Beverley Kendall

by Sinful Surrender (lit)

  “Good morning, me lord, Miz Armstrong.” She paused to curtsey before propelling the cart to the side of the sofa.

  “That’s fine, Molly, we can serve ourselves.” Missy feared if Molly lingered much longer she would pick up on what was in the air, all that sexual tension heaped with self-recrimination. The maid curtsied again before quietly exiting.

  Missy delicately cleared her throat and retrieved her reticule from the sofa. James, looking wholly composed with only the tautness of his jaw to suggest any inner turmoil, subjected her to one of his half-lidded, blue-eyed stares.

  She tore her gaze from him. The man was dangerous. He exuded the kind of appeal that made a woman, against her better judgment, eager to forget herself. She had to leave before she, once again, parted with her better judgment at the sacrifice of her pride.

  Under his steady regard, Missy departed, leaving him standing silent and grim-faced in the drawing room. Not a word passed between them, and of course, that was for the best. Little could change all that had occurred and the events that had still yet to unfold. Yes, there burned an attraction between them that, apparently, even his upcoming marriage did little to quell, but for James, as he had said many times, it was just a physical need, easily doused by any attractive, willing female. It was unfortunate she could not claim the same.

  Damn him and his lack of control. If it would do James any good to berate himself for the unruly, unquenchable desire he felt for her, he would have gladly done so. As it stood, however, it solved nothing. A bloody rutting steed, that’s what he’d become around her. Just a look and a scent and he turned into a man driven solely by his physical needs.

  He rammed an agitated hand through his hair. And where the hell was Armstrong? He should have been here a half hour ago. If his friend had been home when he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have had to face Missy by himself.

  James sank into a nearby side chair. Is that what his life had come to? He couldn’t even be in a room alone with her? Were her charms that potent? Good Lord, he had dealt with many women in his life, and none of them had overwhelmed him so much he could not keep his hands off of them when he knew he should.

  Then an image of Missy naked and spread before him on his bed tormented his thoughts, instantly causing the flap on his trousers to distend under the growing pressure. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes but the image grew even sharper. He saw her breasts and his fingers twitched from the recent feel of them, so firm and full for a woman so slender, the gentle flare of her hips and the brown tuft of hair shielding her woman’s flesh. The taste of her—

  “You look pained.”

  James’s head snapped up and his eyes flew open. He hadn’t even heard Armstrong’s arrival he had been so lost in his thoughts—thoughts of the man’s sister, which made it all the worse.

  Armstrong sauntered into the room looking, if not disheveled, then certainly not as immaculate as he was accustomed to seeing him. His neckcloth appeared to have been tied in a rush, lopsided and wrinkled, and the same could be said for his shirt. James could say with a certainty that the man still wore his clothes from the night before.

  “And you look like you slept in those,” he grumbled. “Where the hell have you been? I expected you a half hour ago. I’m certain we’ve already lost our place.”

  His friend dropped in the leather armchair and ran a weary hand over his face. “Oh bloody hell, I forgot all about our match. Lady Jane kept me busy ’til the early hours of the morning.” A broad grin accompanied his explanation.

  “She’s no lady,” James muttered, resentful.

  Armstrong chuckled, nodding slowly. “That, assuredly, she is not. Don’t tell me I’m picking up a note of jealousy? Already pining for your bachelor life and the noose has only just been draped about your neck?”

  James found little humor in that remark although it appeared to amuse Armstrong to no end. And the sad fact of it was he was more than resentful.

  When he had been old enough to understand what marriage meant, and after watching his father having to beggar himself for his mother’s favors, he had felt no rush to bind himself for life to any one woman. Enjoy their charms, certainly, but until he was ready for an heir, he had little use for such permanency. Naturally, when the time did come, he thought he would at least be able to pick his own bride and define his own terms for the marriage. Instead, at the age of twenty-seven, one drunken evening would select the where, when, and who. Never had he imagined fate could be so cruel.

  “Go to the devil,” he said, rising to his feet. His response only evoked another chuckle from the viscount. “You look like you need a bed or bath or both. Bloody hell, you’ve made me waste enough time this morning, so I’ll be on my way.”

  “Arthur mentioned Missy was by. Did she say what she wanted?”

  James stopped short by the door and shot a sharp glance at his friend. The question itself was innocuous but something in his tone suggested subterfuge. But Armstrong gazed back at him, his expression artless. Apparently, he had grown overly sensitive now to even the mention of her name.

  “I’m hardly her favorite person at the moment. She isn’t exactly sharing any confidences with me.”

  There was a pregnant pause before Armstrong said, “I think she’s heard rumors about the pregnancy.”

  “Yes, so she mentioned last night.”

  “You can’t know how grateful I am that the two of you never became involved,” Armstrong said, rubbing the stubble on his jaw.

  James clenched down on the back of his teeth.

  “I know I never let on, but for a time it scared me witless. You find the whole idea unthinkable?” Armstrong asked with a short laugh, quirking a brow. “God, man, Missy is a stunner and you’ve always had a very discerning eye. Add to the fact she’s always been infatuated with you, and you can see why I was worried. All those things could easily have spelled a recipe for disaster. Thankfully, you’ve been well and truly hooked. Nothing will ever come of it. Maybe now she can truly move on with her life. Marry. Settle down and have a family.”

  Later, James wouldn’t remember how he’d responded to words that riddled him like bullets. Had he nodded stoically? Had he even swallowed or blinked? No matter, he departed the townhouse within a matter of minutes, the fencing match forgotten.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Missy had never given the piano the time and effort required to ever be considered accomplished. Instead of applying herself to learning F sharp major and C minor scales, she’d applied herself to the art of daydreaming, weaving fantasies where James was the star.

  When Thomas made an appearance at the townhouse later that day, he found her seated in front of the black-lacquered piano in the morning room practicing her rusty skills. It was hard to think of James with her mind working furiously to remember which combination of notes would evoke the correct sound.

  “Suffering from ennui, are we, Missy?” Thomas asked, chuckling as he took a seat next to her on the piano bench. “I can’t remember the last time I saw you at the piano.” Splaying his fingers, he played a couple of chords.

  Missy dropped her hands from the keys and angled toward him. “Which is just as well.”

  “I agree. You are not very good.” He shot her a teasing smile as his fingers flew over the key and a lively tune filled the air. Thomas could certainly play far better than she.

  “So what was so imperative you needed to seek me out at my residence?”

  Drawing a breath, Missy slid from the bench and stood. Standing made her feel more in control. “Now before you dismiss my request out of hand, I want you to hear me through.”

  His fingers stilled on the keys as he looked up at her and emitted a long, audible sigh. “I already know I’m not going to like this. Anything prefaced in that distinct manner warrants my immediate refusal.”

  “Please allow me to finish.” she implored, wielding her smile with true expertise.

  He heaved another sigh, this time one of resignation and
nodded his assent. “I have a feeling I’m going to need a drink.”

  Missy mulled over her words. She had to phrase it just right if she had any hopes of him agreeing. “I would like to go and visit Aunt Camille.”

  It took a moment for her words to register. When they did, Thomas shook his head, his refusal emphatic. “To America? Absolutely not!” he exclaimed.

  “How can you deny me this when you took a trip around the Continent with Alex when you were just seventeen, four whole years younger than I am now?” The question seemed to catch him off guard for he had no response for several seconds.

  “Yes, but I am a man and you are a young lady,” he said, finally.

  “You were hardly a man nor am I so young. Why, some would say I’m getting into my dotage.” She teased, hoping to coax a smile from him. Thomas remained grim-faced.

  “You needn’t worry, I will find a very able chaperone to accompany me. And I imagine I would be quite safe and well protected sailing on a ship built by Wendel’s Shipping.” Her brother could not possibly dispute that, as he was part owner in the ship building company.

  Thomas furrowed his brows. “That isn’t the point.”

  “Then what is?”

  “You’re running away, that’s what you’re attempting to do, and I won’t allow it. What do you plan to do, abandon your Season? You must believe the practice you’ve made over the years of dismissing eligible, presentable gentlemen will have no negative consequences. Mother’s drawing room will not always overflow with callers.” He gave a heavy, exasperated sigh. “Surely, England is big enough for you to avoid one blasted man until you acclimatize yourself to the new state of affairs?”

  Missy drew in a sharp breath. “For a man who has never had one whit of feeling for a woman who is not a relation beyond lust, this is just the kind of reaction I should have expected. You’ve never been in love. You have no idea how I feel.”

  Some inscrutable expression crossed Thomas’s face before he slid from the wood bench and came to his feet in one fluid motion. “Oh, for goodness sake, it was not my intent to be callous, but you’re asking me to let you go to America—alone,” he bit out. His green eyes held a mixture of impatience and a bid for understanding.

  Finding it hard to remain in one place while her brother began to wear the tread of the Persian rug with his pacing, Missy began to shadow his movements. “I shall ask Cousin Abigail to go with me. Even you can’t find fault with her as a chaperone. Mama just remarked the other day that she recently left her last governess post and is back home in Devon. I’m sure she would be more than eager for a trip to America.”

  Thomas stopped and regarded her, his forehead creased and his mouth a straight line. “Is he really worth this kind of upheaval in your life?”

  Missy gave him a sad smile. “I will not be abandoning the Season. I would leave at the end of August and return well before Christmas. I would only be missing those frightfully boring foxhunt retreats.”

  Halting, Thomas turned to face her. Missy followed suit. With his forefinger, he tilted her chin to gaze directly into her eyes. “Why him? Of all the marriageable gentlemen in England, why him?” His voice held a wistful quality she’d never before heard from him.

  “Does that mean you will permit me to go?” Her smile emerged, hopeful and tremulous.

  He lowered his hand but continued to gaze down at her. He gave another weighty sigh, this one less audible but no less resigned. “I won’t promise you anything except that I will speak to Mother about it. If Mother will consider it, you shall have my support,” he said with great emphasis on the word “if.” “However, if she should oppose the trip, you know all the cajoling in the world will not change her mind. Agreed?”

  Missy nodded, grateful that he would attempt to sway their mother in any respect.

  “You know, from the day I brought him home with me I knew he would be the source of some kind of havoc in your life—our lives.”

  With pursed lips and narrowed eyes, Missy asked, “How on earth could you have known anything? I was only ten at the time.”

  “Because I saw your face the moment you clapped those beautiful big eyes on him, and I knew it would only be a matter of time. I think you would have been better off falling for Cartwright. Much less jaded and, being a second son and all, he has little pressure of a title to live up to.”

  Missy could not help but laugh aloud at that wishful statement. “Alex is like a big brother to me. Heavens, he’s bounced me on his knee.”

  “Immaterial, as you were bound and determined to lose your heart to the biggest rake around.”

  “Perhaps that is why the two of you keep company so well,” she said dryly.

  He gave a low chuckle. Thomas would be the first to admit his true nature and it didn’t disturb him in the least to have such a reputation.

  “Now that you’ve browbeaten me into doing your bidding, I’m off. I have a night of debauchery planned for some poor unsuspecting chit.”

  Missy folded her arms across her chest. “Humph, the same ones you are usually forced to beat off with sticks?”

  “I am not so crude as to use sticks, my dear,” he said in mock horror.

  “I will be waiting patiently, Thomas.”

  He elevated one eyebrow. “For what?”

  “Your comeuppance. I just hope I am there to witness it.”

  Smiling, he turned and sauntered out of the room humming the tune she’d been trying to play unsuccessfully on the piano.

  Victoria was worried. It had been five days since she had last heard from George. He’d missed their last rendezvous and had not responded to any of her notes. By now, she was certain he had heard about James…and her. She had so wished to speak to him before their courtship had become public but her mother had left little time for that. Only word of Napoleon’s defeat had spread through the streets of London faster than the courtship of the heir to the Windmere earldom, largely due to her mother’s need to boast.

  Her heart all but jumped into her throat as she raised the knocker on the door of his flat. All she prayed for now was an opportunity to explain before he saw fit to…well, she was not exactly sure just what he would do.

  Dalton, his valet, answered and by the surprised look on his face, she could only assume she was the last person he had expected to see, although she’d been there many times before.

  “Uh—Lady Victoria—I don’t believe Sir George is expecting you.” Despite his words, he stepped aside to allow her entrance into the foyer, a small area done in brown, gold, and green.

  Victoria entered and cast a hesitant smile his way. “Is he in? It’s urgent I speak with him.”

  For a moment, Dalton looked uncertain, his gaze darting to the closed door of the small library. Then he straightened, gave her a brief nod and said, “I will check to see if Sir Clifton is receiving callers.” Brisk strides took him down the short passageway to the closed door. After three sharp raps, he pushed the door open and disappeared inside.

  Something was wrong. Victoria could feel it. To be termed a caller meant things were much worse off than she had imagined. And she had imagined things would not be good, especially when the third note to George had elicited no response. The silence was the worst.

  When the door to the library opened again, Victoria had moved several feet closer, giving her a brief glimpse inside. His valet came out wearing a stiffly disapproving expression, which she sensed was not directed at her.

  “He will see you now.” Dalton gestured with a black-sleeved arm to the open door.

  Handing him her bonnet, shawl, and gloves, Victoria took a breath, and readied herself to face her beloved.

  It became immediately apparent as soon as she stepped into the compact but attractively decorated room, why the valet had acted so curiously.

  George looked a mess.

  From the tip of his mussed head, his hair spiked in some places and matted in others, to the bottom of his bare feet, he looked a wreck. The mustache and be
ard he usually kept impeccably trimmed showed days of neglect. He wore a wrinkled, cream linen shirt with oval sweat stains under the arms, and his trousers had fared no better. His eyes, however, made the rest of him appear quite put together as they were red, wild, and bloodshot. They were the eyes of a man deeply tormented. The room held the distinct odor of cigar smoke and spirits, and George smelled as if he’d bathed in a tub of rum.

  Victoria blinked three times in quick succession. She had never seen George in such a state before. Not only was it obvious he had been drinking, by the look of him, this was far from the first day.

  “Am I to assume you have come to bear good tidings of your betrothal?” His lips curled in disdain as the words spewed from his lips. Clearly, the news of the courtship had hit him hard. Much harder than she’d imagined.

  Taking a tentative step into the bowels of his personal perdition, Victoria closed the door. “You must give me a chance to explain,” she pleaded.

  With a harsh grating laugh, he pivoted on his heel and nearly lost his balance on the edge of the square-fringed rug. He barely managed to evade the ottoman on the way to his desk. There, he retrieved a decanter amid an array of strewn papers and books and, with shaking hands, poured a drink.

  “There is nothing to explain. He is a lord, I am not. Heir to a bloody earldom with more money than I will ever see in my life.” He turned to face her again, drawing back slightly when he realized how close she stood.

  Victoria cautiously reached out and touched his arm. He jerked his arm back and cursed, spilling some of the drink on the carpet.

  George had never cursed in her presence.

  Lowering her hand, she took a step back. George had a look in his eyes, a look she’d never seen before. She was frightened, but for him, not herself.

  “Go back to your precious lord,” he sneered. He turned and weaved on unsteady legs over to the bay window overlooking a small park.