Rules of Surrender

by Christina Dodd

  "I hardly think a half day every other week—"

  "I have nowhere I wish to go," Charlotte said with finality.

  Adorna nodded slowly. "I understand."

  Worse luck, she probably did.

  "I appreciate your care of Robbie and Leila," Adorna continued. "I find them a trial, I admit, yet I see only too clearly how difficult this transition must be to them. Their father and I must spend time in London until we have the business settled, and I…I am considering a licentious affair with Lord Bucknell."

  Charlotte blinked, wondering if her ears had deceived her. "An…affair?"

  "With Lord Bucknell." Adorna's husky voice still sounded as placid as if she discussed the weather. "I haven't ever had an affair, so it is a course to be wisely considered."

  She seemed to be waiting for a reply, so Charlotte stammered, "I…yes, I imagine an affair should not be rashly entered into."

  They entered the corridor that led to the kitchen, and one of the footmen came barreling through the door holding a silver tray stacked with napkins. Tall, young and gangly, he came to a halt at the sight of them and bowed.

  Charlotte had never been so glad to see anyone in her life.

  "Harris!" Adorna poked at the tray. "Where are you going with all those napkins?"

  "The children are eating out on th' terrace, my lady, an' if I know me children, an' I do, one of them'll spill th' milk."

  "No doubt you are right," Charlotte said. "It's kind of you to think of them."

  "My son is going to take supper with the children and Miss Dalrumple, so another place must be set," Adorna said.

  Harris bowed and backed toward the kitchen. "I'll take care o' it, m'lady."

  And some imp Charlotte didn't know she contained made her say, "It would be no work for him to set two extra places."

  Harris paused.

  Adorna immediately laid the flat of her hand against her forehead. "I would love that, but my son and I just arrived from London, and I'm fatigued."

  Charlotte relented at once. "A tray in your chamber, then."

  "That would be lovely," Adorna said.

  Harris nodded and backed toward the kitchen.

  In a thoughtful tone, Adorna said, "Charlotte, you are not as guileless as you would have me think."

  Charlotte didn't pretend not to know what she meant. "Forgive me, Adorna. I cannot imagine what spirit got into me."

  "The spirit of mischief, of course. It is to be expected when one spends time with children."

  As they walked back toward the terrace, a maid paused in her rush to pass them while balancing another place setting on a tray. She curtsied toward Adorna, then turned toward the terrace. Another came past at a more dignified pace, holding her tray high and taking care not to tilt the meal that resided beneath the covers. She, too, curtsied, then turned toward the stairway and Adorna's bedchamber.

  Adorna nodded at the girls, but continued her discourse in a matter-of-fact tone. "This affair I'm considering is a very adult activity."

  The perambulations of her conversation left Charlotte blinking.

  "Have you ever indulged in one?" Adorna asked.

  "One…?"

  "Affair," Adorna said patiently.

  Uneasily Charlotte wondered if Adorna was testing her or if, perhaps, she had fallen into some strange, weird dream. "No, ma'am."

  As they came to the corridor that ran between the terrace and the stairs, Adorna frowned at her. "You don't approve."

  "Lady Ruskin, it is not for me to approve or disapprove your actions."

  "You're calling me by my title again. You don't approve."

  "My lady. Adorna. Really, I would not presume—"

  Adorna held up her hand. "That's fine. I will go to my lonely bedchamber and there eat my solitary meal." She turned and walked away.

  And Charlotte, with no understanding how she had offended, hurried after her. "Please, ma'am, I didn't mean—"

  Halting, Adorna took Charlotte's hand. "Dear, I'm storming off in a huff. It rather loses its impact if you go with me."

  "I…yes, of course it would."

  "Besides, you know that business about eating a solitary meal is bosh." She patted Charlotte's hand. "I really am weary. You go ahead to the terrace, and I'll see you tonight."

  "Tonight?"

  She fluttered her fingers and as she moved away, she uttered words that made Charlotte's blood run cold. "I think it's time you knew the real reason I brought you here, don't you?"

  CHAPTER 7

  As Charlotte stepped onto the terrace, a solitary Wynter leaned against the balustrade and watched her. "You must have been talking to my mother."

  Still dazed by her encounter with Adorna, she stared at the man caressed by golden sunlight and wondered if he could read her thoughts. "How did you know?"

  He smiled, and good heavens, what a smile it was. His chin came up, his lips swept wide, the angles of his face became curves, leaving Charlotte in no doubt of his amusement and enjoyment. The children frolicked on the lawn. She should reprimand them for their shouts and their wildness, but Wynter's smile distracted her.

  Pushing himself away from the railing, he went to the small, square, white iron table, set with four places, and pulled back the chair for her. "Mother tends to engender a sense of wonder." As she seated herself, he spoke close to her ear. "And you look wonderful."

  His breath whispered across the nape of her neck, and he sounded so sincere that for a moment Charlotte struggled with her composure.

  Dear heavens, returning to Surrey was proving more of a trial than she had anticipated. But she was a strong and scrupulous woman, and higher morals must prevail.

  Someone should tell Wynter that. He still leaned forward, his hands resting one on each side of the back of her chair close against her shoulders, his clean scent surrounding her, and he was watching her profile. True, she couldn't see him as she stared straight ahead, but she felt that gaze on her skin and she knew, she just knew, he was still smiling. Laughing. At her.

  Confident, handsome, odious man.

  Yes, higher morals must prevail, and she was just the woman to tell him. In truth, she would even enjoy delivering the set-down. Turning toward him, she wasn't at all surprised to find his face far too close to her own. Yet she didn't back up, or in any way indicate how impressive—that is to say, offensive—she found his nearness. "My lord, I am the governess. I am here for your children's well-being. I hope you understand me when I say I have no interest in you or your smiles or your earring or your endless flirtatiousness." Having said more than she meant to, she snapped her mouth shut.

  Had she just said that to her employer? Dear heavens. That was unacceptable.

  His smile grew even broader. "The thing I like about you, Lady Miss Charlotte, is that you tell truth. That is a very rare quality among the English."

  Automatically she said, "Englishmen always tell the truth."

  He chuckled, a rumble of contagious mirth that deepened his dimples and crinkled the corners of his eyes. "You are as fresh as the morning dew on spring grass, as delightful as a shower after a long drought. But you are not so great a fool as to believe that."

  She stared at him, caught by the faint accent that might be growing on her. "No. I am not."

  He pressed his palm against her spine right between her shoulder blades. "Can you tell when a man speaks truth?"

  "I pride myself on the ability to weigh the likelihood that a man—or a woman, or a child—is lying to me." She wanted, needed, to inhale deeply…but he touched her, he looked right in her face, and she didn't want him to see her indulging a physical need. Any physical need. Slowly, cautiously, she calmly finished, "The possibilities, when taken with a thorough knowledge of certain involuntary actions performed by a perjurer, discern their falsehoods." The last three words came out in a rush.

  He watched her carefully. "So you can tell if a man speaks truth," he prodded.

  She allowed herself to sigh, hoping he would think
her exasperated. "Yes. Yes, I can."

  "Then you will know that I not lying when I say you are wonderful."

  Not only did the breath freeze in her lungs, but every other vital body function ceased. It was an amazingly complete shutdown brought on by a warm, insistent hand, two brown, insistent eyes, and a coaxing, blinding, insistent smile. He was just so close and so…close.

  "Lady Miss Charlotte?"

  "Yes. Oh. Yes, my lord, if you believe that I…" She cleared her throat. "That is, if you think that I am…er…"

  "Wonderful," he said peremptorily.

  "Yes. Wonderful." She leaned forward, trying to escape his touch. Useless. His hand followed her, a warm entity against her rigid spine. She groped on the tablecloth. Her fingers encountered the folded linen napkin; something to do with her hands. With elaborate care, she pulled it from beneath the silverware and into her lap. "Yes, if that's what you think, I would not dream of calling you a…of saying you were anything less than truthful."

  "Ah." Slowly his hand slid up to her shoulder. He cupped it and squeezed, a gentle pressure that surely seemed more like friendship than caprice, and again she experienced that dreadful, betraying breathlessness. "You are most gracious."

  From out on the lawn, Leila shrieked, "Papa! Papa, is it time to eat yet?"

  The elegant, menacing barbarian straightened and looked over the balustrade. "It's time," he bellowed back. "Come before my stomach thinks my throat's been cut."

  Charlotte glared blindly at the white tablecloth, the four place settings, the goblets and the silver salt server. She didn't see them; somehow Wynter had emblazoned himself on her vision, as if he were the sun and she had been staring without consideration to her safety or her vision. The children clattered up the stairs, breathless and laughing. She turned her gaze toward them, but still she saw their father's image in Robbie's boyish features, in Leila's gamine grin. They slid into their chairs, one on either side of her, and stared at her guiltily.

  Then Harris whipped out of the door with a basin of water and a cloth over his shoulder and knelt by Leila. "Let's clean ye up a bit before ye eat, young master and mistress."

  Guilty. Of course. They'd gotten dirty.

  She looked down into her lap and saw the napkin, crumpled as if she'd twisted it. Why should the children feel guilty when their governess retrieved her napkin even before they were seated? An unprecedented breakdown of civilized behavior! And—she shot a glare at the still-smiling Wynter as he assisted Harris—it was all his fault.

  She took the first deep breath she'd taken since she'd stepped on the terrace, and that breath quivered with outrage.

  Wynter heard her, for he looked her way, and without pausing in his scrubbing of Robbie's knuckles, said, "Lady Miss Charlotte, you are short of breath. You must loosen your corset strings."

  Harris choked and turned a quivering crimson.

  Charlotte stared straight at the man with her steeliest gaze.

  Picking up the basin, he bowed, bowed again, and hastily vacated the terrace.

  Matters did not soon improve..

  Wynter seated himself across from her.

  "Lady Miss Charlotte, why do you wear a corset?" Robbie asked.

  Charlotte struggled between her desire to answer any question the children posed to her, and propriety. "A corset is a proper undergarment for a lady, but it is not proper conversation at the dinner table."

  "Why not?" Leila asked.

  Wynter leaned his elbow on the table, cupped his chin in his hand and stared at her. "Yes, Lady Miss Charlotte, why not?"

  Charlotte could see the servants hovering by the door, waiting to serve the meal, but she would not signal them to come. Not yet. "Undergarments, both male and female, are not to be discussed with the opposite sex at any time, and"—she headed off Leila's inevitable question—"with the same sex only in moments of extreme privacy."

  Leila smirked at Robbie. "Ha, ha, she's going to tell me about corsets and she's not going to tell you."

  "That's not fair!" he said.

  "That's enough:"

  The children quieted long enough for her to ring the bell at her elbow.

  "Do not fret, my son," Wynter said. "To tell you about this feminine instrument of torture will be your father's privilege."

  Charlotte wanted to snap at him, but she held her tongue as a skinny footman approached, staggering under the weight of the heavy tureen. How arduous to remain serene as a maid carried a plate of steaming crumpets and another the individually formed pats of butter. They placed the food on the table, bobbed their courtesies and raced away, in a hurry to return to the kitchen, where Charlotte knew, Harris was regaling everyone with the tale of her corset.

  As she lifted the lid of the tureen, the steam wafted across the table and Wynter inhaled audibly. "Oxtail soup," he said. "I love oxtail soup."

  The children imitated him, inhaling loudly and agreeing noisily.

  Charlotte subdued a reprimand. She thought it difficult to tell your employer he was setting a bad example, especially when she'd already in essence reprimanded him for mentioning her…undergarments. She ladled the soup, a clear broth with noodles and a touch of sherry, into the bowls. "My lord, would you start the crumpets around the table?"

  "I'll just give them one." With his fingers, he took a crumpet for each child and put it on their bread plate.

  But that was not the end of his poor behavior. He would have reached across the table with Charlotte's crumpet, too, but she held up her hand in rejection. "Thank you, my lord, but if you pass me the plate, I will take my own."

  "Oo, Daddy, you made Lady Miss Charlotte angry," Leila said.

  "Nonsense. Lady Miss Charlotte is far too much of a lady to be annoyed."

  Leila kicked the leg of the table until Charlotte laid her hand on the child's leg and shook her head slightly. She reached for the soup spoon. She'd taught the children to watch her, and they, too, reached for their soup spoons. She lifted it and dipped it into the broth. They lifted theirs and dipped them into the broth.

  And their father said, "I like to break up the crumpets and drop them in and let them soak up the stock."

  The children stopped watching her and stared, round-eyed, as Wynter fit action to words.

  "Can we do that?" Robbie ventured.

  "Of course!" Wynter said. "We do not have to be formal when it is just family."

  Did he challenge her on purpose? Or was he only lacking a sensible thought in his head? She didn't care. She only knew that he'd flirted with her, he'd unsettled her, and now he was making her already Herculean task of civilizing these children even more difficult. And she didn't know which sin bothered her most, but she did know it must end.

  In her crispest upper-class accent, she said, "Actually, my lord, I am forced to disagree. Family manners have their place, but only when the people employing them are able to exercise company manners when necessary. Robbie and Leila are not yet able to do so, so until they know without a doubt which fork to use, we always practice our company manners."

  Wynter leaned back and hooked one arm around the finial of his chair. "You put too much value on company manners, Lady Miss Charlotte."

  His lounging infuriated her yet more. "The value I place is no less than the value any other Englishperson of the aristocracy will place on them."

  Like spectators at a lawn tennis tournament, the children whipped their heads to him.

  "The aristocracy also takes itself too seriously."

  "Be that as it may, this is the world which Robbie and Leila inhabit." Charlotte leaned forward and tapped the table with her finger. "It is an unforgiving one and, my lord, one which will already look on them harshly because of their unorthodox background. Any unmannerly behavior will be noted and mocked by their peers, and this I know, my lord—their peers can be cruel."

  Now Wynter leaned forward, too, his eyes flashing. "I will not allow anyone to mock them!"

  "How will you stop it? Beat up other little boys like
your son? Invade a debutante's boudoir and forbid her laughter?"

  "Papa, I don't like this England. Can't we go back home?"

  Leila's quivering voice recalled Charlotte to her senses. No matter how incensed she was, she had no right to pass her fear to these innocent children. Despite her own experience.

  Taking Leila's hand, she held it between her palms. "Sweetheart, you're going to be so unique, other girls will want to be you."

  Leila sniffed and attempted a wobbling smile.

  But Robbie frowned as forbiddingly as his father, and Wynter…

  Wynter sat with his arms crossed over his chest, glowering at her. "This whole scene is your fault."

  Prudently, Charlotte placed Leila's hand on the table and gave it a pat. "I may have spoken unwisely, but you, sir—"

  "I am reasonable. I am logical." His accent grew as strong as she'd ever heard it. "I am a man."

  Charlotte had to take a breath before she could trust herself not to raise her voice. "In my experience, gender has little to do with logic or reason."

  "Your experience! You have been nowhere."

  How cruel to disparage her for that! For the misfortunes that had made her life a dull and constant duty. "You're right, my lord. I bow to your wisdom. Tell us—how do men and women in other countries differ from the men and women in England?"

  She thought he might try to mumble some nonsense about foreign women knowing their places, but instead he announced, "You are insolent, Lady Miss Charlotte."

  He was wrong, he was immoderate and he was upsetting the children. And she, the lowly governess, was expected to bend to him. She would, of course. She always did, but heat blossomed on her chest and her face, and she knew her fair complexion had betrayed her fury. In as reasonable a voice as she could manage, she said, "I have been hired to teach these children, and you are obstructing me. Unless we can reach some compromise—"

  "I do not compromise," he stated flatly.

  "Ah." Without volition, she shoved back her chair and tossed her napkin on the table. "Then there is no reason for me to remain. I leave you to your supper. I wish you good fortune in finding a governess who suits your exacting standards."