Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t be the one to take away her dreams. And so he’d stopped her. And now she sat beside him, her body so stiff he wondered if she even breathed. As for the rest of the fashionable throng, Brandon lost count of the number of cut directs that Scheherazade suffered. They didn’t all snub her, of course, but most could not afford to be seen speaking with her either.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, wondering exactly what he was apologizing for. Not ruining her with a kiss? Or sitting uselessly beside her as the English aristocracy expressed their hatred of her. “I suppose I overestimated my social power. I thought my presence would—”

  “You warned me. I didn’t listen.” Her voice was flat in a way he’d never heard before. It gave him no clue to her thoughts. After their moment of total accord, this cut especially deep. “Perhaps a stroll would be just the thing. Stretch our legs as you meet up with Kit” He hated making the offer, despised making it easy for Kit to steal her away. But he had promised, and Scher had suffered so much already. He would not make the day any worse for her.

  She twisted back to look at him, her eyes wide with alarm. “Do you think that is best?”

  He recognized her look, one of a dazed and wounded animal. And she was turning to him for guidance. He almost laughed at that. He was the last person to whom she should look, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he gestured to his tiger, who looked back at him with confusion.

  Brandon sighed. “Walk the horses, Hank, until I return.”

  “Walk them? But—”

  “Just keep them moving around the park. We will find you when we are done.”

  “Yup,” the boy said, then jumped to the ground. He stumbled as he fell, having misjudged the height of the drop. His new uniform ripped and a dirt smear now covered the entire right side of his leg, but the boy never seemed to notice. He rolled easily to his feet and ran to hold the horses’ heads. Brandon stifled a sigh, but beside him Scheherazade released a quick gurgle of laughter.

  “As I said before,” Brandon drawled, “he is very young.”

  “He’ll notice it in a moment and be distraught, wondering how it could have happened when he had been so careful.”

  He turned. “You understand little boys.”

  “Seth does the work now, but there was a time when I was in charge of the stage boys.”

  “Lucky boys.”

  She arched a brow at him, so he was forced to explain.

  “I merely meant they were fortunate to spend their days under your direction. You are a firm but fair-minded mistress. I’m sure most of them never met anyone like you in their lives.”

  Her lips curved in a near smile. “Have you resorted to flattery, my lord?” She glanced about them as yet another matron gave a loud sniff and turned her back. “Am I so pitiful a specimen now that I require—”

  “It is not flattery if it is true. Now come and let us walk before Lady Rayburn gives herself a headache from all that sniffing and turning.”

  Scher’s expression solidified into a real smile and he felt the tightness in his chest ease a bit at the sight. “Which one is Lady Rayburn?”

  “Behind us to the right. She has been sniffing and gasping for the last ten minutes, desperate to gain your attention so she can cut you.”

  “Ah. Poor lady,” Scher said with no sadness at all in her voice. “Unfortunately, I have no intention of looking her direction at all.”

  Brandon flashed a grin, pleased beyond measure that Scher was coming back to herself. No more dazed pain in her expression, but she wasn’t exactly relaxed either. He leaped down to the street, then held out his hand to her. She moved gracefully to him, stabilizing her position with one hand while he grabbed her waist and lifted her free of the carriage.

  How poised she was, he thought as she landed smoothly on her toes rather than her feet. There was no awkwardness of skirts or an anxious giggle at his touch. Though it appeared one smooth motion, he knew from experience that few ladies had the grace expected of the peerage. Lily had it, and she was a countess. Scher could easily have been another such woman but for the unfortunate fact of her birth.

  “You are staring,” she whispered harshly.

  Brandon stepped back with a start. He had been noting the exquisite curve of her cheek and her stunning green eyes. Objectively speaking, her nose was too long for beauty, and her skin beneath the paint was not as creamy as the ideal, but something inside her screamed beautiful to him.

  “My apologies,” he murmured as he extended his arm to her.

  “What were you thinking of so deeply?” She fell into step beside him. Propriety demanded a certain distance between them, but as a whole new group of aristocrats gasped and gave her the cut, she tightened her grip on his arm. He tucked it close to his chest and smiled.

  “You would laugh if I told you.”

  “I could use something to laugh at right now,” she murmured between strained lips. She held her head stiffly erect and he admired her strength. He would have cut his losses long ago.

  “I was thinking how beautiful you are.”

  She laughed then, though the sound was a trifle forced. He nodded appreciatively at her. Obviously she was putting on a brave show.

  “It is the truth,” he said earnestly.

  “And I was thinking that this is the very reason I never went on the stage.”

  He frowned. “I don’t follow you.”

  “I hate being the center of attention. Goodness, you would think I had the plague.”

  He nodded. “You know,” he drawled, “I believe I shall bring you every time I come to Hyde Park. This is the easiest I have ever moved through the grass.”

  “That is because everyone parts before me like the Red Sea.”

  “Well, Moses, I believe your destination is just ahead.” There, rounding the path, was Kit, still with his ladies on his arms. Even from this distance, Brandon could see that his cousin was struggling. Though his expression held an easy smile and he occasionally laughed, there was a jerkiness to his gestures. In truth, Brandon had never seen his cousin so ill at ease, and that included that disastrous meal a couple days ago.

  With a reassuring squeeze to Scheherazade’s arm, Brandon lengthened his stride enough that they met up with Kit relatively quickly. “Ah, the happy couple reunites at last. Kit, your blushing bride has been delightful company. I envy you your future.”

  Kit looked up, his expression grateful, but none of the stiffness left his body. “Thank you, Brandon. And how are you faring, my dear? The sun is surprisingly hot, is it not?”

  “Actually, I find the weather most refreshing.”

  “It is the company that she finds difficult, I fear,” Brandon drawled, pretending he meant himself. Scheherazade flashed him an amused look. Obviously, she understood he really meant the aristocrats who continued to go to great lengths to walk far away from them.

  Meanwhile, Kit gently disentangled himself from one of his companions to take Scher’s arm. “Has my cousin been disagreeable again?”

  “Far from it. He has been most generous.” Then after a long pause, Scher turned to the ladies. “I am afraid I have not met your friends, Kit. Should I be jealous that you are spending time with such lovely ladies instead of me?”

  Kit glanced warmly at Scher, his expression brightening measurably. “Are you jealous?”

  Kit clearly missed Scher’s clue to introduce her, and Brandon was on the verge of doing it himself, when the older of the two beauties dimpled prettily.

  “I’m terribly sorry, but my grandmother has been gesturing most urgently toward me.” She neatly caught her friend’s hand. “Come on, Becky. You know how she is when her joints pain her. Lovely to see you again, Mr. Frazier, Lord Blackstone.” Then they both waved in perfect tandem before turning and rushing away.

  “That was not well done,” Brandon drawled, his eyes on their retreating backs.

  “Yes, they have been trying to dissuade me from my disastrous course,” Kit responded
dryly.

  “I meant you,” Brandon snapped. “You should have at least introduced Scher.”

  “As you saw, they would not have permitted it. I had hoped to have some conversation first, so that they could see you were not some sort of monster,” he said to Scher. “But you forced my hand, and . . . well, they are gone now.”

  Scher nodded. “And getting an earful from their grandmother, no doubt. I am sorry, Kit, I should have known you had a plan.”

  Brandon couldn’t stop his snort. “Plan? Scher, they will not see you differently no matter how much conversation you share.”

  “That’s not true!” Kit responded hotly. “Some will. The younger ones, and those who care for me.”

  “Like those two?” Brandon sneered. “And did it work?”

  “You forced my hand!”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Scher interrupted in an urgent whisper. “Having you two argue publicly will only make things worse.” Brandon opened his mouth to insert a dry comment, but she stopped him with a glare. “Yes, I know you do not think it can get worse, but the last thing I need is for my only supporters to be at odds.”

  Brandon dipped his head by way of apology, but inside his heart squeezed painfully. Did she truly think it could not get worse?

  “Perhaps it is time we were done with the park,” Kit said gently as he began to steer her along the path.

  “Yes, thank you,” she said softly, and Brandon was surprised by the jolt of disappointment inside him. Couldn’t Kit see what he was doing to Scher? If they went through with their ridiculous wedding, then Scher would suffer today’s slights every moment of the rest of her life. Didn’t he realize he was doing her no favor?

  Kit glanced over his shoulder at Brandon. “Would you mind terribly, old man, if I escorted Scher home? I believe I can get her out faster than your phaeton.” He tilted his chin toward where Brandon’s vehicle was blocked in at the thickest part of the carriage crush.

  “Of course not,” Brandon replied smoothly, though he longed to plant his cousin a facer. Kit and Scher would remove themselves rather quickly on foot while Brandon would be forced to endure this for another half hour as he tried to maneuver out.

  Scher looked around, her shoulders flinching only slightly as yet another group of ladies—young virgins this time—gasped in outrage and started whispering behind their gloves. “But how will we leave? Would it be proper?”

  “We will walk, my dear,” Kit said gently. “Grandmama’s home is not that far from here. Then we can—”

  “Not there, Kit, please. I couldn’t bear it just now.” It was the first admission from Scher that she was nearing her limits, and Brandon felt the darkness in him churn in response. He hated to see her in such pain.

  “Walk toward there,” he said with a gesture. “Go slowly. I shall extricate my carriage and meet you along the way.”

  “But—”

  “Then Kit can borrow my phaeton and drive you home,” he said though that was the last thing he wanted.

  Kit visibly brightened. “You trust me with them? They are magnificent horses. I meant to say that earlier.”

  “And a new phaeton. Do not scratch it.”

  “I would never!”

  Brandon didn’t dare comment. His eyes on Scheherazade, he wondered if she could see how very young Kit was. Good God, the boy was exuberant over his horseflesh instead of worried about his fiancée. But when Scher’s expression never wavered, Brandon began to wonder if it seemed to her that he was particularly old rather than Kit rather young.

  Unfortunately, there was no way to ask, and so he bowed smoothly to them both. “I will see you as soon as possible.” Then he turned and walked away. He couldn’t move quickly for fear that people would think he was escaping, but neither did he wish to loiter and invite comments from the biddies and bastards that now pressed forward, all of them anxious to talk to him once he had left Scheherazade’s side.

  Best thing to do, he decided, was to shove his hands in his pockets and start whistling. A few people tried to stop him along the way, but he merely waved to them and kept walking. He could see by their expressions that they only wanted more fuel to gossip about Scheherazade.

  This would not do. Neither Kit nor Scher knew what it was like to live outside of the only society they had ever known. If this marriage moved forward, Kit would lose his position, which was bad enough, but Scheherazade would enter a nowhere land too proper to associate with actors and yet still hated by the elite. She would lose everything to no benefit. She was a strong woman, but day after day of ostracism ate at a person. He had suffered it for months in India, and it had broken him. Two years ago, he had tried to live as a shining example of English and Indian cooperation, but he had failed in a most spectacular fashion. Scher would likely last longer than he had, but the end would be the same. She would end up broken and bitter, her soul battered to darkness. Except, of course, it would be worse for her because she could not escape as he had, coming back to London with a title and fortune.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of that, though he had no wish to delve into why he felt so deeply. He merely resolved to end Scher and Kit’s ridiculous engagement as quickly as possible. By the time he made it to his phaeton, he’d formulated a plan. One that he could implement as early as tonight. In her bedchamber.

  The first cut direct was hard on Kit. Scher felt his whole body go still with shock. To his credit, his step hitched only for a moment, but even though he obviously forced his feet to move, his eyes remained trained on the woman who had cut them.

  Scher had no idea who she was, and she didn’t dare ask. Kit was usually the one making her laugh, easing her tension. She didn’t know what to do when he was the one in shock. So she simply kept walking while her cheeks began to ache from the forced smile.

  The next cut direct merely elicited a sigh. It was a soft one, but she heard it. And if she didn’t hear it, she could feel the slump to his shoulders.

  “Kit . . .” she began, but he shook his head.

  “Not now, Scher. Let me . . . Just not now.”

  “Of course.” She buttoned her lip and lifted her face to the sun. If she closed her eyes, she could simply appreciate the beauty of the day. But the huffs of disgust and the more contrived gasps of outrage were loud enough to eat into her enjoyment. She already knew she was a pariah. Did they really need to make such a production out of snubbing her?

  Tears prickled under her eyelids. She had dreamed of this moment for so long. Since she had first heard of Hyde Park’s fashionable hour, she had longed to walk among the titled ones as one of them.

  No, that wasn’t exactly true. She walked among titled men every day. What she wanted was to exist alongside the women, to be included in a tight cluster of chattering girls, to wander beside a countess or exchange polite smiles with a duchess. She’d known it wouldn’t happen today, but she had thought eventually it would. After her wedding, maybe.

  But now she saw how very far she had to go for that to happen. Anyone who gave her the cut direct today would be especially resistant to changing his or her mind later. In short, it might never happen. Which meant her whole quest to become respectable through marriage might be a complete illusion.

  She stumbled, her foot catching on some uneven root. Kit caught her, but the pain in her toe made her gasp. It wasn’t really her toe, but she allowed herself the pretense. Between one breath and the next, her entire life’s goal had come into question. All her life, she had been told that respectable women—married women—were treated fairly. Their children were doctored, their husbands had status, and with enough money, they could purchase whatever they needed. Her own mother had died because the doctor delayed coming to the tavern. Her sister had been shortchanged on the medicine she needed. Even Pappy’s death came from a lifetime of cheap food and even cheaper ale. All that, she thought, would have changed if only they had been respectable. But now she saw how wrong that belief was. Or perhaps now she saw that no matter her marital s
tatus, respectability was far from her reach. And that thought brought tears to her eyes.

  “There, there. It was just a rock,” Kit said into her ear. She didn’t know if he understood the real reason for her anguish or not, but either way, she could only nod and force herself into some semblance of composure.

  “Come along, dear,” murmured Kit as he continued to move them forward. She went willingly, grateful for his guiding hand. And eventually she wrestled her emotions back down. They were still perilously close to the surface, a roiling ocean of pain, but she kept them in check by force of will.

  “Where the devil is Brandon?” Kit groused as they finally made it past the worst of the fashionable crowd.

  “Has it been long enough?” she asked as she scanned the street.

  “Probably not,” Kit admitted, his shoulders more stooped than she’d ever seen before.

  She almost said it right then. She almost offered to release him from their engagement, but she couldn’t form the words past the lump in her throat. She still wanted to get married. She still wanted to believe it was possible. So she said nothing, merely gripped his hand and kept her eyes down. Fortunately, she didn’t have to wait long. They shared only an awkward minute or two of silence before Brandon’s phaeton rounded the corner. Within a moment, Brandon had hopped down before her, his expression anxious as he studied her face.

  “How are you doing?” he asked softly. Could he tell that she was seconds away from sobbing her eyes out? Probably. Nothing ever escaped his notice.

  “I am quite well,” she responded smoothly.

  He didn’t look like he believed her but nodded anyway. Meanwhile Kit was moving toward the phaeton with clear awe.

  “Thank you for the use of your phaeton. Nothing like a ride in a beautiful phaeton to brighten the day, eh?” he said as he turned to Scher. His eyes were shining and she could tell he was excited. How quickly he was able to brush off the experience in the park. She found she admired that about him.