Read Season for Surrender Online
Authors: Theresa Romain
Season for Surrender (15 page)
“I'm only talking to you, Alex,” she said. “It's up to you to decide whether my words bear any relation to your life.”
He was glad that he was seated, that this chair could give shape to his disintegrating form. “Tell me more, if you wish.”
“A question for you, then.” She paused. “What have you received in return for all you've given up?”
“I've given up nothing.”
“Are you certain of that?”
He frowned. “What could I possibly have given up? I've an earldom to oversee. A house in London. I have servants to care for and, right now, a houseful of guests to keep happy, though certain among them seem determined to hate each other.”
As he spoke the words, he felt their hollowness. His servants cared for his estate and home in London. His guests cared for themselves. And heâhe had no one to care for but himself, and no one to care much for him.
It had always been that way. Orphaned as an infant, he'd been used to fending for himself in his gilded cradle. As a boy, he formulated the cleverest pranks; as a man, the betting book at White's served the same purpose: to win and hoard notoriety like others collected coin. He had learned early in life that truth didn't matter; only reputation. If one never confirmed nor denied rumor, the
beau monde
's fascination would increase.
beau monde
's fascination would increase.
But what was the purpose of such fascination? It had left him isolated, always mustering one Numbered Expression or another. His life was a performance, with little truth in it.
Except from the woman sitting next to him.
Louisa had leaned forward, her face light-limned again, breaking into gilded curves at the edge of his vision. To him, she looked like hope: warm and shifting and impossible to pin down. And completely desirable.
The thought was a jolt of heat, of desperate longing that loosened the binding of his own arms around his rebellious body. Because she was right: he'd given up much, including the right to pursue a respectable woman such as herself.
He propped an elbow on the arm of his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. As if that could erase her from his mind.
“Indeed you do have great gifts,” she said. “A man could do much with such gifts of birth and fortune.”
What she did not say, but what flashed through his thoughts, was,
but you have not
. Another truth that could not be suppressed any longer.
but you have not
. Another truth that could not be suppressed any longer.
In a burst of movement, he rose from his chair, strode to the fireplace, and gripped the mantel in both hands. “Why do you say this? What do you want from me?”
Her voice was quiet behind him. “I ask only for what you're willing to give. You're the one who decides what that is.”
“And why do you ask anything of me at all?” Something was making his heart beat wildly, his voice ragged. Was this anger, frustration, unbearable desire? He didn't know; he only knew that it filled him brimful, and he wanted to be emptied of it.
“Because no one ever has.”
He clenched his fingertips on the marble edge of the mantel so tightly that he could feel stone pressing against bone. She was wrong, yet she was terribly correct.
Oh, he'd made himself essential, but only in the most inconsequential ways. He was a paste necklace of a person: suitable for parties and masquerades, but not appropriate for occasions of genuine significance.
Part of him wanted to deny this, yet part of him knew that only trickery had brought her here, kept her close. He'd bribed her here with his books, tied her here with a mystery. Counted on her intellectual curiosity to win him ten pounds and sustain his reputation.
A reputation he didn't even want anymore. Maybe.
Was he Xavier, or Alex? He was all knotted up, all confusion. Yet no matter who he was, he
wanted
. He wanted to convince her of his value. She, who was the first to suspect he had a hidden stash of it.
wanted
. He wanted to convince her of his value. She, who was the first to suspect he had a hidden stash of it.
He wanted her eyes on him; her thoughts turned his way. And if he kissed herâ
when
he kissed herâby God, he'd make sure it was a kiss she wanted to hold fast to.
when
he kissed herâby God, he'd make sure it was a kiss she wanted to hold fast to.
Her hand slipped around his tense forearm, and he flinched. He hadn't heard her approach. She rested her hand on his sleeveâone second, two. Gently, then, she pressed down on his arm.
Let go.
Let go.
He dropped his hands from the mantel, his shoulders sagging, and turned to face her. Tried for a smile.
She must have seen something dreadful in his face, because she took a step backward. Her hands lifted, palms out, the silk of her gown shushing over the carpet. “You look like you could use some privacy. I'd best bid you good night now, and happy Christmas. Do excuse me.”
Before he could unlock his tongue, she had already backed up several more steps.
“Wait, please.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Please. Louisa. Don't leave. Not like this.”
He didn't want her to ask him any more terrible questions. But he couldn't let her leave; not before he had an answer for her. Or himself.
She stopped. “How should I leave, then? Shall I recommend a book to you first?
Purgatorio
was good enough for your ancestors, and they were good enough for the queen.”
Purgatorio
was good enough for your ancestors, and they were good enough for the queen.”
“No.” He pulled in a sharp breath. “Yes. Louisa. We don't have to be only about books, do we?”
She looked away, into the dark depths of the library. “You and I? We don't have to be anything. I'm just here for your house party, to entertain myself in a safely scandalous way, then retreat to the library whenever real life gets too overwhelming.”
“I see,” he replied. His hands felt blocky and numb at his sides. “Yes. IâI shouldn't have expected anything else from you.”
He stammered under a wave of mortification. It welled up from within; it washed over him with every flicker of her dark eyes.
She didn't leave, though. And she didn't stop looking at him. With a tilt of her head, she said, “I've told you not to expect me to react in the common way.”
She sank to the floor before the fire and extended her hands. The burning coals cast their warm light through the wavy glass of the fireplace screen, burnishing her skin to flame gold as her bronze gown pooled around her.
“In a novel,” she commented, turning her hands before the flames as though toasting them, “someone would surely interrupt our conversation at the decisive moment.”
Xavier stood by the fireplace like an andiron. “Can it be possible that this conversation hasn't yet reached the decisive moment? I think we've had twelve decisive moments already. I'll have to go directly to bed and pull the coverlet over my head.”
A trick he'd often used with Lockwood: stating the truth so baldly that it sounded like a lie. Lockwood always laughed.
Louisa didn't, though. She only watched the flicker of flame behind glass. “That's not much of a way to spend Christmas night, is it?”
His jaw flexed. What on earth was there to say by way of reply? There was no point in denying anything to her. At best, she'd shrug it off; at worst, leave.
He didn't like the idea of her leavingâand not because of the wager with Lockwood.
“No,” he said. “It isn't. But then, not much about this Christmas has gone as I wished.”
She rose to her feet, graceful as a
danseuse
. “And what did you wish for?” Her eyes were focused above his left shoulder, in the direction of the desk where they'd been sitting.
danseuse
. “And what did you wish for?” Her eyes were focused above his left shoulder, in the direction of the desk where they'd been sitting.
Aha. She was nervous, then? Or expectant?
Whatever she was, she was not indifferent to him. He'd read the language of desire often enough to interpret it now: the breath that came quick and shallow, the flush on her cheek that not even firelight could disguise.
“I hardly know,” he said. “I suppose the best gifts are those we don't know we need.”
“Like brutal honesty?” She smiled, a sweet sliver of mirth.
“Yes. Like that. I'll get around to being grateful to you eventually.”
At this, she laughed, her hands fluttering up to her breasts.
He could let it pass over them, this light moment. They could bid each other happy Christmas and go their separate ways again, moving on as friends.
Or he could do it differently this time.
His eyes traced the movement of her hands, long fingered and slim. An artist's hands, or a musician'sâonly her art was observation, and the song she played was the clear chime of truth.
Her hands stilled, laced together. They lowered to her waist, smoothed the warm sheen of her silk skirts, then rose up and folded beneath her chin.
No. She was not indifferent.
“What do you want for Christmas?” he asked. “Ought I to guess? Surely there must be something I could do for you.”
Her eyes met his. Her hands pressed tightly against one another, as if they could protect her throat, her heart.
“What does
something
mean in your parlance, Alex? I'm already a guest in your home. Since I'm working on decoding your book, that seems instead to be a present from me to you.”
something
mean in your parlance, Alex? I'm already a guest in your home. Since I'm working on decoding your book, that seems instead to be a present from me to you.”
He lifted his brows. “You are admirably concise. You neglected only to mention that I am not permitted to compliment your appearance, either. Unless you've changed your mind about that?”
She shook her head. “No, please. No. I don't want anything false from you.”
Her hands dropped to her sides. “Please,” she said, so quietly it was not much more than a breath. “Please, nothing false.”
In the firelight, her eyes were shadows, her mouth all mobile softness.
“Just because it's a compliment,” Xavier said, “doesn't mean it's false.”
But it was Alex who moved forward, slowly and cautiously. Alex closed the distance between them and reached for her hands, hardly daring to breathe as he laced his fingers with hers and pulled their bodies close.
“Nothing false,” he whispered again.
Her shadowed eyes looked deep into him. “Then what will you give me?”
“Whatever I may.” Only a breath apart now, their bodies so close to touching that he could feel the slight heat of her on his front, the fire on his back. He wrapped her closer, drawing her slim form against his.
Ah
. She was all curves against his angles, yet a perfect fit.
Ah
. She was all curves against his angles, yet a perfect fit.
He slid his hands up her arms, the skin smooth over long, fine bones. “Whatever you'll permit.”
Please, permit it.
She'd seen deeper into him than anyone ever had. She was the only one who had thought to look. And soâshe couldn't dismiss him now, or he'd be gone again, and there would be nothing left but his bright, empty shell.
She'd seen deeper into him than anyone ever had. She was the only one who had thought to look. And soâshe couldn't dismiss him now, or he'd be gone again, and there would be nothing left but his bright, empty shell.
His fingertip drew over the cap of her sleeve, down the curve of her dress's bodice. Not touching her breasts; nothing so intimate. Only the very edge of the fabric.
She permitted it.
His hand trailed down the curve of her neck, the swell of her chest, dipping under the cloth of her bodice. So much cloth in the way of her skin. He slid his fingers deeper, under the hemmed edge of corset and shift, and she drew in a swift breath.
But she permitted that, too.
“In a novel”âhe echoed her earlier wordsâ“someone would indeed interrupt us. A gift to us both, so we need not place a limit on our own control.”
Her mouth twitched. She held herself still, as though his hands might spook.
His eyes closed, he bent his head, breathed in the lily scent of her hair. “Because we are afraid we won't stop once we start, and we don't know if we want to stop.”
We need. We are. We don't . . .
The words flowed from him like a spell, murmured between light kisses at the fragile skin of her ears, her jaw, her neck. Did they come from some deep understanding, or from wishful thinking? Would she let him consume her, standing proud and pliant and warm?
The words flowed from him like a spell, murmured between light kisses at the fragile skin of her ears, her jaw, her neck. Did they come from some deep understanding, or from wishful thinking? Would she let him consume her, standing proud and pliant and warm?
Or was she consuming him? Heat from the fire; heat from her body; a heat that bubbled within. So much heat he felt he was crumbling to ash.
“You're right,” she said. With his lips at the juncture between jaw and neck, he could feel the vibration of her voice. “I won't want to stop. If you keep kissing me with that talented mouth, I'll let you go on indefinitely.”
“Yet you said I didn't want a seduction,” he reminded her.
“You don't.” Her throat worked, and her voice sounded ragged when she added, “If you did, you'd have it.”
He drew back, staring. “With you?” His fingertip stroked her collarbone, and she tilted her head, her eyes closing.
“I'm sure you can be very persuasive,” she murmured. “And you're not a complete fright. I'm generally able to look at you without feeling nauseated.”
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