Charlotte hesitated, torn between the propriety of asking for a lady's drink and setting Adorna at ease with her unladylike choice of spirits. It proved no contest. "A brandy, please."
A slight smile played around Wynter's mouth as he poured a good amount of the golden liquid into two snifters and presented them with a bow to each lady. Then he sprawled on the opposite end of the sofa from Charlotte. There was space between them for another body, yet the odious boy took as much room as he could. He spread his legs, flung one arm across the carved back so his fingertips lingered close by Charlotte's shoulder, and he turned to face her, considering her without any seeming conscience.
Charlotte returned the favor, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she took a sip of the brandy— and shuddered.
"Dreadful stuff, isn't it, Lady Miss Charlotte?" Wynter drawled. "Yet your Englishmen make it a point to overindulge at every chance."
Charlotte took another, larger sip, and Adorna realized the two had reached a stage of combat, fighting in silence with raised chins and stern demeanors.
"Wynter, your coffee will be here at any moment," she interposed hurriedly. "You both must be wondering why I asked you to attend me tonight."
That got their attention. Both gazes focused on her, razor-sharp and vigilant.
"When I hired you, Charlotte, I confess I did not divulge my total intentions. The children do need to be trained in courtesy, but with them we have time." After a single sip, Adorna placed her snifter on the table by her elbow. "As I'm sure you realize, it is Wynter who is facing society every day, and who needs guidance."
Comprehension slammed into Wynter. So that was his mother's plan. He had known she was cooking something up, but this…Anger rose in him.
From Charlotte's open dismay he deduced she knew nothing of his mother's scheme. In matter of fact, she stared at him as if he were a tiger crouched for the kill. He allowed himself the pleasure of frightening her yet further by watching her with unfeigned hunger.
She looked away, her gesture as unconfined as her voice was calm. Taking another sip of brandy, she said, "While I certainly understand your concern for Lord Ruskin's conduct, I believe I'm unsuited for the job. Why not hire a tutor for him?"
Charlotte's ready agreement that he needed instruction raised Wynter's ire higher yet.
"Can you imagine any man being willing to place himself under the tutelage of another man?" Adorna replied. "It would never work."
"It works with boys," Charlotte argued.
"But Wynter is a man. Look at the way he responds when Lord Bucknell suggests the least improvement!"
Bucknell. Wynter snorted. Proper, pompous old geezer.
"You see?" Adorna gestured toward her son. "Gentlemen do not snort."
Wynter snorted again.
"There are a great many masculine places I have never visited—the clubs, the racetrack, even the dining room after dinner." Charlotte seemed to be swallowing the brandy very easily now, and color rode high on her cheeks. "How can I successfully instruct him?"
His mother was convincing her, Wynter thought, for her voice was faintly pleading. How did he feel about that? To have Charlotte telling him what to do and how to do it? It had taken a great swallowing of pride to have her brought back to the terrace today, and if not for his children's sorrowful faces he would never have given in.
"You've been around him enough, Charlotte, to know it's not truly his manners that are the problem." Adorna must have seen something in Charlotte's demeanor that indicated disbelief, for she added, "Oh, there are a few things that could do with correction. But he grew up in England. He remembers the basics."
"If that were the case"—Charlotte turned her cool gaze on him—"his endless impertinence would be nothing but a boy's grab for attention and rather than a governess he would need discipline."
"Or perhaps"—Wynter spoke through bared teeth— "he would need someone who could successfully explain to him the reason for the constant and silly posturing demanded by noble English society."
Adorna interrupted before they could fling any more insults at each other. "Charlotte, dear! You must realize it's the subtleties he's not grasping. How to wear his clothes—"
"Uncomfortably," Wynter interjected.
"—what to say and when to say it. He is far too—"
"Honest," Wynter interrupted again.
"—open in his appreciations and his dislikes." Adorna glared at him.
"I have just started making progress with the children. To take time away from them now would cause irreparable harm," Charlotte said firmly.
Ah, Charlotte. If she only knew how irresistable she was making herself to him! Her dimpled chin and softly rounded cheeks belonged to a woman of tender character, but her cool gaze and staunch independence renounced such spineless attributes. Yet when she spoke of his children, she couldn't hide the truth. His children were not duties to Charlotte, but treasures to be cherished. Did she realize how attractive her kindness made her?
No, she couldn't, or she would bury those characteristics deep inside and never allow him a glimpse. In fact, that must be what she had done on her previous posts or she would not be here for the plucking.
"I have kept him away from entertainments for fear of what he would say, but soon he must go out into the ton! The gossip has started and unless we take action soon, irreparable damage will be done. But what more damage can he do by telling a young lady who is flirting with him that she should return to her father for guidance? Or by pointing out the absurdity of whist? Or by scolding a lord for overworking his kitchen help?" Adorna gave a delicate shudder.
Wynter stared at the appalled ladies with wide, innocent eyes. This began to grow amusing. As he struggled with the proof of past embezzling within the business, he could use some amusement. The amount that had been embezzled, he'd discovered, was not enough to cause harm to the prosperity of Ruskin Shipping. But still, until he found the culprit, he couldn't rest easy.
And his mother was right. He could learn from Charlotte without resentment, for she cheered him with her endless tact, the seriousness with which she presented society's foibles, and that dimple in her soundly upraised chin. "I go into the city every day now. Any lessons would have to take place after the children were in bed."
Adorna flashed him an approving glance—well, of course she would, she had handled him—but addressed Charlotte. "Which sounds as if we've doubled your duties, and in a way we have, but we would allow you an extra half day off a week and raise your salary."
The high color left Charlotte's cheeks. She looked down to veil her thoughts, and she visibly struggled with temptation. Money meant much to a woman who made her way alone in this world. Wynter comprehended that very well.
In her husky, persuasive voice, Adorna said, "Charlotte, dear, this was why I came to the Governess School, to find someone like you for Wynter. As merchants, we are on probation with good society anyway."
How that irritated him! That constant insistence that people who worked were less valued than those who were idle, and those of ancient lineage were sacred, regardless of their worth. If his Bedouins had thought so, he would be nothing but bleached bones buried in the sand—but he supposed he couldn't expect the aristocratic English to display a tenth of the intelligence of a man of the desert. A man who earned his place by his wiles, his strength and his will to live.
Adorna drew breath, then continued, "If he sustains his present course, not even my good connections can save him from utter ostracization—and that will harm the children's future."
"Unfair," Charlotte murmured.
She meant the use of the children as a persuader, but Adorna pretended not to understand. "It is unfair, but it's true. And it's not as if you'll be teaching him forever. Only until the Sereminian reception has come and gone."
Charlotte caressed the rim of the snifter. Such graceful fingers, Wynter mused. Thin and well-kept, with a plain gold band on one index finger. A keepsake from a lover? He
spoke his first thought. "Where did you get the ring, Lady Miss Charlotte?"
Even his mother was taken aback by the seemingly random question. "Wynter, don't change the subject."
"No, it's quite all right. This was my mother's wedding ring." Charlotte smoothed it with a fingertip. "I didn't steal it, if that is your suggestion."
Shocked, he said, "No! Thievery is not your way."
"If you truly believe that," Charlotte said, "then perhaps in the future you might refrain from interjecting a personal question in such an accusatory tone."
Gravely, he nodded. "You are right, Lady Miss Charlotte."
Adorna giggled with delight. "See? I know this will work. Oh, please, Charlotte, if you don't have a care for my name, please think of England's reputation. We mustn't fail to present our best foot forward to the Sereminian delegation!"
"I doubt if the Sereminian delegation will comprehend the complexities of English society any better than Wynter does." But Charlotte had obviously weakened.
Adorna added the final fillip to Charlotte's banquet of dismay. "Queen Victoria will be our guest along with the Sereminians."
Charlotte's fingers tightened in her lap. "Her Majesty? Here?" She gazed on Wynter in open consternation. She looked at his bare feet, the legs protruding from beneath his djellaba, his untidy sprawl. "With him?"
Solemnly, he bowed his head—and wiggled his toes. "I am sure I would impress the queen with my forthright manner, for she is surely wise and strong."
"No," Charlotte blurted. "Her Majesty wouldn't be impressed. Very well, Adorna, I will try, but only in the evenings, and…and I wish my salary to double during these months."
"Double?" Adorna, ever the businesswoman, looked taken aback.
But Wynter gave one quick nod of the head.
"Double, then." Adorna gave in with a brilliant smile.
Charlotte drained her glass, then stood. She listed slightly to the right, and Wynter put out his hand to steady her. But she shook him off. "If that's all, then I will retire to my chambers."
"That's all," Adorna confirmed.
Moving with the immense dignity of the tipsy, Charlotte made her way out of the room, still holding the glass. Mother and son watched her go.
"Dear me," Adorna commented when she was gone. "It would seem Charlotte has little tolerance for brandy."
"It would seem not." Wynter leaned toward at his wily parent. "Perhaps in the future we should limit her consumption."
"Yes…" Adorna picked up her own glass and sipped. "Unless we need to convince her of something more."
"Someone should make sure she finds her way to her bedchamber."
Adorna picked up the bell. "I'll call Miss Symes."
He stopped her with a gesture. "Let me take care of this matter. I want to clarify to Miss Priss what her duties are in regards to me."
Adorna smiled at him coaxingly. "Now, Wynter, you're not really upset with me for my little ruse, are you?"
"Mother, you are full of little ruses. This one scarcely surprises me." But Wynter was his mother's son. He would accept Adorna's scheme because it would conceal so well his own rapidly forming plan— a difficult endeavor, given his mother's remarkable intuition. But he had something most people did not. He had experience in fooling Adorna. It had been a necessary skill in his boyhood. "I'll cooperate, but she needs to know her place."
He saw Adorna's ire visibly rise, and her blue eyes snapped. "It is just that kind of statement that makes it necessary to engage a governess for you."
"I don't know why." He stood and bowed. "I must catch my new teacher. Good night, Mother."
CHAPTER 10
Wynter left his indolence at Adorna's door. He knew where Charlotte's bedchamber was; this afternoon after their tiff he'd made it his business to know. If he hurried, he could net her in the portrait gallery, which was large, dim and exactly suited to his strategy. Catching a glimpse of her skirt ahead of him in the corridor, he slowed down and took care that his bare feet made no sound. He didn't need to apprehend her yet. The gallery was around the next corner.
He'd never before met a woman willing to quit her livelihood for a principle. He had never met a woman so dedicated to that which she believed right. He'd never met a woman who gave him such a pain in the bum.
He'd never met a woman he wanted so much.
He could see her moving through alternating bands of light and dark as she glided past each wall sconce in a stately progress. She gave an impression of serenity, yet beneath her facade of composure lurked a lady of passion.
She didn't know it. She didn't comprehend the tension that shivered between them like a winter mist, and that in itself intrigued him. A woman of her age couldn't be completely untouched…could she?
She rounded the corner toward the portrait gallery, and again he picked up his pace.
He never thought of her without wondering how she would look deprived of the gowns of blue and misty gray she so favored. The petticoats would have to go, also, and the corset she insisted on wearing despite his assurance she did not require it.
How long would it take him to melt that spine, to ease her backward on the cushions, to uncover her breasts and to kiss his way down her stomach and between her legs? What tactics would he have to use to ease her trepidation, to make her forget her ever-present manners and her inbred constraint? Would she fight him? Try to freeze him? Chide him?
Yes. Charlotte would try to combat primitive urges with civilized behavior. After all, he himself had tried to do just that while in the desert.
It hadn't worked. Domestication could never win out over savage instinct.
Rounding the corner, he entered the portrait gallery. Although the far door was directly opposite, he could see only the outline through the shadow and across the distance. But he knew the room; it hadn't changed since his childhood. Chairs clustered in groups around the few tables. Small, seldom-used guest chambers hid behind closed doors. The walls of the long chamber rose out of sight in a gloom candles could not ease. On one side velvet curtains of a rich crimson covered the tall windows. On the other, pictures of men on horses, of ladies posed with their children, of landscapes foreign and familiar covered the wall from floor to ceiling. There was even a portrait of the youthful Wynter with his spaniel.
If one were sensitive, one might grow uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many watching eyes.
Charlotte glided along unperturbed.
Until Wynter got close. Then somehow she sensed his presence and whirled to face him, hands up in ready defense.
He stopped at once, taking care not to approach too close too quickly. He didn't want to alarm her—yet. "Lady Miss Charlotte." He bowed. "I have sought after you."
She placed her palm to her chest as if to contain her heart. He liked to think because she thrilled to see him, but he considered it more likely he had frightened her.
Sounding faintly breathless and looking annoyed, she asked, "My lord, what assistance can I render you?"
If he told her the truth, she would chide him. "I thought it would be good if we discussed our plans without the restrictive presence of my mother."
"Our plans?" Charlotte sounded alarmed.
"Where we should meet, how much we should do, how late we should remain together…" Faced with her wide-eyed horror, he had to relent. "For the lessons in English manners which you will give me."
"Oh!" She glanced around at the paintings that lined the walls as if they could speak and get her out of this predicament. "I knew what you meant."
Offering his arm, he said, "Shall we walk?"
Obviously, she didn't want to place her hand on his arm, but what could she do? Be rude and say no? He'd discovered just that afternoon that maneuvering Charlotte required only a subtle mind and the judicious application of courtesy.
She stepped just close enough for her ungloved fingers to flit onto his sleeve.
"Your hand settles as lightly as a butterfly." He pressed his hand over hers. "And l
ike a butterfly, you are shy and unaware of the jeweled beauty of your femininity." Before she even absorbed the compliment, he started pacing along the wall. "I want to meet in the old nursery. Do you know where that is?"
"Um." She cleared her throat delicately, and again like a butterfly, her fingers fluttered beneath his. "On the third floor?"
"The second. It was my nursery when I was a child. The furniture has been removed, which I find much more to my taste than the overrigged chambers of modern society. Chairs, sofas and tables enough so a man can't move without banging his shins! Drapes and tassels in every conceivable color! And every surface covered with gewgaws." He slid a glance toward Charlotte.
With her eyes downcast and her hair pinned up, she might have been the perfect lady. Except she was smiling.
He pounced on that. "Ah. You agree with me!"
"I myself prefer a plainer style than is currently fashionable." That she admitted anything about her preferences told him she was indeed under the influence of the brandy. "But I don't allow myself to be caught in a criticism of anyone's taste."
It almost seemed a shame to take advantage of her intoxication. Almost. "Nor do I. I would share my thoughts only with one such as you, whom I know to be compatible."
She stiffened again, overreacting to the mere suggestion of their affinity. Yes, good. She was far too aware of him and unable to hide her discomfort. Just as he was far too aware of her, and the sight and scent of her brought an ache to his groin. Because he had been too long without a woman, yes. But also because…she was Charlotte.
"Is that not the right word—'compatible'?" he asked in feigned misgiving. "I meant only that you and I think in a like manner."
"You most certainly used the word correctly." She gave assurance easily. "I don't know that I would agree."
"But you must!" he protested. "You believe that the education of my children is the most important task facing this household."
Rules of Surrender Page 8
