Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  “I do not want this,” she whispered. It was always a whisper with her. Never had he heard her raise her voice or bark a command. An arch of her brow sufficed. Or a pointed finger. Once, he’d even seen her tighten a fist, but that was all. And when she was with him, her voice dropped even quieter, he thought because they shared such intimate confessions.

  His hand had not stopped. His fingers continued to toy with her nipple, tugging it as much as he could, rubbing his nail across it when he could not. The fabric was a restriction after all, and he thought of ripping it away. He could always buy her a new gown.

  “Stop,” she said firmly.

  “Cry off your engagement to Kit. Choose me instead.”

  “No.” There was no compromise in her voice, not that he had expected any. He glanced at her face, wincing when he saw the whites of her eyes. For all that she lay still beneath him, he could feel her heart hammering in her chest and see the fear in her widened eyes.

  He looked away.

  “I have never raped a woman before,” he said to her shoulder. “I have never considered it anything but the act of a depraved dog.”

  “Then why?” she whispered to him. “Why me? And why now? Am I not a person to you?”

  He looked back to her face. Forced himself, actually. If he were to become a depraved dog, then he owed her the decency of looking into her face as he did it. So he looked into her eyes, and as he did it, he shifted his hips such that he lay directly on top of her. His organ pushed against her, and she shuddered. It was a small movement, one she obviously fought, but he felt it. There was desire there, if only just a tiny bit.

  “You are a woman to me,” he said.

  “Then why?” she rasped. “You have a mistress. Go to her!”

  He paused, pulling back with a frown. “I do not have a mistress.” Her heart beat so fast beneath his hands. “You should not listen to gossip, Scher,” he said. “The woman I brought back from India is not my mistress. She is but a child.”

  “What would that child think of this? Of what you are about to do?”

  He shrugged. “She already wants me dead. This would be just another crime to lay at my door.”

  “Why me?” Was the burr in her voice because of him? Had he hurt her? Or was it desire? Either way, he eased his arm farther away from her throat. “Why?”

  She slammed her fist down on his shoulder. It was the only thing she could reach and the blow caused a little pain. But it wasn’t enough to overpower his lust, and his groin continued to push rhythmically against her.

  “Because you have picked Kit over me,” he answered.

  She hit him again. “Vanity? You would rape me over wounded vanity? Are you so small a man?”

  “Apparently,” he answered. Then he caught her wrist and raised it high over her head.

  “Are you drunk? Mad? Brandon, what is happening to you?”

  She said his name. He closed his eyes for a moment to better appreciate the sound. But she had already spoken and so his name was gone. Still, he replayed it in his thoughts. Brandon, what is happening?

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know.”

  Except he did know something. He knew he couldn’t rape her. He couldn’t do that to a woman, least of all her. And to do such a thing in service to his family name was beyond ridiculous. He shifted his weight, easing off her while he tried to frame an apology for his actions. He didn’t get the chance.

  She screamed. The sound was sharp and startling, and he recoiled backward.

  How had he not felt it coming? How had he not known that she was drawing enough air to release so piercing a noise? And while he was jerking his ear away, she wormed a hand between them and shoved.

  It was well placed and well timed. He was already flinching. She merely increased his movement, shoving with every ounce of her small frame. He fell off her and half landed, half crouched on the floor beside the bed.

  She was on her feet in a moment, slamming her fist into his jaw with a power that stunned him. In truth, it pleased him. He had not thought she could defend herself so well. It was good for a woman in her position to know how to fight.

  He blocked her next blow, slamming his arm against hers as he straightened up from his crouch. She countered, as he knew she would, but it was useless. She was trained in stage fighting, not real combat, and she was a small woman. He had her back down on the bed within a moment.

  “They are coming,” she gasped against the coverlet. “They will kill you.”

  She wasn’t lying. If Seth had heard her scream, Brandon had no more than seconds to escape. The man was huge and could very possibly best him in a fight. And if Seth brought reinforcements, then Brandon had no hope.

  He almost waited to see what would happen. But he wasn’t suicidal, so he pushed up and off her. She whipped around to face him before he had fully gained his feet. Even in the dim light, he could see that hard accusation in her eyes. He dipped his chin in acknowledgment. He deserved her fury. He deserved that and very much more.

  But a moment later he regained his equilibrium. He gave her a mocking bow and flashed his darkest smile. “This is not done between us, Scheherazade. In fact, it is barely begun.”

  He waited long enough to see his words hit her. He saw her blanche in fear, but also saw something else in her expression. Had she lifted an eyebrow in challenge? Had her lips curled slightly in interest? Or had his fevered mind only imagined it?

  He didn’t have time to find out. He heard footsteps on the stairs, and so he departed. Speed was one of his skills, and he used it to the utmost. He ran faster than he had ever run before, out the window and across the rooftops. He ran until his breath choked him from within and his feet stumbled beneath him. Then he dropped to the ground and tasted blood from the fall.

  Pain. Pain in his side, in his hands, and even in his tongue from where he had bit it in his fall. Blessed, well-deserved pain.

  It never lasted long enough.

  Family dinners were tedious affairs. That’s why Brandon tried hard to show up too late to be allowed in the door. Unfortunately, Grandmama held the meal for him and so he was shown into the parlor to a bevy of cold, angry stares. He barely had time to flinch away from the sight of Kit and Scher standing at the fireplace before his grandmother’s strident voice cut through the noise.

  “Really, Brandon,” she said by way of greeting. “India has had a terrible effect on your manners.”

  He crossed to her side immediately, struggling to not notice that Scher looked pretty in blue. It made her look like an English doll. She also looked more conservative than a nun since her gown had heavy fabric up to her chin. Then he saw no more as he bowed over Grandmama’s hand. “One of the sad consequences of a hot and humid climate, I’m afraid. Makes one lazy and forgetful of the time.”

  “Well, you must sit down and tell us all about it,” put in Aunt Adelia from the side.

  He tilted his head in surprise as he looked over at Kit’s mother. She was a pinched woman, in all respects. Her lips were perpetually pursed, her bun was wrapped tighter than a banker’s vault, even her words came out clipped and hard. But she was family, so he quietly took his seat, though he didn’t intend to talk about India. His whole family had heard about his disastrous trip when he returned sixteen months ago. Aunt Adelia asked after the women and the society there and if he were very rich. When his answer was “dull and not very,” she had huffed in disgust and turned her attention to the latest English on dit. And now, looking into her eyes, he could see that she had no interest whatsoever in his answer. Which meant she had an ulterior motive.

  He had only to look over at Kit standing before everyone to know his aunt’s true purpose. The boy was going to announce their engagement, and everyone here knew it. After all, his cousin had been talking about a special woman for weeks now. His mother’s sudden demands on Brandon were merely a way of stalling. Unfortunately, Kit would not take the hint.

  “Mother!” the boy exclaimed f
rom where he stood before the fireplace. “I was in the middle of my announcement!”

  “Yes, yes, dear,” the woman returned. “But do you really need to do that now? Perhaps Brandon will finally tell us the details.” She turned her gaze back to Brandon, her expression commanding. “Surely you can tell us now. What service did you do that gained you a viscountcy? We know there was a fire in an Indian factory. It was all the news for weeks! How many of those people did you save from that fire? Were they important? Is that why you were given the viscountcy?”

  Brandon arched his brow, seeing the double ploy. Obviously, Kit had been trying—apparently for a while—to make his engagement announcement, while his mother had been carefully stalling, hoping to delay the inevitable. And what better way to distract everyone than by forcing him to reveal the truth behind his new title? But it wouldn’t work on either account. Nothing on Earth would induce Brandon to tell the truth about his past, and he could see that Kit would not be deterred. The boy had even thrust out his chin and squared his shoulders like a pugilist. How quaint.

  “No,” Kit declared loudly. “I shall do this now with no more interruptions. From anyone.” He glared at each and every member of the room in turn. As it was quite a number of attendees, that took a while. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a while. Kit’s mother was already heaving a dramatic sigh.

  “Really, dear—”

  “Miss Martin has graciously agreed to be my wife.”

  Silence greeted this announcement. Silence punctuated by a few very loud female sighs of disgust.

  Kit raised the hand he’d entwined with Scheherazade’s, shaking it slightly in his vehemence. “We are engaged and will be married as soon as the bans can be posted.”

  “Is she pregnant?” Aunt Adelia demanded. “Is it yours?”

  To the side, someone choked in shock at the bold question. Brandon looked around. It was Michael, his older brother and the current earl of Thornedale, gasping as he set aside his brandy.

  “Really, Mother!” Kit cried, his hand fisting at his side. “Of course not!”

  “Not yours or not—”

  “Adelia,” Grandmama snapped. “Do not be vulgar. I do not tolerate vulgarity in my home.”

  Meanwhile, Michael had at last recovered his breath. “Please, can we go into dinner now? I am starving.”

  “Oh, yes, let’s do,” inserted his lovely wife Lily.

  “Oh, yes,” drawled Brandon. “I’m sure this is just the conversation that makes a meal utterly delicious.” Then he abruptly shut his mouth, stunned by his own stupidity. He had not meant to say a single word, and yet here he was, throwing in his own ridiculous form of dry wit. He should have stayed at his club for another hour.

  “Harumph,” Grandmama snorted as she pushed up to her feet. Brandon stood as well, helping her with her cane.

  “I know,” Aunt Adelia loudly declared. “We shall dine a la India in Brandon’s honor. We shall go into dinner all willy-nilly. Kit, you take my hand.”

  Brandon stiffened, though he had to be careful of his grandmother’s frail bones. “There is civilization in India,” he said more coldly than he intended. “They observe—”

  “Oh, do not be tedious!” she snapped as she tried to glare Brandon into cooperation. “And just for that, you shall stay at the back. You take Miss Martin’s arm.” She sneered every part of that last sentence, damning both Brandon and Scheherazade in one dark breath.

  “No, no!” interrupted Grandmama with a fond smile. “Let Kit walk with me. I have not seen him in an age.”

  And there it was, Brandon’s doom pronounced loudly enough for all to hear. While Aunt Adelia went on directing everyone’s pairing, Brandon was finally forced to do the one thing he had been dreading more than this entire hideous meal. He had to look at Scheherazade.

  He had been carefully avoiding such a thing, having no wish to face the condemnation in her eyes. But he was a man, a world traveler even, with more experience than most in his set. He could face one woman despite the hideous-ness of his actions. So, with steel in his spine, he forced himself to step to her side and offer his arm. And only then did he dare look her in the eye.

  She appeared no different than usual. Her expression was as composed and aloof as every night when she oversaw the theater and its audience. Her eyes were clear but somewhat remote. Her skin was pale and her stance excruciatingly correct. And worst of all, there was no hatred in her eyes. More of a mute kind of acceptance of the slights to her person, the insults to her character, even his own abominable behavior. All was accepted with a tolerant pain.

  And that made him angry. Furious even.

  “Good God, where is your spirit, girl?”

  She arched a brow at him, and her gaze sharpened. “This is Kit’s show, and the audience has been quite restrained so far. But we are just past the first act. I am sure the entertainment will become quite exciting soon enough.”

  He felt his face heat in embarrassment. The last thing he’d wanted was to be cruel to this woman, and yet his anger would not abate.

  “And so you duck off the stage before it has even begun?” he challenged. “You allow poor Kit to face the harridans alone? That does not sound like a marriage to me.”

  She tilted her head. “Does not chivalry demand that he protect me?”

  Both their gazes shifted to where Kit patted his grandmother’s hand. He was chatting amiably with the woman, obviously working hard to please her as they began the procession into the dining room. Was Kit even capable of protecting Scher? Brandon doubted it, but then again, he was not a very good judge of character.

  Meanwhile, he and Scher stood patiently for the end of the line, watching as relative after relative turned their backs on her. It was rudeness, covered by a veneer of politeness, and it set his teeth on edge.

  “Willy-nilly is not how it is done in India,” he growled under his breath, though that wasn’t at all what he wanted to say.

  She heard him, but she didn’t comment. She simply arched a brow, inviting him to continue if he so wished. He did not. And yet, he most obviously did because words kept flowing from his lips.

  “Everything in England is ordered,” he said as they began the stately walk into the dining room. “We know where to sit, to stand, and exactly who everyone is within a moment of meeting them. Our lawns are precise, our livestock are put in their pens, and even our servants police each other to keep them in their subservience.”

  “I have never found England particularly orderly,” she murmured in response. “But then we do not run in the same circles.”

  “We will soon enough. You are to be my cousin-in-law.”

  Her lips curved in a soft smile. He might have missed it as he was pulling out her chair for her. But having worked so hard to not look at her before, he found the opposite true now. He desperately needed to watch the hints of emotions that flashed so very briefly on her face. And in that soft, secret smile, he saw the truth. She wanted this marriage more than anything. Despite her cynicism and her reserve, he knew she wanted it with a hunger that defied everything else.

  “Kit is not strong enough to withstand us,” he said softly by way of warning.

  Her fists tightened in her lap, but no other sign penetrated her quiet veneer. Instead, her gaze shifted to the head of the table, where Grandmama was positively beaming under Kit’s attention. “He believes his grandmother will swing others to our cause,” she said so softly that he knew no one else had heard it.

  “How sad,” he commented as he took his seat beside her. “Kit will soon learn that the one who loves him most cannot help him at all.”

  She shot him a fearful look. “As bad as that?”

  He shrugged. “She dotes on him. And were he to gain her approval a decade ago, then there would be a contest indeed. But Grandmama is not the force she once was.”

  “How sad that your family power has devolved to another.” Her eyes went to Aunt Adelia and her pinched lips.

  He could tell s
he understood. Assuming Kit was correct—which was by no means certain—then Grandmama would do everything in her power to see Kit happy. But was she a stronger force that Aunt Adelia? Or more powerful still, Lily, the countess of Thornedale.

  “Power among women is not something I have ever sought to understand,” he said dryly. He watched closely for her reaction to the news, but beyond a quick glance at Lily, no expression formed on her face. In fact, the opposite happened. She opened her fists, smoothed her skirt, and waited in all patience for the first course to be served.

  As he sat beside her, he was excruciatingly aware of the growing hostility in the room. Truly, Kit was a fool to have thrown down the gauntlet like that, announcing their engagement at the beginning of the meal. That was something best reserved for the end of an evening, just after a nightcap, when bride and groom could then disappear from the ensuing war.

  “What do you think?” Scher murmured beside him. “Am I to be served up with the main course? Or shall it wait for dessert?”

  He glanced at Aunt Adelia’s furious stare. Kit’s mother had the most venomous look, but hers was not the only angry expression. Even demure Lily, his brother’s wife, was growing flushed at being seated near Scheherazade. “I believe you shall be like the center candelabra,” he said, “held up for all to see and burned with every course.”

  “Naturally,” she said with dry humor, but he heard the pain underneath and knew she was not as composed as she appeared. “Then by all means, light the torch and let the games begin.”

  As if on cue, Aunt Adelia began her first sally.

  Chapter 4

  Scher pretended to sip from her wine, but didn’t actually swallow. She used it as a way to keep her hands busy. Otherwise, she would worry her dress to shreds and that would be yet one more strike against her. Meanwhile, Kit’s mother began her attack. The woman started sweetly with a false smile and a tight expression, but there was no disguising the animosity that radiated off her. Which made it all the more odd that she addressed Brandon.