No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  "Mr. Gainsborough does not receive guests without prior notice. He is very busy, and the morning light is best for his eyesight these days." A small, dour young man stood in the front doorway and blocked their passage.

  "Will this make for a better reception?" Avenel tossed three gold coins into the man's palm.

  The footman inspected the money and then allowed them to enter.

  "Who is at that blasted door?" a voice boomed out from a back room. The young footman pursed his lips and stared at the two visitors accusingly.

  "We have come about a painting," Avenel said quietly, wait­ing for the fainter to appear.

  Gainsborough came into the hall wrapped in a blue silk banyan and cap. "A painting, you say? All right, tell me who you ace, so that I may deem you worthy of my canvas or not."

  "We have no desire for you to paint our portraits. Rather, we've come for information about a painting you've com­pleted," Avenel explained, trying to control his impatience.

  "Information? Whatever is this about?" the painter asked.

  Avenel turned the canvas in his hand and almost flung the portrait at the elder man.

  "The Street Chatelaine! She's come back!" the painter ex­claimed.

  "Is she here?" Avenel's eyes narrowed.

  Cumberland placed a restraining hand on his arm.

  "Here? No. Who is she?" Gainsborough asked him.

  "You're telling me that you've painted her portrait but you don't know who she is? I find that utterly unbelievable!" Avenel pushed forward.

  "Still yourself, sir. I am telling you that I painted that por­trait from memory. I don't do it often, but beautiful as she was, she was simply unforgettable. Still, I feel I haven't quite done her justice." Gainsborough became sidetracked as he looked at the limp canvas. "The face is correct. But the rest of her—well, there's just something missing."

  "This, perhaps?" Avenel took the package Cumberland was holding. When he ripped open the brown paper, out flowed yards and yards of hyacinth silk. Shaking it, he gingerly laid the dress against the back of a chair as if its scent and its very presence held bittersweet memories for him.

  "Beautiful gown, I must say. Was it hers?" The painter touched the brocade reverently as if already intent on transfer­ring its lush fabric to the canvas.

  Avenel merely nodded his head. "Tell us, how did you come about meeting her? Was she"—his voice caught with uncharacteristic emotion—"was she all right?"

  "She was a strange creature," Gainsborough talked freely, sensing the man's distress and understanding it. "But in good enough health. Why, she fairly bloomed! It was the damnedest thing. There I was in a bookstore, and not a very proper one at that." He smiled at the men rather jovially, but neither smiled back. "Well, you see, I didn't expect to turn around and see such a beauty. But there she was in the flesh and, of all things, seeking employment! That's why I call her my 'street chate­laine.' She had everything that seemed to make her a great peer—beauty, intelligence, and manners—but there she was looking for a job. It was quite extraordinary. And when I asked to do her portrait, she refused because I wouldn't give her funds for sitting for me. Can you believe it? We had quite a bickering session for never having been introduced. Then the chit up and left. I was never so disappointed in my life when I couldn't find her again."

  "She needed funds, then." Avenel went white. "So this was in London?"

  "Certainly not. I was visiting my sister, Mrs. Mary Gibbon, you see. I used to have a place there, but one grows tired of—"

  "Where?" Avenel demanded sharply, ignoring the painter's conviviality.

  "Good heavens! Why, this was all in Bath, of course."

  "Bath!" Cumberland exclaimed. "My God, she's been right under our noses all the time! That damned letter from Mrs. Whitsome at The Crescent! The new girl, Slane—that must have been Brienne. Oh, how could we have been so stupid?"

  Angrily, Avenel dropped some gold onto the commode in the hallway and said to Gainsborough, "The painting is mine now,-and I would have the girl dressed in this." He tossed the hyacinth brocade to the painter. Then, leaving behind the money, the canvas, the gown, and a stiff thank you, Avenel led Cumberland back to their carriage, where his face took on the look of a madman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Crescent was indeed a lovely house, Brienne thought as she waxed the great desk- bookcase that stood in the study. She arched her back almost unconsciously, looking about her, comparing her present sur­roundings to Osterley. Granted, the rooms were not nearly as large, nor as fashionable. At the Park, the rooms were done in the latest pastel colors, whereas the study at The Crescent, with its deep blue verditer pigmented walls, had the old-fash­ioned look of an earlier time. But the sturdy Kentian pier tables and the Axminster carpet gave it a warmth and intimacy that Osterley lacked.

  But was it her state of mind that made it so? She had been frightened of everything back then, of Osterley and its master. Number One carried no such anxieties for her; perhaps that was why she did not see it as so threatening.

  Unwillingly, her mind remembered back to when she had first seen the master of Osterley. There couldn't have been a more fearsome room than the gallery in which to meet him. She could almost laugh now at how terrified she had been. What a pathetic little creature she must have seemed to that

  The vision she'd summoned of Avenel made her thoughts wander into forbidden territory. What was he doing now? she mused over and over again. Did he ever, in some long, lonely night, think of her? She shut her eyes to this painful question and tried to rid herself of all remembrances of him. It mat­tered little to her what he was doing, she forced herself to believe. He didn't care for her. Rather, he hated her. So she couldn't waste her energy on what might have been. She was better off without Avenel, she thought with rock-hard determi­nation.

  "Ah! Look at you, miss!" Genny, a young maidservant with a nervous twitch, exclaimed from the trompe l'oeil marbled hall.

  "I guess I am a sight." Brienne looked down and saw that umber wax soiled her dress.

  "Mrs. Whitsome said you were not well, miss. You should not work so hard." The maid's cheek twitched, and she gave Brienne a nervous, admiring gaze.

  "I'm fine," Brienne insisted. "But the old desk was desper­ate for wax; perhaps I overdid it." She wiped her hair from her cheek, leaving a dark streak of wax across it. "I'll go and clean up so Mrs. Whitsome will be none the wiser." She grinned at the young girl and disappeared up the servants' stair across the hall.

  It was a tedious chore to have a bath. But when Brienne got to her small room and peered into the polished metal that was her mirror, there was no doubt in her mind that she needed one. She had wax smudged in her hair, on her face, and even in the cleft of her bosom after she removed her fichu. With a great sigh, she donned her brown cloak and made her way through the chilly, covered walkway to the kitchen. It was the only place where the servants could bathe.

  "Love, you're a mess!" The housekeeper greeted her from her Windsor chair.

  "I know. I'm afraid I've gotten wax all over myself."

  "Well, there'll be no lifting heavy water pots for you! I'll get you your bath!" Mrs. Whitsome placed her tatting in the chair

  and went to heat the water. At Mrs. Whitsome's odd remark Cook gave both of them a vaguely curious look, but then, as if she'd spent years minding her own business, excused herself from the kitchens.

  "Please, Mrs. Whitsome, I can prepare my own bath wa­ter." Brienne tossed the housekeeper a quizzical look.

  "No, love. It's no bother, really." Mrs. Whitsome was firm; she gestured for Brienne to remove her clothes.

  "Cook is marketing today? Isn't that rather strange? She usually goes at the beginning of the week." Brienne stood near the fire, having stripped herself of her clothing. She un­consciously rubbed the gentle curve of her belly and watched as the tub was pulled out and filled.

  "The reason is that we're to have a visit. I just received a note to prepare the house."

 
; "The master is coming here?" Brienne shrugged off a mis­begotten shiver of apprehension. She had nothing to worry about, she reminded herself staunchly. After all, Mrs. Whit­some had gotten the new owner to approve of her employ. She remembered the housekeeper telling her about the letter from the estate manager. Considered a mere servant at Num­ber One, Brienne told herself, she would probably not even have to see this man.

  "The new master will be arriving from London today," Mrs. Whitsome informed her.

  "So soon? Why, that's hardly any notice at all." Brienne thanked her for her help and eased herself into the steaming tub before the large kitchen fires. She was more worn out than she had supposed, so instead of scrubbing herself clean, she lay back and closed her eyes.

  "It's their way, these upper crusts. But the house is present­able. I have no qualms." The housekeeper picked up her lacemaking from the Windsor and put it away in her sewing bag. "I've got to check the linens. Will you be all right?"

  "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" Brienne frowned.

  "Have a nice long soak, then. No one will have need to come by the kitchens, so worry not. I'll be back in a few minutes." The housekeeper smiled, ignoring Brienne's question. She then donned her cloak for the chilly passageway and left.

  Quiet settled into the kitchens, and Brienne almost felt her­self doze off in the soothing, warm water. Soon, however, she heard barking from the yard outside the kitchens, and she opened her eyes.

  Now that was strange, she thought. She looked down and saw "my precious" lying close to the fire. The little honey- colored mongrel's ears were pricked up with alertness, and she was growling softly. Knowing there was only one real en­trance to the yard and that that was from the house, Brienne was curious about how another dog could have entered the back.

  She sat up in the tub and looked out one , of the small win­dows that faced the house. Sure enough, there was a dog in the yard, bounding in the damp gardens and barking happily at the closed door, where it heard Cook's mongrel respond. Yet this dog was special. Her face grew pale as Brienne saw that the animal was not only large and beautiful but also as white as snow.

  Forcing herself to remain calm, she lay back in the tub. She knew she was just imagining it. She had to be. The dog that barked at the door could not be Orillion.

  Eyeing again the uncanny look-alike, doubt and apprehen­sion descended upon her like a plague. Was it possible that the dog was Orillion? She bit her lip. Was it possible that Avenel had taken over Number One, as he had the Park, and was now coming for a visit? No, no, she told herself. That could not be. Hadn't Mrs. Whitsome told her that the new master had a title as old as English soil? Avenel Slane had no tide. He was Amer­ican.

  But her thoughts were not put to rest. Suddenly, Brienne heard heavy footsteps coming down the passageway, and panic flared through her like wildfire. The small kitchen seemed to shrink in size like a closing trap. She groped for a towel. But before she could reach the stack of linens on the pine bench, she heard the door crash open behind her. Gasping, she threw her arms over her bosom and sank low into the tub to hide her nakedness. Then she heard from behind her what she dreaded most in the world: an angry, accusing silence.

  God, did she dare to turn around? She knew with utter certainty that everything she had run from was back there in full force and that soon she would again experience the an­guish she had felt at Osterley. It was painful to turn around. But it was not nearly as painful as when her violet eyes met the silver-gray ones, and she was all at once filled with feelings of anger, bitterness, and love.

  "How could you be here?" she accused him, wanting des­perately to sound cold and heartless.

  "I could ask you the same, wildflower. Ah, but finding you here at all has answered that question for me." Avenel's large, splendid frame filled the doorway. Slowly he moved to close the door behind him. Shivering from the cold air that touched her damp skin, Brienne clutched her breasts more tightly.

  "So you've found me." She tried to put on a brave front but wondered how she could reach for the towels without remov­ing her arms from her chest. "But it signifies nothing, for I mean to leave at the first opportunity."

  "Fine. Have it as you will, ragamuffin." He walked toward the tub and ran his hand over her wax-soiled cheeks and hair. "But where will you run next? Your father's house in London? You'd still be living under my roof. Consider it another one of my conquests." Avenel looked down at her; his eyes smoldered with furious desire as they raked up and down her water-clad figure.

  "I am not one of your conquests. I left you, remember? And I shall do it again, even if I must live in the streets," she answered vehemently.

  "You'll never be out on the streets, my love. I'll see to that." With his hard hand he stroked the satin skin on her back, although she suspected that in his angry state he would have preferred to whip it instead. Not daring to move, she closed her eyes and hoped that darkness would dispel the magic of his persuasive touch. The water was still warm, but she was shaking and she desperately wanted him to leave. She wanted him gone so she could dress and escape.

  "I shall choose the streets over you." She finally pulled away from him, fearing that he would advance farther upon her. She would never repeat that last afternoon at Osterley. She would hate herself forever if she did—hate herself for lying with a man who didn't love her and never would. It would be unbearable.

  "You would leave the comforts of a home? Sometimes I think you are touched in the head, love—just as I was told when first I arrived at the Park." He laughed, and his mouth twisted into a painful grin. "But then, I pride myself on know­ing you as no other has. And I see your motivations very clearly."

  "So you see why I would assume a life of hardship. I think it would be a far greater pleasure to be out on the streets whor­ing for all men than whoring just for you." Her eyes locked with his, and she could almost feel the sting of a slap on her face. She was surprised when it didn't come. Instead, she saw his eyes narrow. It was almost admirable, the way he con­trolled himself. Still, she decided, she was not willing to test him again soon.

  "Get out of the tub. Put on your clothes. We're going back to the house," he ordered, this time obviously expecting no retort. But she didn't move to comply. "I said—"

  "I heard you," she replied slowly. Was it modesty that gave rise to her sudden anxiety in her breast? She didn't think so, but the thought of exposing her body to his scrutiny unnerved her beyond reason.

  "Come along, my love. As much as I enjoy the view"—his eyes dropped to the bath water, which only partially hid her voluptuous body—"we must talk. And I think we'd get more said if you were wearing your clothes." He smiled a wicked, tormenting smile.

  "Turn around," she ordered. "Turn your back. Then I'll get dressed."

  "What maidenly shyness! But you know you have nothing to show me that I've not seen before." Insolently, he took a seat on the pine bench before her. "Get up now." He held out a towel for her to step into.

  "No," Quickly she reached for the stack of towels, but he merely slid them out of her reach. She was forced to reclasp her arms over her chest.

  "Let me assure you that I can control my lust in the presence of your naked body. Get up," he ordered again.

  "Please turn around." She made another attempt to save herself; from what, she wasn't exactly sure.

  "Brienne"—he bent and put his hand firmly on the nape of her neck—"I said I can control my lusts. Don't make me not want to."

  "Please."

  "What are you afraid of? It's as if you have something in that naked body of yours to hide. . . ." His words dwindled. Suddenly a gleam appeared in his eyes, and he growled, "Get out of that tub."

  "Avenel, don't." She knew what he was thinking.

  "Now!" Before she could fight him, he placed his strong hands under her arms and forced her up. Bath water sloshed up on his waistcoat and breeches, but he seemed not to notice. All he did was stare at her body and at the slight changes that had taken place since h
e'd seen it last.

  "Let me go!" She began to struggle, and immediately he put her down. Scrambling out of the tub, Brienne grabbed the nearest towel and pulled back from his tall, lithe body, cover­ing herself with the linen.

  "The child must be big, if already—"

  "There is no child!" she screamed at him.

  "Brienne!" He stood up and went to her. "Tell me. I have a right to know."

  "Damn you! Damn you!" she cried out and backed away closer to the fire. "Why did you have to find me?" Twisting beneath his gaze, how she wanted to deny what was happen­ing! How she wanted to scream and cry that it was not so! But deep down she knew it would be for naught. The absolute demand for truth on Avenel's face told her he would be relentless.

  He walked closer, and she stepped back until she felt the scorch of the fire at back. His hand, sure and strong, reached for her belly, but she brushed it away. She tried to hide behind the towel, but he grabbed it from her and tossed it across the room. Gasping in shock, she glared at him and watched him rest his hand on her naked abdomen.

  "It's true," he whispered to her, and suddenly she too was caught up in the unbearable realization. She had refused to come to terms with what was happening to her body until now. But now she knew it was obvious. Although her belly still looked young and sleek, a slight curve to it now was mak­ing her laces harder and harder to tie up each morning. Her breasts had become tender and fuller.

  And she knew Avenel missed not a detail. The changes were just that much more dramatic because he had not seen her for so many weeks. Although she had been able to hide the small changes from the servants who saw her every day, looking up at his face now, she knew she wasn't hiding it any longer.

  For a long moment every possible emotion seemed to cross his hard, angular face. There was a brief flash of guilt, fol­lowed by amazement and then by doubting fury. But when he spoke his voice was calm and reflective. "You, of course, claim I am the father."

  "I claim no such thing." She tried to grab her cloak, which was flung over the back of the Windsor, but he kept her from it, easily holding her by the waist.