No Choice But Surrender

by Meagan Mckinney

  Yet he hadn't seemed to hear her. He'd undressed her down to her shift, which was wet and nearly transparent. Only after his fingers accidently brushed over her breast and his hand began to shake did he finally step back and allow her to finish.

  "Put this on." He tossed her a purple velvet dressing gown.

  Catching it, she waited for him to avert his eyes. When he failed to do so, she turned around, pulled the white cotton shift over her head, and hastily donned the robe. When she turned around to face him again, she realized she had not been modest enough. For she saw in his eyes the familiar gleam of naked, unfulfilled desire.

  Silence filled the room, and Brienne stiffly settled herself in a chair. Dwelling morbidly on the future, she hardly took no­tice of her meal when it arrived. The little maid, Genny, who had taken Brienne's note to Ralph Harcourt, served them both from a huge silver tray. The young servant made no reference to their earlier encounter, and Brienne watched her leave thankfully, trying not to think about what she would say to Ralph so that he would take her away from The Crescent.

  Along with dinner Genny had also brought a glass of brandy for Avenel. He sat leisurely in an armchair, drinking his brandy and frowning. The fragrant steam that rose before her from the roast lamb and hot fig pudding made Brienne realize how hungry she was. Using her meal as an excuse not to acknowledge Avenel's presence, she ate her dinner. Only when she had completely finished did she notice that Avenel had stopped frowning.

  "Leave that. You're not a serving wench." He scowled when he saw her pick up her tray.

  "It's awkward now. Don't you see that?" Her eyes flashed angrily as she put down the tray. After resettling herself in her chair, she watched the fire and soon grew sleepy.

  "Do you remember the night we spent at the cottage, wild­flower?" Speaking to her softly, he, too, stared at the fire's mesmerizing flames. The sadness in his voice brought a lump to Brienne's throat, but she reminded herself that it was she who loved him and not he who loved her.

  "No," she lied.

  "I recall that I awoke that night and didn't know who you were. With that beautiful face, I thought you were a peasant girl brought in for my salvation. But when I awoke from the fever back at Osterley and knew who I'd really been envi­sioning, I was so sorry that you weren't that other girl, the girl with no past." He looked at her intently. "Why do you think that was?"

  "You were delirious with fever. It's the only answer," she forced herself to say. Why was he torturing her like this? Was he trying to give her another lesson in humiliation? Violently she forced all her thoughts to Ralph Harcourt and to how she would be free tomorrow, at last.

  Seeing her pensive face, Avenel walked up to her and stared at her until Brienne could no longer stand his piercing gaze. Giving him an angry, repudiating look, she expected him to back away. But instead Avenel bent and kissed her, innocently taking her soft mouth to his.

  She should have refused him. She should have turned her head away and clearly shown him the distaste she had for his touch. But then his kiss should have repulsed her. It should have made her feel victorious in her decision to flee, victori­ous in her feelings about him.

  She moaned. Oh, but it didn't. Instead, a wild, reckless yearn­ing leaped up in her. Desperately she tried to deny what was happening to her, but all too soon she knew she couldn't help herself. Avenel was dangerous, even more so when he was quiet and gentle. Opening her mouth to him, she saw herself falling back into the net he had cast upon her at Osterley. She would have to get away tomorrow; her thoughts whirled around her in a frenzied manner. Tomorrow she would have to get away. . . .

  She felt a jolt of surprise run down his body when he recog­nized her needy response, and she was surprised when he stopped kissing her. He moved to leave her, but Brienne dung to him with hunger that exceeded his own.

  "What is this?" He looked down at her after the kiss had ended. "Has my lovely young virgin grown lonely in the past weeks?" His gray eyes mocked her.

  "I am no virgin," she stated, feeling shame at her response to him. She had tried to sound accusing, but somehow her words just came out low and husky.

  "And perhaps 'tis a good thing, too." His warm, hard knuckles moved down her breastbone until they were lost in­side the velvet dressing gown. With a shiver that ran up her spine, she felt him brush her nipple with his thumb until it became hard and sensitive. Looking up at him, she saw invita­tion in his face, but still she was hesitant and doubtful.

  "I can almost see love in your eyes, Avenel. But when you're through with me tonight, what will be there in its stead tomorrow?"

  "If you think you see love, then believe it is there, wild­flower." He bent to kiss her once more, and then slowly he picked her up from the chair and placed her on the turned- down bed. With a strange mixture of gratitude and shame, tension and relief, she let him remove her dressing gown. Then, bare and lovely, she placed his palm over the softly rounded part of her belly that was their child. He seemed enchanted by that little curve, and he stroked her and then moved down to kiss her. His lips left a trail of liquid desire wherever they touched her silken skin.

  "I've missed you, little one."

  He rid himself of his clothes, and before she could fathom what was taking place, he was holding her next to him, wor­shiping her like a goddess with his large, masterful body. His kisses were long and unsettling. They left her weakened but at the same time greedy for more. She moaned beneath his ca­ressing hand, saying over and over again, "I want this, I want this." Yet when she moved to say, "But how can this be?" his lips ferociously covered hers, not allowing her to finish, as if to say that tonight there were no contradictions. And even though she knew better, she believed him.

  Hearing him groan, she felt the ultimate proof of his desire along the smooth satin of her inner thigh. His hands went possessively to her breast, and after filling his palms with her sweet flesh, he lowered his mouth to taste them. Sighing with fulfillment, she reveled in the moment; her mind, body, and soul ached with love for this man. He was her dark-haired lover, and it was so easy to forget everything when he worked his. particular magic on her.

  Only when he strove to mount her did reality intervene. Her concern must have been evident when her hand went to her belly, but slowly he moved it away, reassuring her that the baby would not suffer from their lovemaking. She watched as he balanced himself on his corded arms, being careful not to unduly rest his weight upon her. She opened herself to him, letting his thrusts push her to a pinnacle of unbearable plea­sure.

  "Never leave me again, Brienne. Never leave me again." Avenel groaned above her. Though she tossed her head back and forth, unable to come up with an answer, in the end she was able to ease her lonely ache only by pulling him onto her and finally holding him so close that she feared his back would show her marks in the morning.

  In the time that followed they lay side by side on the white feather mattress in peaceful silence. Even with the dim light of the candles, she knew he was near. Her softly tapered leg fit intimately between his own. With every breath she took she thought only of him. Her senses reeled in the aftermath of their pleasure, and she resented the sound of servants' voices that even now rang through the house. The sound was too intrusive. They reminded her of the real world with all its contradictions and complications.

  "Brienne."

  "Must you speak?" She raised herself to her elbows and kissed Avenel full on the mouth.

  "Listen."

  "I cannot." She kissed him again, hoping they could once again succumb to the hushed, dreamlike state of their love- making.

  "Love, come back to Osterley." His voice was strained. "For that I'll give you anything you want, anything I have. Just don't fight me anymore, little one. Come back to Osterley with me, and whatever you want is yours."

  Brienne paused a moment before speaking. "I will go back with you for one thing only."

  "Your price?"

  "There is no price. Not even your wealth can buy me wha
t I desire." She took a long, deep breath to still her trembling breast.

  "So what is it you want?" He raised one jet eyebrow mis­trustfully.

  I want to be the girl ivith no past, she thought, looking back into the fire. I want you to love me.

  "Brienne? What is it you desire?" his voice prodded low and gentle.

  She closed her eyes. Was it poindess to tell him of her true feelings? Would she again look pitiful, once more revealing her love for a man who couldn't love her?

  "Say that you love me, Avenel." She moved from him slightly to look into his handsome face. His eyes were shad­owed in the flickering light, and she wasn't sure how to read them. "Just say the words to me." She hesitated and then whis­pered, "As I have spoken them to you."

  "There are things you don't understand, wildflower." Thoughtfully he stroked her rich hair, which spilled over his chest.

  "I understand everything. My father is between us." Sud­denly she felt herself panic. "Just say the words, Avenel. If you told me you loved me, I would gladly go back to the Park. For that I would even gladly be your whore."

  "Never say that word to me again!" He shot up from the bed. His body, outlined by the fire, was sleek and fit. He paced the room like a lithe African cat held in a cage.

  "Avenel!" she cried out. "Please don't be angry! It's not your anger I want."

  "Then don't say that word. It does not become you."

  "I won't. Just tell me you love me." She clasped at the velvet robe that lay by her side. Nervously she waited to hear the words, but he did not speak. "I know marriage was not good for my mother. But I'm not asking you for that now. Right now I don't care a whit for my reputation. Just say the words, Avenel. It's all I ask. Please." She looked at his large powerful back, now turned to her to hide the expression on his face. And it must be terrible indeed, she thought half-heart­edly, wondering how she would ever win back her pride if he refused her request.

  " 'Tis not a matter of love. I'm afraid it never has been," he said dismally. "There's so much you don't understand, Brienne, things even about yourself."

  "Then tell me! Make me understand!" Anxiously she placed her dressing gown over her bosom, as if by hiding her naked­ness she could hide her vulnerability. She then watched as he fingered a small Meissen figurine on the mantel. It was so fragile and delicate next to his strong hand that the two seemed incongruous. But she was not going to be the porce­lain girl, she told herself. She was not going to wait for a knock of his hand to shatter her very existence. He had not said the words. So from now on she would force her emotions to become as hard as the diamonds on her comb. It was the only way she could survive.

  "This is very unwise." Avenel grappled with his decision to talk to her. "The situation is already dangerously out of hand. But I will explain." He turned to her, but she scooted back on the bed, refusing his seductive touch. After he noted her reac­tion, his mouth formed a mean, hard line, and he said spite­fully, "You belittle yourself one minute, and the next you're once again Lady Brienne, estranged daughter of a make-believe earl. Make up your mind, little one. Are you beneath me or above me?" He went to her and grabbed her in his arms.

  "I am above you, you rutting beast," she spat at him, feeling hurt, beyond repair.

  "Then play out your part." He tossed her gently but angrily back onto the bed. "But remember—everything lies with me, Lady Brienne. Everything. And words of love won't change the circumstances except make them even more bloody com­plicated than they already are." He gathered up his clothes to retire from the room.

  "Everything does not lie with you. You believe you've such control. But even with all your colonial money and your pre­cious Osterley, Oliver Morrow still has the one thing you lack. He still has the power of his title and with it the power of fear."

  "Oliver Morrow has nothing, I tell you. Nothing! I have made sure of it! But if it's the power of the Labordes you fear, then cower before the last, lovely maid, for I possess all their power and more." When he stopped speaking, Brienne was silent. He seemed puzzled by her reaction to his sudden an­nouncement. "What, are you not going to refute what I have said? Or denounce my earldom? I have now relieved you of all vestiges of your infamous, yet useful, heritage, and I hear no sound coming from your lips."

  "I don't believe you," Brienne finally said, wondering even herself if she didn't.

  "And what don't you believe? That my name is actually Avenel Slane Morrow? That a ruthless ship's captain named Quentin Spense could have the acting ability to last for the run of a play for twenty years? That he, who looked enough like the true Oliver Morrow, was able to kill my father before he could get back to England, the land he had left many years earlier? Or is this what you cannot bring yourself to believe." He looked spiteful. "That he could do enough damage to the earl's offspring that they would hardly present a threat to his masquerade? Are my scars not real enough for you?"

  "Don't say another word. My mother wouldn't marry an imposter! She was beautiful and wealthy! She would not have been a party to such trickery!"

  "She did not know. She was young and perhaps believed herself in love. But she did leave him eventually. My guess is she found out the truth but was too powerless to do anything about it."

  "No! She wanted me to be the daughter of an earl! She wanted me to have my tide, at least! And my comb! That proves that what you say is false! It is part of the Laborde jewels!"

  "Think, love. Who has the piece that matches the comb? Not your father." Brienne thought back to the night when Avenel had brought her the beautiful amethyst necklace. Then she hadn't seen the connection, but now she knew that if she looked at the two pieces closely she would see that they matched. And the Laborde seal was probably even stamped somewhere on the necklace, exactly as it was on her comb.

  "You're mad. Crazed. My father won't relinquish his title to you." She held fast, despite her doubts.

  "He never had a title to relinquish," Avenel said disgust­edly.

  "But he'll never give it up." Brienne felt her insides turn to ice. "He'll see us both die before he'd do that."

  "So you understand."

  She nodded her head slowly; her realization grew out of fear for her child.

  "Then you can understand why I must hold you at a dis­tance."

  "Yes," she said numbly.

  "I'm sorry," he said. He walked up to her and placed his hand on her hair.

  But Brienne's mind cried out for time to sort out the mean­ing of his words. "I have no need for the company of an earl," she whispered. "Please go."

  "Avec plaisir. Just be ready to return to Osterley in the morn­ing," Avenel snapped, and he stalked out of the room without even bothering to button his breeches. Watching him go, Brienne felt sorrow for them both. They were struggling so hard, and there seemed to be no end to their troubles. But when Avenel closed her door behind him, she felt the frost melt inside her. When she wept, she wept for herself alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The next morning, after a pain­fully restless night, Brienne was in her room packing her be­longings. Genny was helping her, and amidst the sounds of sliding drawers and swooshing silks, she asked the little maid, "How long did they say they'd be gone?"

  "Mr. Cumberland and the master were to see about fixing the carriage. It seems they made such a mad dash to get to Bath that the master feared they might have sprung something in their wake." Genny lovingly folded several aprons.

  "Mr. Harcourt did tell you he would be here this morn­ing?" Brienne asked for the hundredth time.

  "Oh, yes, miss. Most assuredly he did." Genny nodded, a frazzled look on her face. Brienne knew something—or rather someone—had made the girl jump.

  If only Ralph would get here before they return, Brienne thought as she quickly packed her last gown. She wasn't taking much—only the clothes she'd acquired while at The Crescent* She was leaving to Genny the care of the other gowns that had been brought from Osterley. She wouldn't be needing those any longer.
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  Anxiously, Brienne thanked Genny for her help during the hours since Avenel had arrived. She then took her willow bas­kets and waited for Ralph in the drawing room, knowing from there she would more easily hear his carriage pull up than from her room. How she hoped and prayed he would be here soon!

  Brienne had hardly believed her good fortune when Genny brought her her morning chocolate and told her about Avenel's absence. Taking fate by the horns, she'd wasted not a moment and had quickly packed so she would be ready for Ralph's arrival. Brienne was still not sure what she was going to tell him, but she knew she had to take her chance while she had it. Although at first she'd scoffed at the idea of Avenel's daring to stop her if she chose to go with another man, she had taken pause, thinking of all the things in the past that Avenel had dared to do. It was then that Brienne knew it was better to sneak out of Number One like a thief than to try to leave openly.

  As she waited in the drawing room, she tried desperately to ease her jumping nerves. She gazed at the painted ceiling, letting her eyes follow the curves and plumage of the wreathed honeysuckle and husked festoons. It was a calming sight and in marked contrast to the street noise that seeped through even the tightest window frames. Outside the sedan chairs carried the rheumatic and the gout-ridden. Morning was the time to take the cure, and the convalescents spent it in the baths. Then, wrapped up like babes in swaddling, they were carried right to their beds in the black sedan chairs. The only good thing about the odd Bath traffic was that the sound of a carriage could easily be distinguished from it. And Brienne was certain that Ralph would want to take his bride away in his carriage.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, Brienne heard wheels creak to a halt in front of the house. She stood up and de­scended the main stairs, clutching her willow baskets. There was knocking at the front door, and she stood in the empty, faux marble hall, watching as the footman answered the door.