My Surrender (8 page)

He glared at her. It must be more difficult than she’d realized for him to allow her to rush into danger when he’d sworn to keep her safe. Her heart turned in her chest, but then she steeled herself against softening. Everyone made sacrifices. Everyone compromised. If the need was great enough.

“Dand, there
is
no one else,” she said, taking a step toward him. “Our group of conspirators is very small and there are scant few women amongst us. Scant being two, Ginny and I.

“Even if there were another woman, one who St. Lyon found desirable, one who could be trusted, who knows the plans of the castle and understands what she is looking for, St. Lyon would never allow a stranger into his fortress at such a time. He will be suspicious of anyone he does not know—”

“Exactly!” Dand seized on her last sentence. “St. Lyon will be suspicious of
anything
untoward, anything out of the ordinary. And what could be more out of the ordinary than that you suddenly decide to accept him as a lover when you could have any man in the ton for your husband?”

She smiled wanly at this gross exaggeration.

“It will never work. Besides,” he went on, turning and walking away from her. “St. Lyon would never risk his position in society by ruining a peer’s virginal sister-in-law.”

She took a deep breath. “He won’t be risking anything.”

He stopped, his back to her. “Why is that?”

“Because by then I shall be a Fallen Woman.”

“What?”
He turned around.

“By the time St. Lyon gets Ginny’s letter all society will be abuzz with the story of my fall from grace. He is a creature of the ton, Dand. His friends in London are bound to write often, keeping him apprised of all the latest
on dits.
Which is why I need your help.”

She closed the small distance between them, her skirts brushing the yellow rosebush and sending a shower of petals swirling to the grass. She reached out hesitantly. He stared at her approaching hand as though it were unsheathed steel but did not move. Tentatively, she placed her palm on his chest. He was warm, so alive. So masculine. “I need you to be my seducer,” she whispered.

He stared at her for a long moment, his shock apparent in the slight widening of his eyes, the manner in which his dark brows snapped together before he muttered, “You’re mad. Are you sure it wasn’t you and not Mrs. Mulgrew who got run over by that horse?”

She edged closer, lifting her face, willing him to meet her gaze. “Dand. There is no one else I can ask. You only have to
appear
to be my lover. Stay late at my house. Go to a few public functions. Look smitten.

“Just think,” she gave him a puckish smile, “you will be the instrument of my downfall. Most men would find that a rather choice role.”

Abruptly he stepped away, breaking contact with her. He would not be cajoled.
“Stop
trying to handle me. I am not one of your wet-nosed pups.”

No. He was not. He was entirely unlike any man she knew. Had ever known. She’d been wrong to try to manipulate him. She had more respect for him than that. Her hands fell to her sides and her coquettish smile evaporated. “This plan will work.”

“Oh, yes. It sounds entirely plausible. You jettison your reputation and your future because you are overcome with passion for some nameless tramp.”

“No one in London knows who you are. I’ll have it put out that I knew you in York, that we were childhood sweethearts or some such thing, but then you bought a commission. You have just sold it and returned and upon being reunited with you after all these years I threw caution to the wind and took you as my lover.

“Anyone who knows my reputation will believe that,” she said dryly. “Then in a week or so, we will part company. I shall pretend to have come to my senses, too late to save my reputation, but not too late to realize that life as the wife of an impecunious ex-captain of the Light Guards is not to my liking. Again, this will surprise no one.

“I will then let it fall in a few well-placed ears that my good friend Ginny Mulgrew has helped me determine my options and convinced me that my best course lies in following her example and procuring a wealthy protector. St. Lyon.”

“Wake me, please,” he implored the sky above.

“Stop that!” This was not a plan she wanted. It was simply the only plan they had.

“I won’t be party to such madness.” He turned, but she would not let him go. She darted around in the front of him, her hand pushing hard against his chest, stopping him.

“Yes, you will,” she said. “Because you know how many lives might…
can
be saved if I can find this letter. Just as you know how many lives might be destroyed if I don’t.”

“It will never work.”

“It may not,” she conceded. “But we have to try.
I
have to try. And if it fails…well, at least I will know it was not because I valued my reputation over the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent people. Dand…” The sunlight shimmered in her eyes, making it hard to see his face, read his expression. “How could I live with myself if I didn’t make an attempt to get that letter? How could you live with yourself if you didn’t help me?”

“How can I live with myself if I do?” His voice was low, poisoned. He lifted his hand, his fingertips hovering inches above her cheek, tracing a line in the air as if he were caressing her.

“You will have to. Just as I will.”

His hand fell to his side.

“Besides, I may not have to become St. Lyon’s mistress,” she offered hopefully. “He might take a dislike to me. Or he might discover that I am far too fastidious for his tastes. Or too mercenary. I am only going there as his
potential
mistress, Dand. It isn’t a fait accompli.” She prayed this last was true. It was to this faint hope she’d clung since she’d made her decision. “Help me.”

“You don’t have a bloody clue what you’re asking of me, do you?” he muttered, his heart beating thickly beneath her palm.

“The oath? The Rose Hunters’ sacred vow of seeing to the well-being of all the Nash women?” He must help her. She turned around, trying to find the words to convince him and spied a single yellow bloom drooping forlornly from the end of a tremulous branch. She bent over, plucked it, and rose, holding the flower out to him.

“You swore you would do whatever was asked of you. I’m asking you to help me.”

“I did not vow to aid in your destruction,” he said fiercely, refusing to even glance at the bloom nestled in the palm of her hand.

“I know. But I would trade your vow to protect me for your aid in saving the lives of a multitude.”

A shudder coursed through him and his jaw clenched. She picked up his fisted hand and pried open the long fingers, carefully placing the rose within it and then, just as carefully folding his fingers back over it. “I think it a rather good trade,” she jested weakly, praying he would accept. “Please, Dand.”

With a curse, he crushed the blameless bloom he held and jerked his hand free from hers. He was always pulling away from her, she realized, and she was always finding some excuse to touch him. “How?”

Quickly, while he was willing to listen, she outlined the plan she and Ginny had devised during the long hours before dawn.

“You’ll have to take a false name. Too many people recognize the name Dand Ross from Helena’s encounter last year. Then, come and go as if my home were your own. Act like a lover.” She shrugged, smiling a little. “Pretend to ruin me.”

He did not return her smile. “Make no mistake, Lottie. Whatever I do, the world will never know it as pretense,” he said with chill sobriety. “You will have to live with the results of this masquerade for the rest of your life.

“In the end, even should you succeed and the war is won and Napoleon defeated, there will never be a public disclosure explaining your motives and your noble goal. There will be no celebration, no gala hero’s reception for you. The papers will not write a retraction of the condemnation that will seep into every society column. No one will say ‘thank you.’

“Whispers will continue to follow you. Shoulders will continue to be turned. Ladies will cross the street to avoid meeting you and young Turks will cross the street
to
meet you. In the eyes of the world, you
will
be ruined.”

“I understand.” She had some inkling of what the future may well hold. She’d seen something of the life Ginny led. “Will you help me?”

He stared into her resolute face for a long, silent moment before finally grinding out, “Damn it all to hell! All right.”

“Thank you.” Her body relaxed.

“All right,” he repeated again. “But only until I can devise another plan. Is that understood?”

“Entirely,” she breathed. “Believe me, there is nothing I desire more than for you to come up with an alternative.”

He looked her over with thinning lips. “St. Lyon leaves for Scotland tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must be compromised soon, yes?”

“As soon as possible,” she agreed.

“Where are you going tomorrow evening?” he asked and then, with something near bitterness, “You are, I assume, going somewhere?”

“Yes,” she said. “I had planned on attending a subscription ball at the Argyll Rooms.”

“Excellent. A public venue.” He frowned thoughtfully. “I daresay I should be able to scrape up something.”

She tilted her head inquiringly. “For what?”

His eyes glittered with a hard light she was quite unused to seeing in their warm, brown depths. “Why, for the opening performance of
The Ruin of Miss Charlotte Nash.”

He strode toward the south part of the city. Tension set the broad shoulders and lined the lean visage, making those who would approach fall back before his approach. He ignored the increasing poverty of the area through which he traveled, moving heedless of any danger amongst the rookeries that lurked like poor relations at the backside of the fashionable districts.

Chance and misfortune had him ensnared, trapped him by circumstance and wretched necessity. This wasn’t part of his plan. This merry-mouthed slip of a girl whose dancing eyes and saucy tongue hid a resolve as tenacious as his own, a dauntless heart that equaled his in cool and unflinching determination. She was not supposed to play an active role in these next few weeks. Damn, but she was making things difficult for him.

It was his own bloody fault, of course. He should have realized that she would be a problem from the first moment he’d set eyes on her. She wasn’t beautiful like the blond Helena. Nor handsome like dark Kate, but she was more fascinating, with her devil-may-care eyes, vibrant cinnamon curls, vivacious manner, and audacious mouth—a creature of sensuality as well as intelligence.

He should have stayed away from her, but he’d grown soft over the last year or so. Too many near misses with the Dark Summoner, he suspected, made him want to savor life before he entertained death. He closed his eyes, shaking his head, nearly laughing because it was so absurd. So divinely ridiculous.

He wouldn’t let it matter. Nothing before had ever forced him to deviate from his agenda, not Father Tarkin, not his “brothers,” not this Nash girl. Charlotte.
Nothing.

Fate had set him on this road years before,
decades
before. The same road that had led him to St. Bride’s, the same road that had led him to those fateful associations with the others, the same road upon whose length he had honed his skills with sword and fist and mind. And as he, better than anyone knew, you cannot go back again.

So he would go forward, even if it killed him. He would use the tools presented to him to complete the task he had set before himself years earlier. He might admire Charlotte Elizabeth Nash. He damn well wanted her. He could even—
no.

He wasn’t going to let emotions stand in his way. He would find a way to make this work.

He always had.

The Argyll Ballrooms, London
July 19, 1806

C
HARLOTTE PAUSED
on the threshold of the Argyll Rooms fighting uncharacteristic nervousness. Inside, candlelight ricocheted off a hundred mirrors, throwing light like confetti, sparkling on diamante-spangled bodices and winking in diamond stickpins, glossing ropes of pearls and gleaming in pomaded hair and shining satin waistcoats, here picking out the tip of a tongue surreptitiously wetting lips, there catching the glimmer of white teeth.

She knew these people. She’d met many on her arrival in this great city five years before when she’d been unofficially launched into society by her surrogate family, the Weltons. Like the Weltons, most of those in attendance tonight were kindly if slightly ramshackle types, no more likely to judge their fellow than themselves. There was Lady Partridge, concern over which sweetmeat to eat puckering her heart-shaped mouth, the perpetually befogged Mrs. Hal Verson, and sweet, handsome Lord Beau Winkel.

But there were less friendly faces, too: Hecuba Montaigne White, once the toast of London and known as “Hundreds Hecuba” for her myriad liaisons, newly in the throes of a “miraculous religious conversion” and looking for others to follow her example; Countess Juliette Kettle, her onetime schoolmate; George Ravenscroft, whom she’d once sent packing for being fresh; and Lord Bylespot, who had given her a far deeper understanding of “fresh” and to whom she’d given an even greater understanding of “no.”

Those were the people she’d always been wary of alienating, those who with a word could annihilate a woman’s social status and condemn her to life on the other side of the line separating Society from the rest of the civilized world. They roosted like carrion eaters about the edges of the ballroom, waiting for some social misstep or careless word to fall from unsuspecting lips that they might swoop in and pick the transgressor’s bones clean.

Well, tonight they would have a feast. If all went according to plan, by midnight she would be well on her way to being a Fallen Woman. The news should reach Comte St. Lyon within a week and while she had understood and accepted the consequences of this evening on her own behalf, she could not help imagining her sisters’ anguish and shock when they heard of this night’s events.

Yet, what other choice was there?

Once more she glanced toward Juliette Kettle, her gaze roving the crowd, scavenging for some misdemeanor to snack on.
Bon appétit,
Juliette, she thought and, taking a deep breath, stepped through the door into the ballroom, her head high, a coquettish smile on her lips.

Within minutes she was surrounded by admirers, both men she knew and others tugging at the sleeves of their companions to beg for an introduction. She enjoined the game as the expert she knew herself to be, smiling prettily, casting sidelong glances like lures amongst the stream of men and reeling them in with a toss of her head, a winsome trill of laughter, a playful tap of her folded fan. Within a very short time the ivory ribs of that same fan were scribbled over with the names of men to whom she had promised a dance.

She flirted with an abandon she had never before employed, ignoring female friends, knowing that tomorrow they would thank their stars she had passed them by. Already little whispers, like an ill wind amongst dead leaves, rustled beneath the current of conversation and music.

As the rustle of gossip grew, so did her tension.
When would he come?
Where
was
he? And finally, would
anyone
believe she found him attractive?

Oh, she had no doubt that if a face alone could tempt a woman to her downfall, Dand’s would more than suffice. But she was no ordinary woman; she was the construction known as Charlotte Nash.
That
creature was known not only for her fast conversation and daring escapades, but also for her unerring sense of style and her discrimination in regard to the men with whom she danced or allowed to take her in to dine. No one would credit she was attracted to a man in an ill-fitting or dodgy waistcoat or, heaven forbid it, one sporting a
beard.

“I believe this is my dance, Miss Nash?” A young lieutenant who had been introduced to her at an art exhibition last week appeared at her side.

She glanced down at her fan. Ah, yes. Albright, Matthew. “So, it is!”

Gaily, she took his arm and let him lead her into the line of dancers. He handled her gingerly, reverently, his gloved hand barely touching hers. “You are charming. Splendid!”

“Thank you,” she answered automatically. “You are too kind.”

Charming.
His admiration, so candid and clean, produced an unanticipated frisson of distress. After this evening, would ever another man find her simply “charming”? Or would the appellations hitherto attached to her name be ones no man would tolerate being associated with his daughter or sister, let alone his wife?

“No. I am not kind. I speak the truth. I have never known anyone like you. You are so exciting, so fascinating, so—”

“Provoking,” a male voice purred from behind her. “You little baggage.”

She spun around. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood before her in exquisitely tailored evening dress: dark blue coat, snowy white waistcoat, and an equally snowy white cravat arranged in the most wonderful folds and pinned by a single topaz. Brilliant amber-colored eyes glittered from a sun-dark visage. Glossy brown hair lay in carefully clipped precision about his neck. A hard, square jaw scraped as smooth as marble exposed a pale crescent-shaped scar on one lean cheek. His wide, well-shaped mouth wore a mocking smile.

Dand?
Dand!
And looking amazingly like a gentleman. Almost like an aristocrat, except for the sun-darkened skin and that wicked scar.

Relief washed through her.

“You promised me this dance,” he said to her.

“I say, sir, you are mistaken.” Albright, unhappy at this turn of affairs, stepped forward and pointed at the fan in Charlotte’s hand. “You need only look to see that my name is writ upon her fan. Not yours.”

“Is it?” Dand asked, his gaze moving reluctantly from Charlotte to the young lieutenant. With a smile at Albright that just missed being friendly, he casually wrested the fan from Charlotte’s clasp and just as casually crumpled it into a ball. He dropped the mangled mess to the floor.

“Alas, Miss Nash has lost her fan. But I am certain she will now recall that I, and not you, have claim of this dance. And the next.” His gaze returned to Charlotte. “And the next. And the one after that. You do remember, don’t you, Lottie?”

The pet name fell on her ears like a caress, warm and intimate. Her heart pattered in her chest. One side of his mouth climbed in a rakish smile that stated he knew the effect he’d had on her heartbeat. It was an act, she reminded herself. This is what he did. This is who he was. This is how he survived. By acting a role. As did she.

She had never given him proper credit for being such a good actor. She must remember to commend him.

“She wouldn’t dance so many times with one partner!” declared Albright, ruddy faced. “You are insulting a lady, sir. And as a gentleman, I demand satisfaction.”

Dand raised his brow at Albright, his expression lazily interested. A tomcat, Charlotte thought breathlessly, playing with a mouse.

“Before you do something your father will regret—assuming, that is, that your father holds you in affection—why don’t we ask the lady if she feels insulted?” He cocked a dark brow at her. “Well, Miss Nash?”

There would be no going back from her answer. She hesitated, on the cusp of irrevocably altering her state in society.

“Lottie?” Dand’s voice was gentle, as though he understood exactly what she sacrificed here. It gave her strength. She smiled apologetically at Albright.

“I fear I had forgotten that this gentlemen has claim of this dance. And those following it.”

The lieutenant stared at her, a dark stain mounting his downy cheeks, insulted and aggrieved. He had set her on a pedestal and now she had plummeted from it, and he was angry at her for betraying his image of her. She understood.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I see,” he said stiffly. He bowed toward Dand. “I wish you joy of her.”

His choice of words caused the blood to drain from Charlotte’s face. Albright turned, but Dand’s hand shot out, nabbing his arm and spinning him back around.

“I don’t think I heard you properly, son,” Dand said, his voice light but his eyes narrowed dangerously. “For your sake, I hope not.”

The young officer scowled, self-preservation warring with pride. Impulsively, Charlotte laid her hand on Dand’s arm. This was ridiculous. How could he harm this young man for accepting as truth what they had purposely led him to believe? She didn’t want the boy hurt. She had enough to trouble her conscience. “Sir…”

He ignored her. “I repeat,
what
did you say?”

Self-preservation won. The boy’s eyes fell away. “I wish you joy of the evening,” he muttered and swung around again, stomping away through the crush of dancers. Charlotte watched him go, imagining the interested questions that would greet him and his condemning replies.

“I’m sorry.”

She looked back. Dand was regarding her gravely.

“Not on my account, I hope,” she said lightly. “We have achieved what we set out to achieve. My reputation is in shreds.”

“Not yet.” With unexpected gentleness, he secured her hand and with a wry, challenging tilt of his head, pulled her into his arms and began to dance.

He was unexpectedly adept, a natural grace to his movements as he guided her down the long line of dancers that made up the country set. He didn’t speak, though when the steps of the lively dance brought them together, he watched her face with an intentness that any spectator could not fail to note. Like a real lover, hungry and yearning…

Of course, he was just doing what his role demanded, but one could almost imagine that honest emotion begat that torrid gaze…She gave herself a little mental shake. She didn’t know what was wrong with her, entertaining such maggoty notions. It must be all the people, the kaleidoscope of colors, the over-loud music, the scent of heavy perfume rising thick as the mist on the Thames from heated shoulders and flushed throats and glistening bosoms. ’Twas small wonder she felt light-headed.

“You look all at sixes and sevens, my dear,” Dand said as he led her down the line.

“With some reason,” she answered, finding the reason a second later. “You ruined my fan. A very nice fan, too.”

“I’ll buy you another,” he answered, catching hold of her hands and swinging her lightly to the outside of the figure. “Besides, you must allow it provided a nice spectacle for our audience. Very manly of me, laying territorial claims and all that.”

“By breaking a perfectly good fan?” she asked doubtfully, as he set his hand lightly on her waist.

He laughed, bringing several heads swinging about. “Indeed, yes. The boy appreciated at once that if I risked breaking your fan I must be
very
sure of your affection. But I don’t expect you to understand. Women always miss the subtlety of such byplay.”

His nonsense returned her humor to her. “You are right,” she answered. “Far too subtle. I would have better understood your territorial claim had you thrown me over your shoulder and carried me from the room.”

He didn’t answer. Possessively, he pulled her closer than was proper, reminding her forcibly of how large he was, how strong. His hooded lids slipped over his eyes and his mouth curved in a slow enigmatic smile that made her feel flushed and unnerved. Drat him for being so adept at this role. For making her feel
jeune fille
and skittish and uncertain when she was not any of these things.

The dance ended, but he held on to her hand, drawing startled, offended looks from those nearby. And when the orchestra began another tune, he did not wait or ask permission, but pulled her back into his arms. This time the orchestra played a cotillion, an intricate French import that society still considered a little fast. Within minutes she realized that he was more than an adept dancer, he was superb.

“Where did you learn to dance?” she asked. “I cannot imagine there were many opportunities at the abbey.”

“Not at all. Brother Fidelis is marvelously light on his feet.”

Charlotte laughed at the image of the rotund monk she’d met at St. Bride’s executing a minuet. Dand’s gaze fell hungrily on her mouth. Very nice touch. He looked exactly like a lover would. “No, tell me truly.”

“One picks up things here and there,” he replied, wresting his gaze from her mouth. In a few seconds his expression became shuttered, his thoughts clearly traveling elsewhere as the steps necessitated they take other partners for a short while.

“What is wrong?” she asked, when the dance returned them to their original set.

“Nothing,” he said. “It is just—”

He abruptly stopped dancing, clasping her firmly around the wrist and pulling her out of the line. Wordlessly, he headed for the pair of French doors standing open at the end of the ballroom. Other dancers hastened out of their way, their heads swinging to follow their departure.

Dand led her through the open doors onto the bright, moonlit flagstones beyond. Two older gentlemen stood in intermittent conversation at the far end of the small walled garden, their voices drifting toward them in the clear night air. They were discussing the latest embargos.

“What are you doing?” she asked in a low voice as he stopped, his hand still warm and heavy against the small of her back.

“You suggested it yourself.” He sounded a bit tested, as though he was trying to convince himself of something.

“Pray, illuminate me,” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“Why spend the night dancing as I attempt to scowl down every one of your poor swains when we could far more easily and effectively secure the desired result?”

“I don’t understand.” She tilted her head back, searching his shadowed face for some explanation. For a few intense seconds, he stared down at her, but then he suddenly dropped back a step. His hand fell away.