The Earl's Complete Surrender

by Sophie Barnes

  It wasn’t so much a question as a suggestion that she would be wise to accept.

  As reluctant as she was to give him his prize, she managed to say, “I’d be delighted, my lord.”

  His eyes dropped to her lips for the briefest second—­enough to make her mouth go completely dry. Looking back up, he allowed a faint smile. “Likewise,” he murmured. He did not touch her, and yet it felt as though she’d just been caressed. Her legs wobbled a little, her breaths embarrassingly revealing of the torment he stirred to life within her. With hesitant steps, she retreated, relieved when he made no attempt to follow.

  “Shall we say, the terrace, in half an hour?” Woodford called after her.

  With a nod of agreement that seemed to proclaim her fate, she proceeded toward the equipment room in order to return her vest and foil to their proper places. Returning to the exercising room a moment later, she realized with a start that Woodford had removed his vest and that his shirt was undone at the neck while the thin fabric clung to his well-­defined chest. Heat stirred to life in her belly and she hastily glanced away, swallowing hard as she passed him. “Thank you for the match,” she said as she reached the exit. Hopefully she didn’t sound as daft as she suspected. “If you’ll excuse me, I’d best return upstairs.”

  James stared after her. Christ almighty, she was incredible—­brave in her defiance even as uncertainty and apprehension had marred her beautiful features. But in spite of her fears—­hell, in spite of all that was proper—­she’d held her own against him, surprising him with her skill and . . . making him want her even more.

  For a few moments during their match, she’d allowed the mask of perfection she struggled so valiantly to uphold, to slip, allowing him a glimpse of the same Lady Newbury he’d seen on the rooftop—­a fiery woman brimming with passion.

  Recalling the rapid rise and fall of her chest, he felt his body tightening once more. The effect she had on him was not the least bit proper—­least of all when she’d slid her pink tongue along those ripe lips of hers. Once again, a subtle hint of chamomile and lemons had teased his senses, leaving him to wonder if the scent was from her perfume or from her soap. Either way, the thought only made him more uncomfortable.

  On a groan of frustration, he strode toward the equipment room and thrust his vest aside. Hains­worth was right. James ought to stay away from her—­at least until the journal was found and The Electors apprehended. But he wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to delve inside her head either. Perhaps once their walk was over he’d find a way to distance himself from her. He’d like to think that he was professional enough to accomplish such a thing, no matter how tempting Lady Newbury’s company might be.

  After freshening up a little and getting changed, James went to meet the lady in question at precisely five o’clock. The sun was no longer high in the sky, but retreating behind the treetops on the western side of the lake, softening the tones in the garden. “So?” James asked, prodding Lady Newbury gently as they walked toward the Chinese pavilion. “Why did my anger frighten you the other day? You knew it wasn’t directed at you.”

  Looking away from him, she kept silent. James said nothing further, deciding to allow her the time that she needed. It was clear that she was finding the situation difficult, but she’d made the wager and he respected her for not shying away from it.

  “The first time I saw Lord Newbury, I thought him the handsomest man in the world,” she finally said as they reached the pavilion and crossed the arched bridge leading onto it. “I had just made my debut and was filled with all the romantic notions of any young girl.” She sighed wistfully and James imagined her thinking back on her younger years with longing. Stepping up to the pavilion’s railing, she looked out across the water. “My gown was a special order from the Belle Anglaise, made of the finest cream-­colored silk and embroidered with gold thread.”

  “I’m sure you must have been quite sought after. Especially as the Earl of Oakland’s daughter.”

  “Oh, indeed,” Lady Newbury said, not quite managing a smile. “My dance card filled up quickly and . . . Newbury requested the waltz.” Her lips trembled ever so slightly. “It was everything I’d hoped for. He was both charming and interesting. The other gentlemen paled by comparison and once he started courting me in earnest, the rest of my family fell in love with him too.” She went silent, her chest rising and falling in response to deep inhalations.

  “But?” James asked after a few moments had passed.

  Dipping her head, she brushed her thumb against the grain of the wood railing, seemingly studying the texture. “It was too good to be true,” she finally said. “The fairy tale lasted no more than a week into our marriage, at which point Newbury began revealing his true self.”

  James’s spine stiffened. “In what way?”

  Her shoulder lifted, producing a half-­hearted shrug. More silence, and then she suddenly looked at him, her eyes bright and clear with pain. “He needed more than what I was able to offer—­he craved adventure, so although he’d relished the process of winning my hand, he began looking for the next ‘thing’ to spark his interest as soon as that had been accomplished. I tried to be supportive, but he didn’t find me daring enough.”

  James frowned. “You’re a gently bred lady.”

  “And consequently too dull for Newbury who felt restless at home. He was always looking for the next exploit while I preferred to avoid taking unnecessary risk. When he suggested we go to France, I tried to explain to him that the thought of boarding a ship terrifies me. He seemed sympathetic enough, but the next morning I found him gone—­off to the Continent for six months.” She glanced away. “When he returned, I attempted to reignite the initial romance between us, but it was to no avail. Instead of getting better, our marriage declined. He began drinking heavily, took a mistress and gambled excessively. His temper increased and then finally, one morning when he arrived home from a night out, he struck me for no apparent reason.” Wincing, she closed her eyes against the memory.

  “Clearly, he did not deserve you,” James said, his fists clenching at the thought of Lady Newbury being subjected to such a thing.

  “No, he did not, but there was nothing to be done about that. We were both stuck in a marriage that neither of us wanted any longer.”

  “I believe that happens more often than not among our set.”

  “You’re probably right. Ironically, my parents encouraged me to marry for love instead of financial or political gain. I thought I’d achieved that. Instead, I acquired a husband who felt as though I was holding him hostage. He hated me for it and his anger increased, as did the violence.”

  “He struck you on a regular basis?” James’s stomach churned at the very idea of it.

  Her eyes, somewhat vacant now, turned back toward the water. “More often than not, I would lock myself in my bedchamber to avoid his wrath, but it only seemed to make matters worse. That’s why . . .” Her words trembled as she spoke. “That’s why anger of any kind compels me to flee. It is the reason why I felt uncomfortable being alone with you in the salon when your mood turned dark.”

  “I understand your reasoning completely,” he said. “From what I recall, it was Viscount Wrightley who killed him?”

  “Yes.” She expelled a tortured breath. “Apparently Wrightley did not take kindly to another man pursuing his wife, but Newbury had decided that Lady Wrightley would be his. It did not matter that he already had a mistress or that Lady Wrightley showed no interest in him. On the contrary, her rejection seemed to fuel his determination. Eventually Wrightley had no choice but to call Newbury out.”

  James placed his hand carefully against her shoulder. “It may not be very kind of me to say this, but I am happy that he’s gone. For your sake.” Lord only knew what might have happened if an end had not been put to Newbury’s tyranny.

  A solemn nod was her only reply. “I have
managed to move on, in a way, though I do not seem to laugh as much as I used to. But you . . .” Her eyes met his. “You never even smile. Why is that, Lord Woodford?”

  Holding himself perfectly still, James forced himself to meet her gaze and to appear as though he was considering her question. “I find that there is little reason for it.”

  “Are you really that unhappy?”

  His heart thumped loudly against his chest. “I wouldn’t say that I’m unhappy.” Oh, liar! “But I do have a great deal of responsibility resting on my shoulders as my father’s only successor. Finances, the welfare of my tenants and the upkeep of my homes, are issues that often keep me awake at night.”

  She nodded, appearing to see the sense in that. James’s conscience gnawed, especially after she’d told him so much. But he would not confide the source of his own demons—­not when he had no choice but to deal with them on his own. So he offered her his arm and said, “Thank you for your confidence, Lady Newbury. Shall we walk back up to the house?”

  Again, she nodded. “I’m sure my sisters will be having tea with our mother on the terrace. I think I should like to join them. You’re welcome too, if you like.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “Perhaps some other time?” He didn’t elaborate any further, so she simply said, “Of course.”

  Chapter 9

  On his way back upstairs, following an encounter with Chadwick, which had led to a prolonged discourse on horses, James passed the music room where someone was happily destroying a piece by Bach. Pausing in the open doorway, James saw that it was Lady Duncaster herself, her fingers hitting one wrong key after the other. She appeared to be doing so with great pleasure too, for her smile was wide and her body swayed in disjointed time to the tune. Accompanying her with cheerful claps of encouragement was her friend, the Duchess of Pinehurst.

  Fearing they might find him watching and ask him to join them, James strode off as quickly as possible in the direction of the stairs. Back in his room, he reached beneath the chest of drawers and retrieved his lock-­picking set. If Lady Duncaster was presently occupied downstairs, then perhaps he’d be able to get back into Lord Duncaster’s bedchamber now without running into her. He just hoped that there wouldn’t be any servants around either like last time. Thankfully, he soon discovered that there weren’t. The hallway outside the doors leading into the Duncaster bedchambers was completely empty.

  Steeling himself, James selected two picks and approached the room that he wanted to access. Crouching down in front of the lock, he then went to work, occasionally glancing up and constantly listening for the sound of approaching footsteps. It took less than a minute for the lock to click open. The moment it did, James was on his feet. He threw one last look over his shoulder, then turned the handle and opened the door. Swiftly, he slipped inside the room, closed the door behind him and suddenly realized that he wasn’t alone.

  “What on earth are you doing here?” he asked upon seeing Lady Newbury’s startled expression. He’d caught her in mid stride as she’d been heading toward the door to Lady Duncaster’s bedchamber.

  “I could ask you the same question,” she said, eyeing him carefully.

  “But you’re supposed to be having tea with your sisters!” Christ, what a mess.

  “And so I did, but it was a brief affair since they decided to have a game of croquet on the lawn.”

  “Croquet? At this hour?”

  “Indeed.”

  James raked his fingers through his hair. How the devil was he going to explain his presence here? “Does Lady Duncaster know that you’re in here?” he asked.

  Guilt washed across her face. “No.”

  “Then how did you get in?” He glanced toward the door she’d been heading toward and allowed himself an inward groan. “You came through there?”

  “Lady Duncaster doesn’t keep her bedchamber door locked, so I knocked and when nobody answered, I opened it and stepped inside. It was a simple matter really.”

  “But why?”

  She tilted her head. “You’re asking an awful lot of questions, my lord. Especially when considering the fact that you’re the one who picked the lock. If anyone asks, I can always claim that I was looking for her ladyship. The same can hardly be said of you.”

  Once again, he cursed this stroke of bad luck he was having. “I’m looking for something, and since you’ve snuck your way in here as well, I suspect that you must be too. Will you tell me what it is?” When she hesitated, he said, “Perhaps I can help?”

  Cautiously, she eyed the door before looking back at him, her uncertainty written all over her face. “How do I know that I can trust you?”

  “You don’t, but if you consider my character, I think you’ll realize that I wouldn’t betray you.”

  “Swear it to me.”

  James stared at her. “I swear it,” he said, a little surprised by her urgency.

  Her shoulders relaxed and she nodded with another fleeting glance at the door. “I wasn’t completely open with you when I told you about my husband. That is, I left something out. You see, Newbury was—­” She bit her lip. “You’ll think me mad if I tell you this.”

  His interest increased. “Tell me what?”

  She hesitated, clearly torn between the wish to confide and the possible implications of doing so. James held silent, allowing her to gather her courage until she eventually said, “My husband was not a good man, Woodford.”

  He expelled a breath that he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding. “I am aware of that.”

  “No,” she said with greater insistence than before, “I don’t believe you are.”

  For a long moment, he studied her, noting the haunted expression that especially marked her eyes. Unease snaked its way through him. “What exactly do you mean?” he whispered, sensing that once she told him the entire truth, it would alter everything between them.

  There was a long pause—­so long that James began to think she’d changed her mind about confiding in him, but then she suddenly whispered, “He told me who killed my grandfather and Lord Duncaster.”

  James gaped at her. “What?”

  “The shipwreck in which they both died,” she went on, “it wasn’t an accident.”

  “You’re sure of this?”

  She nodded bleakly. “My husband confided a great deal to me when he was in his cups. So much so that I’m ashamed to confess that I may have encouraged him to drink on occasion so I could question him about the details. He never remembered any of it the following day.”

  Newbury. The name spun through James’s mind. “You said that he told you who killed them?” He watched her closely, wondering how she’d respond and hoping that she would willingly tell him more.

  She chewed on her lower lip. “Nobody knows about this. Mama and Papa would be devastated if they found out. I—­”

  “I’ve already given you my word, as a gentleman, that I won’t tell anyone.”

  “So you have.” A nervous chuckle escaped her. She soon sobered, leaning forward with her moss-­green eyes intent upon his own. Silently, she studied him a moment, then said, “He never mentioned any names, just that the act was carried out by men of his acquaintance.”

  She was lying. The evasive way in which she’d replied told him so. Clearly he would have to offer her some information as well if he was to gain her trust. “Lady Newbury,” he began, aware of the risk he was taking by bringing her into his confidence. “Have you ever heard of a group of men who call themselves The Electors?”

  Paling, she drew back on a sharp intake of breath. “My lord,” she said with seeming difficulty. “I think it might be best if I return downstairs. In fact, I just remembered that Mama asked me to join her for a tour of the rose-­garden and—­”

  “Stop fretting.” His voice cut her off with too much sharpness. Her eyes widened and he forced himself to r
elax. Tempering his tone, he said, “I’m on your side, Lady Newbury. The reason I’m here . . . the real reason . . . is so The Electors can be brought to justice. If you know anything that can help in that endeavor, please tell me what it is.”

  Confusion marred her features for a second while she seemed to consider the information that he’d just given her. Eventually her expression turned to one of understanding. “Then you must also be searching for . . .” She paused, pressing her lips together as if to stop herself from saying more.

  “I am looking for the Political Journal. Yes.”

  “I’ve been looking for it myself. That’s the reason why I’m in this room. But it’s not here, not as far as I can tell.” Straightening her shoulders, she raised her chin, her confidence returning. “What’s your interest in this group of ­people?” she asked, studying his face.

  Blood rushed to his head as it always did when his mind was forced toward the past. Clenching his hands, he took deep steadying breaths, determined to ease the panic.

  “My lord?” Lady Newbury asked. “Are you all right? If you need to sit down then—­”

  “I am fine,” he managed. Reaching out, he steadied himself against the escritoire. “They’re the ones who killed my parents.” He looked at her and saw that her eyes were wide with surprise.

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  He nodded, drew another breath and tried to focus. “My father was investigating them in regards to the attempts made on the life of our former king. I suspect he came too close to discovering their identities. My mother just happened to be there at the time—­an unfortunate witness whom they couldn’t let live.”

  “And you?” Lady Newbury whispered.

  The memories he’d boxed away for so long came popping out—­perfect images painted in the greatest detail. He saw his father, his clothes perfectly pressed as he sat behind his desk cleaning his pistol. On his little finger sat the gleaming gold band of his signet ring. He looked up, and James could still make out the creases at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. There were three. “Just think, this ring will be yours one day,” his father had said as he’d reached inside one of his drawers for a sweet. Tossing it to James, he’d said, “For now, however, I suggest you enjoy your childhood. Life goes by too quickly as it is.”