lip. Her fingers danced over the cards that lay before her. The slight taps seemed loud and fraught, and Xavier felt his skin wake again.

“I'll buy the seven from you, my lord,” she decided. “Will you sell it for fifteen minutes?”

“Thirty,” he said. “A mere half hour of your time.”

She looked up at him with those great dark eyes. “That's a great deal of time for such a small card. One can do much, you know, with half an hour.”

Didn't he know it. In half an hour, he had once eaten breakfast and then fought a duel.

He had once spent twice that arranging his neckcloth for a ball he didn't even attend, having picked up an opera dancer for an evening's entertainment instead.

He had stared at
Purgatorio
for “the hour that turneth back desire,” and wondered how the devil he was going to maintain everyone's reputationsâwhether proper or improperâfor two entire weeks.

“That's my price,” he said. “A half hour of your time.”

“I'll buy it,” Miss Oliver decided. “Show your cards, please, everyone.”

Lockwood turned over a three of diamonds into the center of the table with a muttered curse. Jane flipped over her top card and groaned. “The five of clubs. I hate this game.”

“You are the one who suggested it,” Xavier reminded her. “And you will never win, Jane, if you don't risk anything.” At arm's length, he turned over his own card.

Ten of diamonds. Well, well. “Miss Oliver, I own a half hour of your time.”

Her cheeks colored at his words, but she raised a corner of her mouth in a half smile, looking almost feline. “The game is not over yet, my lord. We shall see who owns whom by the time we are finished.”

He choked.

He covered the sound by clearing his throat, but his head spun as though his rheumy cold had returned. Had the bluestocking flirted with him?

He smiled back, but forgot to tame it into Expression Three, Amused Tolerance. Instead, a real smile slipped its leash, and her eyes widened a fraction.

Again he cleared his throat. “Shall we move on with the game? I hold the highest trump. Does anyone wish to offer for it?”

Miss Oliver bit her bottom lip.

He suddenly became envious of her teeth.

BOOK: Season for Surrender

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