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Authors: Theresa Romain

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BOOK: Season for Surrender
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Because it was stupid to feel agitated, flushed, and flirted-with when Xavier—
Alex—
called her by the name of a baked-dough circle. Especially when she saw the danger of it. He was charming, yes, but that charm didn't mean a thing.
She seated herself at the table, and once again they were head to head, this time with a book between them. It made a safe little wall: something to talk about, something to distract her.
“I'm not familiar with many codes,” she said, “unless it's a simple substitution cipher.”
“How do you mean?” He leaned back in his chair to look her full in the face.
“Substitution. Such as, every time I needed to write a letter A, I'd use a Q instead. That's the simplest form, but I don't think that's what we have here.”
“How can you tell?” One hand patted his waistcoat. “Deuce take it; I don't have my quizzing glass. The printing's tiny.”
“It's not hard to figure out, if you—” Louisa cut herself off. “You find the print hard to read?”
Alex leaned yet farther back. “Not at all. Or, no more than I would any other encoded text.”
“Are your eyes weak, my lord? I cannot believe the astounding Lord Xavier has such a pedestrian flaw.”
Humor touched his mouth, though he lifted his chin in a haughty way. “You think I won't notice your question is impertinent if you throw another
my lord
at me, muffin?”
She scrabbled for a quill and flicked it at him. “I told you I'd throw something at you if you started that
muffin
nonsense again. And if your eyes are weak, I have an excellent magnifying lens in my bedchamber. I could fetch it the next time we meet.”
She caught her error and corrected, “That is, if we meet again. I realize you're only here because the game of speculation required you to be.”
Alex shook his head. “I thought you intelligent, Louisa, yet you seem to have forgotten that I
won
that game. It was your debt of time. I intended to put you at your ease by selecting an activity you would favor. I'm in this library, with you, by choice.”
When his mouth curved into a half-smile, Louisa's tidy threads of thought snarled. “Oh.”
His smile widened. “Is that your only response to my voluntary admission that I did something mildly courteous? ‘Oh'? I've given you the power to ruin my reputation, muffin. I should run right out of here and seduce someone.”
Louisa shivered a little and rubbed at her upper arms. “If you call me muffin again, you'll probably ruin
my
reputation. And anything else I can think to say by way of reply would be shrewish. Which I've recently vowed not to be, if you'll recall.”
With his arms folded across his chest, his long body flung into the Windsor chair, he looked perfectly at ease. Except for his eyes; those eyes she'd thought so cool were studying her closely, warm and speculative. “While we're alone, Louisa, you may say whatever you like.”
Ah, he was tempting her. Clever man. It didn't even appear to be flirtation, yet he told her exactly what she wanted to hear. What else should she expect from a master of the seductive arts, though? He could read her desires—read those of any woman—like a book.
Well, not the book that lay open on the table before them.
The question of why he would bother flirting with her was harder to answer. So Louisa ignored it. Likely she was seeing only what she wanted: honesty and an interest in books. Blade-clean features and weak eyes. Surely these formed the world's most seductive combination.
No. There would be no thinking of seduction. No no no. Only honesty. And books. It was nothing to her own credit when he wielded his gifts of charm in her direction.
“If I can say whatever I want, Alex”—her tongue tripped over the unfamiliar name, but he nodded encouragement—“then I'll say, take another look at this book, if your weak eyes can stand it, and I'll show you what I mean about the substitution cipher.”
He raised his eyes to the painted ceiling. “Please, muffin, do not call my eyes
weak
or anything so unmanly. My vision is hardly dreadful; I can make out the pips on a card. I simply find a glass helpful for deciphering mysterious encoded texts, or other close reading.”
“That's not common for a young man.”
He picked up the quill she'd flicked at him, turned it in his fingers, then set it down again. “I'm blessed with many uncommon gifts. Hadn't you heard?”
“Not of this one.” Despite his light tone, she had the idea he was uncomfortable with the revelation. “Thank you for your frankness, Alex.”
She returned to the safety of the printed word. With her index finger, she tapped a script-lettered line. “About the text—if it were a simple substitution code, we'd see a lot more of some letters than others. The code letter that represented E, for example. Or A. But this looks perfectly random, except for the names.”
Alex tilted his head back to bring the page into focus. “Alex again. Cuthbert. And a Lockwood.” A low whistle issued from his lips. “It must be a family history.”
“Of Lord Lockwood?”
“Lockwood's family is mine, too, though distantly. The branches of the family trees have repeatedly tangled. But why would it be in code?”
“Your family must have done awful things. Any Roundheads in the family? Papists? Brandy smugglers?”
“All that and more, I daresay.” He squinted at the page again. “Do you think it could be a Vigenère cipher? I've only heard of them; I've never seen an encoded text of that type.”
“You know about other types of ciphers?” Louisa realized her eyebrows had shot up. “I'm sorry. It's rude of me to sound surprised that you know about something.”
“Indeed, it is. You'd better be careful, muffin.”
Louisa seized another quill, ready to flick it, but he wasn't looking at her. He dragged an inkwell from the edge of the table to a point directly in front of him and began to nudge it with an index finger, rotating it a few degrees at a time. “I must have read about the Vigenère once. Ciphers appeal to males once they reach the age of being interested in smuggling and pirates, you know.”
“And what age is that?”
He tugged his lower lip between his teeth. “From about age four to death.”
Louisa permitted him to see her smile this time. “You could be right about Vigenère. It uses a key word and alphabet table to encrypt everything. But if we don't know the key word, we'll never decrypt the book.”
We
, she'd said. As though the Earl of Xavier would want to muck about with an old ledger instead of fornicating with opera singers.
“Alex.” She hesitated. “Are you interested in trying to solve this? Or shall we put it back on the shelf for another several generations?”
Once more, he gave the inkwell a little nudge. Then with a quick shove back from the mahogany table, he pushed to his feet and paced in a short line. The length of the table, he paced off, booted heel to toe, then back again.
“I don't know if I'll have the time during the house party.” He dragged a hand through his short hair, leaving it rumpled. “But yes, I'm interested. It's something to do with my family, I can tell that, and I know precious little about them.”
“Why is that?” Louisa looked blankly at this tall man, pacing in such controlled agitation.
“Well. Because. Everybody died.”
“Yes? That does tend to happen to previous generations, Alex.”
He paused in his movement and shot her a wry look. “That's not what I mean,
muffin
. I was orphaned as an infant. It'd be . . . nice to learn a bit about who came before me.”
The word
nice
seemed to surprise him.
Louisa liked that.
“I'll do what I can,” she said. “The key word might be written in the cover somewhere; I haven't looked through the entire book yet.”
He nodded. “I'd be very grateful. I'll help you as much as I can.”
He extended a hand, and at first Louisa thought he meant to help her to her feet. But no; it was sideways, not palm up. He wanted to seal the bargain with a handshake.
She sucked in a quick breath, gave a quicker nod, and tried to shake his hand in the quickest gesture of all.
Long fingers—slightly rough, a bit warmer than her own skin—clasped hers. Her naked fingers seemed to freeze within his, but when she sought to draw her hand back, he held it in the tender valley between his thumb and palm.
His eyes held her gaze tight again. How odd were those eyes. They made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world, as though they cared to look at nothing else.
And they made her wish very much that were true, and not simply a skill of his.
Before she could soften like butter in July, she yanked her hand away and turned back to study the page. There was no way to ignore the tall form standing behind her, but she pretended to be unaffected. “You needn't toy with me, Alex. I told you I'd study it.”
She thought she heard him say “Likewise” as he stepped away, but she couldn't be sure.
Oh, that man. She pushed back her own chair, wanting to walk after him, to take his hand again and dare him to look her in the eye again, to say something real while he did.
But before she could rise to her feet, there was a perfunctory knock at the door. Lord Lockwood stepped in, closing the door behind him, then looked around the library.
“Ah, Coz. Having an interlude with a lightskirt?”
“Only
Fanny Hill
,” Alex said smoothly. “She's ready for her next customer, if you're man enough.”
Lockwood snorted his approval. “Ah,
Memoirs of Fanny Hill
. Only book I ever read with anything like real interest. You've got it here?”
Alex lowered his voice and shifted slightly, and Louisa realized he was trying to block the sight of her with his body. “There's a hidden shelf under the window seat. You'll find her there, and more like her.”
“You don't say,” came the voice of the now-unseen marquess. “Well, time enough for that later. Mrs. Protheroe and I will find inspiration in your hidden stash, if I have my way.”
“You have my best wishes,” said Alex in a dry voice. From behind, Louisa saw him fidgeting, raking his fingers through his hair again. “Something I can help you with?”
“Yes.” The marquess sounded amused. “If you can bear to leave Miss Oliver, you're needed in three places at once. Your guests are in crisis again.”
He leaned widely around the pillar of Alex's body and waggled his fingers at her. “How do you do, Miss Oliver? I must say, I'm surprised to see you fully clothed in my cousin's presence. He must be slipping. Or perhaps he's simply not attracted to you.”
The bluntness of this statement stung like a physical slap. Louisa counted to five in Italian, then German. When she reached
fünf
, she was able to offer Lockwood a composed smile.
“Since family tastes seem to run toward the ornamental and promiscuous, I'd be very flattered if Lord Xavier professed not to be attracted to me.”
She turned from Lockwood—and from Alex—and stared at the pages of the ledger with as careful attention as she might study the mysteries of the Rosetta Stone.
“Miss Oliver,” said Alex in a stiff, unfamiliar voice, “I've been honored by your time. I regret that responsibilities demand my presence elsewhere.”
She picked up the book and held it closer to her face. “I find no fault with your manners, my lord. Please, don't worry about a thing.”
As Lockwood snorted again, Louisa cast Alex a sidelong glance. He looked troubled. So she shot him a wink.
He sucked in a deep breath, startled, like a man who saw a tame horse rear up in front of him. Then with a small smile, he took his leave.
So, he wanted it all to be a secret. His interest in the book; his time with her. The use of their first names, and their wobbly newfound truce.
Louisa had never been expected to bear so many secrets before. And she found she liked the unexpected very much. To have a secret with Lord Xavier—Alex—was a wicked little pleasure.
And it was not one that would endanger her, was it? Not her body, mind, or heart. Surely not, if she was careful.
Left alone with the coded book, her eyes scanned the lines of text. But they found no clues, because her thoughts followed Alex out of the library, trying to decode the man himself.
Chapter 7
Containing Balsamic Injections
“What's the crisis this time?” Xavier couldn't keep the impatience out of his voice as he matched strides with his cousin away from the library. “Don't tell me there's another fire. It would be distressingly uncreative of our
cara signora
.”
Lockwood caught Xavier's arm and brought him to a halt in the center of the corridor. He looked around, checking that they were alone, then hissed, “
You
are the crisis. It's two days till Christmas, man, and we've got nothing like the proper sense of festivity. You're allowing your own house party to disintegrate, just for the sake of ten pounds bet on some tedious little chit.”
Xavier wrenched his arm free and folded his hands behind his back. Expression Number Three, Amused Tolerance, would probably work best right now. He wouldn't dignify Lockwood's accusations; he'd dismiss them.
“There are several inaccuracies in what you say, Lockwood. First, I'm allowing no such thing. In fact, I have something marvelous planned for tomorrow that will bring together the whole house party.”
This was a complete lie, but he would figure out a way to make it true.
“Second, the wager was your idea. Third, it's my business how I choose to win it.”
He was all ready with
Fourth, she is far from tedious
, but trapped the tip of his tongue between his teeth. Best to let Lockwood assume that Louisa was an investment he sought to protect. If the marquess knew Xavier was beginning to like her, he'd increase his efforts to unsettle the young woman.
Not that Lockwood had been able to succeed at upsetting her so far, either with words or with gropings of her person. The marquess had slid his face over Louisa's bosom; he'd given her a kiss. Wasted opportunities, for he had treated Louisa's body as a chess pawn.
Half-bare breasts and silk-sleek skin. Wry lips that spoke the unexpected. If Xavier were permitted to touch her, he would give her pleasure. Their swift, everyday contact had shot sparks through him, and he didn't think she'd been unaffected. Something burned between them; something livid and eager.
Yet she seemed to resent that, or him. And he owed her more than pleasure. He owed her respect.
Lockwood looked disgruntled. “Well, it's a damned dull business you're making of it.”
“Don't pout, dear fellow. We'll find you a woman of your own. Surely
someone
wants something to do with you,” Xavier said in a soothing voice.
As he'd expected, Lockwood bristled. “I'll do for myself,
dear fellow
. Don't trouble your empty head about me. See to yourself, why don't you? And see to your other guests. You don't have this party under your usual control.”
The marquess's blue eyes narrowed, and his mouth curved into an unpleasant little smile. “Something's different, isn't it? It's not only the
ton
poking its high-bridged noses where they aren't wanted. You're different, too. You haven't even bedded
la signora
, have you?” He chuckled. “I'd thought better of you.”
“Maybe,” Xavier said in his chilliest voice, “what you've been thinking of as better is actually worse.”
He and Lockwood blinked at each other, equally surprised by these words. In his chest, Xavier's heart thudded painfully hard.
Maybe. Maybe.
Lockwood's mouth opened, then shut again. He looked confused.
Xavier recovered first. With a carefree grin, he said, “Well, why need we consider philosophy? Much better to find a good port. Care to come to the cellars with me? We'll pick an exceptional vintage for tonight's festivities.”
Lockwood was willing enough to go along with this return to the familiar, and to return to the cellars. But Xavier's empty head, as the marquess had called it, was filling with questions.
Maybe.
It would be easy to drink them away, to drown his troublesome thoughts in liquor and flirtation, or the simple seduction of a round-heeled woman. But maybe . . .
Maybe he didn't want to do that anymore.
The eyes of the transported youth sparkled with more joyous fires, and all his looks and motions acknowledged excess of pleasure, which I now began to share, for I felt him in my very vitals! I was quite sick with delight! . . . Thus I lay, gasping, panting under him . . .
Good God. Xavier had not been exaggerating the lewdness of
Fanny Hill
.
Soon after the two noblemen had left her, Louisa had retrieved the old novel from the hidden shelf beneath the window seat. Then she scurried off to her bedchamber and stretched out on the dark red damask counterpane of the bed, eager to read Fanny's scandalous tale in the hours before dinner.
Why not? As a scholar, she ought to learn as much as she could on all subjects.
Even so, she hadn't expected young Fanny's transformation from country girl to favored whore to be quite so informative. And the vocabulary was as colorful as the behavior. Why, Louisa had never heard of “balsamic injections”—though considering the part of the body that emitted the fluid, she could guess well enough what was meant.
Good heavens. There were a great many injections and emissions in this book. And Louisa wasn't at all scandalized; she wanted to know more.
Did Alex . . . emit?
Stupid question. If rumors were to be believed, he'd
emitted
with every courtesan and widow in London, as well as a great number of married ladies and supposed maidens.
But were rumors to be believed, where he was concerned?
She only had to recall the way he'd squinted at the coded ledger, willing his indistinct vision to resolve the words, to suspect that he wasn't who he pretended to be. Or who others pretended he was?
The dissonance was intriguing. Any man who could talk of a Vigenère cipher one moment and a whore-book the next was . . . all right, Louisa was interested in him, and not just on a scholarly level. And these ruminations were doing nothing to ease the tight, sharp ache of desire, or to douse the hot color that had flooded her cheeks while she read.
Unfortunate, because the door to her bedchamber was suddenly flung open without so much as an introductory knock.
Without looking up from the thankfully plain binding of her book, Louisa knew who had entered.
“Good afternoon, Aunt Estella.” She laid aside the novel with a calm that belied her still-pounding heart, then assembled a blank expression before facing Lady Irving. “May I help you with something? Do you need assistance dressing for dinner?”
The countess paced across the room, then back, then dropped into a chair next to the fireplace. “I've got a maid for that, my girl, though it's thoughtful of you to offer.” She extended her feet toward the hearth. “Thoughtful, and completely unbefitting your station.”
“You've entered to give me some advice, then.” Louisa didn't bother framing the sentence as a question. It was a certainty.
Lady Irving eased her scarlet slippers free from her heels, sighing with contentment. “That's a fine coal fire you've got here. I will say, Xavier takes care of his guests well. He never knows which bedchambers are going to be needed from day to day. Eh?”
“I suppose.” Louisa rubbed at her arms, not feeling the same warmth. “But that's surely not what you wanted to advise me on.”
Her aunt shot a sharp look. “Give me a moment to settle, young miss. I'm not as young as I used to be, though if I hear you repeat that, I'll have your tongue for it.”
“No one is as young as she or he used to be. That's the way time works.”
Time
, which she'd wagered. In a flash she remembered the card game, and the wager Lockwood and Alex had placed on her.
The stakes of that hand of speculation had been higher than she knew. But she'd made good use of her three hours, hadn't she? Especially considering the time had been her loss, not her win.
“More of your scholarly roundaboutation,” grumbled Lady Irving. “Gentlemen don't want to hear about
time
, my girl. That's the quickest way to run them off.”
“The quickest?” Louisa couldn't resist. “Surely there are quicker ways. Such as spilling punch on a favorite waistcoat. Or informing them of a desire for permanent chastity after marriage.”
The countess's auburn head snapped up. “What's this nonsense about chastity?” She coughed. “Not that it's nonsense for an unmarried woman.”
“You needn't worry about me, Aunt. I'm as chaste as . . .”
As Fanny Hill was not
, she finished in her head, but her aunt had already shaken off the topic and moved on.
“Come sit, my girl.” She patted the arm of her chair. “I do have something to tell you, at that.”
Louisa ignored the spindly arm of the chair, which looked as though it wouldn't support a cat. Instead, she tugged a pillow off of the bed and plumped it onto the floor, then sat on it at her aunt's feet. “I'm abject before you, dear Aunt.”
“Saucy,” said the countess, stifling a smile. “Well. Don't think I didn't notice your early departure from the game last night. Mighty unsociable of you, my girl, to leave the party as though you were a dull stick.”
That stung more than it ought. “But I'd already had my turn as the blind man,” she protested. “And I'd been kissed and groped by Lord Lockwood.” Somehow she kept her expression serene as she said this.
“Nothing wrong with that, in the course of a game,” sniffed her aunt. “Everyone knows that's the purpose of blind-man's buff. But when you take your turn, then leave, it looks like an escape, my girl. It looks—well, as though you didn't want to be there. And the men noticed, believe me.”
“Now I know you're teasing.” Louisa kept her voice light. “Men never notice what I do.”
“You're talking a great deal of rot for such a smart girl. A woman can't stab a marquess with a hairpin and not expect men to notice what she does after that. Mind you, I won't say you were indispensable to the festivities.”
“No, never that.”
The countess ignored this interjection. “Your friend Jane had Lord Kirkpatrick up against the wall before a minute was past. That Cornish fellow, you know; the one who doesn't look nearly as much like Byron as he thinks he does.”
“How delightful for them both,” Louisa said. “Jane's been craving a bit of fun.”
“Speaking of fun, my girl.” Lady Irving turned a shrewd eye upon Louisa, who wished she were sitting at a more dignified height. “I was absolutely shocked—yes,
shocked
—by the behavior of our host last night.”
Louisa's face went hot again. She folded herself up and leaned closer to the fire, hoping her aunt would credit the color to the glowing coals. “He seemed perfectly proper while I was there.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Heavily beringed hands drummed on the arms of the chair. “That's what was so shocking about it. I must say, I'd never have expected the infamous Lord Xavier to stand aside during a game of blind-man's buff. Especially when that hussy of an opera singer, or dancer, or whatever she is, was displaying her whole bosom for him.”
“It's a biological imperative,” Louisa said in a wooden voice. “She wants to mate with him.”
“Yes, well, she's not the only one,” Lady Irving sniffed. “I couldn't get through a day in London without hearing him simpered over in every ballroom and parlor. For a while after that messy business with your sister—all the gossip about her, and Matheson, and your broken engagement—I couldn't stand to so much as hear Xavier's name.”
“It
was
a messy business.” Louisa swallowed, her throat too dry. “But it wasn't really his fault. So he says, and I believe him.”
“Yes, yes. Now we know he wasn't malicious toward your sister. He was only an idiot, and if women start faulting men for that, we'll all have to do without bed-sport indefinitely.”
“
Aunt
.” Not even coals glowed hotter than Louisa's face now.
“Well, not you. I know
you
could never forgive idiocy. And before you're married, you shouldn't be thinking about bed-sport, either.”
“Um.” This was the extent of the reply Louisa could muster.
Fortunately, Lady Irving was perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation by herself. “All I'm saying is, you oughtn't to go so hard on the fellow. He's tried to keep this house party proper. If he's looking for a wife, you could do a lot worse than be that lady.”
“Um.”
This time Lady Irving noticed Louisa's tongue-tied response. “Don't be missish, my girl. You've got to get married eventually, unless you intend to be an intolerable burden on some branch of your family for the rest of your life.”
BOOK: Season for Surrender
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