Wicked Surrender

by Jade Lee

  Brandon turned again, this time to see the warm, olive face of Dr. Dandin. In his hands, he carried a bowl of something that reeked of curry. Brandon stepped aside, the scent mixing in his mind with smoke and ash. He had never wanted to smell that particular mixture again. His stomach churned in disgust, but everyone else in the room seemed to look up with pleasure.

  The older woman, Mrs. Dandin presumably, came forward with an excited chatter. Nidra brightened as well, but Brandon’s focus was on his wife. How would she react to her native dish? The last time they had tried such a thing was a year ago. Channa’s fit lasted nearly a week, but today was different. The girl looked up just as expectantly as Nidra. Or at least she did until she caught sight of Brandon.

  There was a long frozen moment between him and his wife. Around them was chatter and movement. Even Scheherazade faded somewhat from his attention, though he was very aware that she stood a few inches behind him, no doubt watching everything with her keen gaze. But what would Channa do?

  She shifted to her knees, her gaze puzzled, almost as if she didn’t recognize him. As if he hadn’t been here just yesterday morning when she’d thrown her breakfast at him. Then her expression changed. He saw it coming immediately and tensed himself for the blow. She was on her feet in a second, launching herself at him with a scream of fury. He stepped forward to grab her, but Dr. Dandin was before him. He grabbed Channa’s arms and held her firmly.

  “Enough of this!” the man snapped. “You will spill the food!”

  Channa continued to screech, her eyes wild as she stared over the doctor’s shoulder at him. Then Mrs. Dandin smoothly stepped between Brandon and his wife, cutting off Channa’s view.

  “Such nonsense!” chided the woman in Channa’s native dialect. “You will ruin the meal.”

  Channa, still restrained in Dr. Dandin’s arms, stopped her scream on a toddlerlike hiccup.

  “That’s better,” the older woman said. Then she glanced over her shoulder at Brandon. “Men do not belong here. This is a woman’s place. Go! Go!”

  Her words were stern, but he saw a silent plea in her expression. He nodded in assent and bowed out of the room. He knew better than anyone how Channa reacted to his presence.

  “Then I must leave as well,” said Dr. Dandin. “And you must sit and eat.” He guided Channa to where Nidra had laid out a blanket on the floor like a picnic. “I hope you enjoy it,” he said warmly before he too gave a slight bow and backed out of the room.

  Brandon stayed out of sight, watching as the doctor shut the door quietly behind him. On the opposite side of the hall, Scheherazade stood silently, her steady gaze absorbing everything. Brandon sent her a desperate glance, silently pleading with her not to be afraid. Her response was a soft reassuring smile.

  He stared at her a moment longer while a weight rolled off his shoulders. A weight he hadn’t even realized had been there. The last two housekeepers and a score of maids had run screaming at the sight of Channa in one of her fits. And all Scher had done was step silently backward out of the way.

  Meanwhile, Dr. Dandin turned to him, a grin on his face. “Do you see?” he asked with a smile. “Do you see how much better she is?”

  Brandon gaped at the man. “She . . . She . . .” Words deserted him. His wife had descended into a screeching madwoman the minute Brandon came into view. That was hardly better.

  “Ah,” said Dr. Dandin, with an understanding nod. “You are focusing on the worst, but think back to how she appeared before.”

  “Before she caught sight of me?” Brandon drawled.

  “Er, yes, before then. Did you see how she was happy? How she interacted with my mother? They were doing chores all morning. It’s mother, really. She has a way with the girls. I should have brought her to England long ago.”

  Brandon nodded slowly. “Yes, I suppose that is improvement. But . . . why is there no furniture?” He ran his hand over his face, struggling to order his thoughts. “I can’t be in the room with her, I can’t help her mind. At the very least I can see that she lives in comfort.”

  Dr. Dandin took his arm, leading him down the hallway toward the stairs. “We can talk more comfortably in the library,” he said, as he cast a curious glance at Scheherazade.

  She immediately took the hint, smiling sweetly. “I should just freshen up. If someone could point to my room?”

  Mrs. Wiggins was coming up the stairs, likely to do just that, but Brandon abruptly touched Scher’s arm. He would have yanked her to him if he could, but even he was not that uncivilized. Still, he couldn’t deny the surge of need that coursed through him. He wanted her with him. He needed to know that she wasn’t going to run away the moment he turned his back.

  “Scher—” he began, wondering just what he could say. So many thoughts jumbled together in his mind. But he had brought her here for her to recuperate, not so he could burden her with his problems. She looked at him expectantly, but words failed him. What could he say to her? He glanced at Dr. Dandin and found help in polite introductions.

  “Dr. Dandin, please allow me to introduce Miss Martin. She is . . . She was . . .” He swallowed. “She was lately engaged to my cousin. We were at his funeral this morning.”

  “My goodness, I had no idea! Please accept my condolences,” the doctor returned.

  “Thank you,” both Scher and Brandon responded together. And then another awkward silence descended as his two guests tried to take their cue from their host. But Brandon was still at a loss.

  “Uh,” he stumbled into speech, “I, uh, met Dr. Dandin in India. He wanted to come to England to study, and I have followed his career with interest.”

  “He has done more than that,” Dr. Dandin continued. “He has been an enormous help in opening doors in England.”

  “In return, he has been Channa’s doctor and a much-needed friend.”

  The mutual admiration ended then, and once again they stood awkwardly in the hallway. Only now it was worse as Mrs. Wiggins topped the stairs to stand expectantly just to the side. Eventually, it was Scher who managed to end the difficulty.

  “It is lovely to meet you doctor. I am sure you are a great aid to Lord Blackstone. No doubt the two of you wish to discuss matters in private.”

  “Scher—”

  “It has already been a long day, my lord. Perhaps we could speak again this evening at dinner.”

  He wanted to speak more now. He wanted to explain about Channa, about how all this mess came to be. He thought she would listen this time, but he couldn’t take the time to explain right here in the hallway. Most of all, he wanted to have her beside him when he discussed whatever it was that Dr. Dandin wanted. Those conversations were never easy, and he simply wished she could be there with him. He wanted her thoughts on the problems at hand. He wanted . . . well, he wanted her, and that, he thought as he glanced back at Channa’s door, was never going to be.

  He executed a deep bow, using the motion to force himself to look at something other than Scheherazade. “Mrs. Wiggins will show you the way. Please let her know if you need anything at all.”

  He spoke the words to her shoulder, then with a stiff spine and a sense of doom, he turned toward the library and whatever new problem the doctor wished to lay at his door.

  The nursery was a small room set with a bed and a cradle. The doctor, apparently, resided in the attached bedroom designed for the nanny.

  “It ain’t much but the linens are clean,” said Mrs. Wiggins.

  “It’s fine. It reminds me of my bed as a child. And I am not so tall as to have my feet stick out.”

  Mrs. Wiggins nodded with professional detachment, but her eyes held a bright curiosity. “Right sorry I am to hear about your fiancé, miss.” She hesitated. “If I might be so bold . . . Which cousin was it? Who has . . . er . . . passed on, miss?”

  “Master Kit Frazier,” she answered, surprised that she could speak his name without her voice breaking.

  “Oh, miss. I’m so sorry, miss.”

 
; Scheherazade allowed herself to drop slowly onto the bed. “Do you ever think, Mrs. Wiggins, that some things were just never meant to be? That nothing good ever comes from trying to reach for something that . . .” She stared down at her hands, her words faltering.

  “Well, I don’t know, miss,” the housekeeper said, her tone warm and motherly. “Seems to me this house is filled with things that shouldn’t be. Indian wives not right in their head. A lord whose brother is the real lord while his is a given title.” To her credit, there wasn’t any disdain in her voice. It was a simple recitation of facts. “Seems as though we all muck along best we can, and there’s no accounting for what should and should not be.”

  Scheherazade felt her lips curve in a fond smile. “You sound like Pappy.”

  “Well,” said Mrs. Wiggins, “your father was clearly a good man.” Then she patted Scher’s arm. “You rest now. Dinner will be served at six, but you can have a tray sent up if you like.”

  “No, I won’t put you to the trouble. I will be down for dinner. Thank you.”

  The housekeeper nodded and left, and all the while, Scher was thinking that Pappy was also another thing in her life that ought not to be. Pappy wasn’t her father but had been more of a father to her than whoever had sired her. Was there anything in her life that was right?

  Scher came down late to dinner, her hair mussed and her eyes red from tears, but when Brandon looked questioningly at her, she managed to pull together a blank, false smile very reminiscent of her nights in the Green Room. She probably guessed he wasn’t fooled, but his other guests would be. She was good at hiding her personal feelings.

  Bloody hell, Brandon thought, he had made a complete hash of this. He should not have brought her here. But she needed a rest from the troupe and he had needed to converse with Dr. Dandin. It had seemed logical at the time. Or, perhaps, he had simply wanted to be with her.

  “I am so sorry,” she apologized again as they went in to dinner. They were a small party of four, consisting of Scher, Brandon, Dr. Dandin, and his mother. Channa, as usual, ate in her room.

  “Think nothing of it,” Dr. Dandin returned. “You should allow your body to take its rest when it can. Life can be too rushed sometimes and we forget about the basics of sleep and nourishment.”

  Brandon doubted Scher had slept much at all. There were still smudges under her eyes and a sallow cast to her skin. She had made some attempt to straighten her hair, but . . . bloody hell, he didn’t think the nursery even had a mirror. He made a mental note to change that immediately. Mrs. Dandin was chatting with animation, obviously happy with the company. She probably thought Scher was one of those perpetually wan Englishwomen. But he had seen her sweetly competent in the Green Room, her very essence exuding strength. He had known it when she was facing down harridans in Hyde Park. And, of course, he could not forget how wonderful she was writhing in the throes of ecstasy. She was not a wilting English flower, and that made her present condition all the more worrisome.

  Or perhaps he was pushing off his own worries onto her. After all, this afternoon’s discussions with Dr. Dandin had given him a great deal to think about. What he wouldn’t give now to have Scher’s clearheaded thoughts on his future.

  “I’m afraid we have nothing but honest country fare here,” he said, taking refuge from his thoughts in polite banter.

  “On the contrary,” inserted Dr. Dandin as he turned to Scheherazade. “Lord Blackstone’s cook has proved herself quite adept at Indian cuisine as well as English. I believe we are to experience the best of both tonight.”

  “How delightful!” Scher said with an echo of her usual animation. “I’m sure I shall be most interested.”

  “Well, don’t expect Brandon to take any. He has fore-sworn curry as the devil’s scourge!”

  “Not true!” Brandon returned. “I am merely being a polite host, allowing my guests to take the best morsels. You must take some, Miss Martin. Take a great deal. Finish it, so that there is none left for me. Please, I beg you!”

  His florid speech brought a smile to her lips, and he was disgustingly pleased to have accomplished such a thing. She dipped her head to everyone.

  “I shall be most honored to take a taste, but I would never dream of eating it all!”

  Brandon groaned in mock horror while everyone—Scher included—laughed at his antics. Odd. He had rarely stirred himself to such levels of polite silliness, but he found that he could attempt such things here. Away from London, he felt less of the weight of his political responsibilities. Plus, he had the added incentive of seeing Scher smile. For that, he would dress as a court jester and do flips across the table.

  The meal continued. Scher began a lively inquiry into India, showing her intelligence as she asked Mrs. Dandin for more details of her life in a country so far away. Though she did little more than prompt the doctor and his mother to elaborate on their culture, Brandon could see her skill in keeping the conversation flowing without resorting to banalities about weather and food. Were Scher of different birth, she would have made an excellent political wife.

  The meal ended, and the evening began, but night comes hard in the country. Without gaslights to lighten the darkness, the manor felt very isolated. The land settled into sleep whether or not his own body was used to country hours.

  Dr. Dandin and his mother made their excuses and headed to bed. Scheherazade rose as well, and he held his tongue, refusing to beg her to stay awake a little longer with him. She was beyond tired. He could see that. He would not—

  “I find I am not yet ready to sleep, my lord,” she said. “Do you perhaps have a book or something in your library that I could read? Perhaps something about India, as I would love to learn more.”

  “Of course,” he answered smoothly. Politeness demanded such a response. “Please follow me.”

  Then, while his other guests climbed the stairs, he calmly led Scheherazade into his bedroom.

  Chapter 24

  “Sadly, I have only a few books on India, but I suppose it is more than you could easily find in other places.”

  Scheherazade nodded politely as she followed Brandon into his library. He lit the candelabras spaced about the room while she looked at the place that was clearly his. It was a small parlor outfitted with a couple bookcases, a desk pushed against the wall nearest the window, and a chair facing the fireplace. It was obviously his desk chair simply moved for companionable conversation with someone who would sit on the short settee, now covered with blankets and a pillow.

  “This is ridiculous,” she said, not just about the bed linens, but the entire understated room. This was all he had in his own home?

  “What?”

  He was looking at titles on the lowest shelf while she struggled for the right words. She could hardly criticize the size of his library, so she gestured to the bed linens instead.

  “You can’t possibly expect to sleep there. Your feet will stick out the end!”

  He shrugged as he turned from the bookcase, a slim volume in his hand. “Actually, I expect I’ll stretch out on the floor. I don’t require much.”

  “But you are the master of this house. You should—”

  “Scher, I have found that I am master of far less than I ever thought. Sleeping before a fire is the smallest of sacrifices if it means you will stay here awhile with me.”

  She flushed, embarrassed by his words. She knew he spoke of her visiting Pottersfarm, but her thoughts went straight to last night when “staying” meant being in his bed. He seemed to have followed her line of thought as well, and he began to stammer out an apology.

  “I-I mean . . . Scher, I want you to rest, not . . . This visit was meant as a restorative for you. Not . . . I didn’t think we would . . .”

  She stepped forward, placing her hand on his arm to stop his babbling. “I know, Brandon,” she said, laughter lacing her tone. “I know why you brought me. And I thank you.”

  He touched her face, a reverent stroke of her cheek. “I just wa
nted you to relax somewhere. Not think of anything or anyone for a while.”

  She smiled. “Can I think of you?”

  His eyes darkened, and his breath stopped, but he didn’t move any closer to her. In the end, he exhaled gruffly, his mint scent perfuming the air. “You must be dropping with fatigue.”

  She arched a brow. “Actually, I find I’m bursting with questions. There are some things I need to ask you.”

  He nodded, pushed the book into her hands, then stepped away with a firm stride. She felt bereft by his sudden absence, but she had no time to object as he began speaking.

  “I suppose you want to know about Channa. Well, it is a sad tale, to be sure, filled with my own stupid arrogance.”

  “No, I—”

  He turned to her, his expression bleak. “I want to tell you. I have a decision to make about her and I would value your opinion.”

  She closed her mouth, momentarily silenced by his words. How novel it was to have a man say that to her: that he valued her opinion. And how wonderful that it was Brandon.

  “I’m sorry I wouldn’t listen before,” she said. “You tried to explain, but I was so angry.”

  He shook his head. “I should have told you from the very beginning.” Then he turned away from her, his gaze sliding to the dark window. “I was trying to do business with her father. Channa was the condition of the joint venture.”

  Scher blinked. “You married her so that you could create a factory with her father?”

  “It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it? I wish you could have known her then. Channa was lighthearted, funny, and a real beauty. She was shy at first, as all good Indian girls are, but I could see a spark in her. A mischief in her eyes. I wasn’t supposed to see her at all, you know, but she found ways to talk to me. We both did.”

  Scher bit her lip. She could hear the affection in his voice, true warmth. “You loved her.”

  He laughed, the sound bitter. “Oh, yes, I was in love, but not with her. Not really.”