Season for Surrender (27 page)

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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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She frowned. “Yes. I know this word. But if you can do nothing to change this mistake, why feel sad?”
Snap
. Thread popped under his twisting fingers, and a black button fell loose into his hand.
Well, it wasn't the worst damage he'd done today.
He slipped the button into his waistcoat pocket, alongside his quizzing glass. Then he laced his fingers and considered his reply.
“Because my best wasn't enough. Not today. Not for . . .”
“I know who,” said
la signora
, and again she reached across the long cushioned seat to give him a friendly little pat. “It will be well. Women forgive the mistakes.”
“Men don't,” Xavier muttered. “Not even their own.”
In truth, he wasn't sad, but angry. Angry with himself. He had created a private disgrace for Louisa so she could avoid a public one, which seemed to loom despite his efforts. He'd made himself vulnerable. Not only to Lockwood, but to everyone who expected both more and less of him than he would wish. He had bowed to them all, let them mold his behavior.
And for what? So he'd be marked the winner in a betting book. So he could preserve a shaky reputation that was built on sand and smoke.
He'd thought he would have nothing without it, but he'd been wrong. Only now that he'd forced Louisa from his house did he feel true loss.
“
Cazzo
,” replied the singer.
Cock
.
She jabbed her cigarillo at Xavier, and ash sprinkled the dark upholstery of the divan. “You think with your
cazzo
, like all men. You want the biggest
cazzo
, the biggest sadness, the biggest mistake. If you do wrong, you want that you do the wrongest ever. You think you are most terrible and no one could forgive.”
She sat back and put her tiny cigar to her lips again.
Xavier stared at the bright ember, unsettled by her words, until she spoke again.
“What if,” she said more quietly, as the tumult of the game continued across the room, “you not be a
cazzo
? What if you ask your
bella
to forgive?”
She cast around for a word, then shrugged and continued in Italian, “It is harder to ask for forgiveness than to assume you cannot be forgiven. But that is the only way to have a hope of making things right.”
But Lockwood said he would violate her . . .
No. That would not be. Xavier had been led by fear. It had been easier to slice away the whole tangle than to fight his way through the problems—to disarm his cousin, to ensure that Louisa had . . . well, whatever it was she wanted.
She had thrown away the mistletoe berry. Yet she'd still given him her trust, hadn't she? He might still be able to set things right. At the very least, he could find a way to wash the mud of rumor from her name.
He gave
la signora
a nod of understanding, and she smiled, looking both shy and sweet. It was a smile that made Xavier wish that earls and opera singers might be friends, somehow.
In quiet, accented Italian, he answered her. “Why do you not join the others in their game?”
She blew another smoke ring, then stubbed out her cigarillo on the lid of her gold case. “For the same reason you do not. My
caro
is not here. I must act the part of scandal, but my heart is not in it.”
Her eyes met his, then dropped. She busied herself with the clasp on her cigarette case, letting this sink in.
Xavier had heard that she was the well-paid mistress of a royal duke, though the affair was meant to be as clandestine as it was notorious.
Caro
, she called her protector.
Beloved.
It seemed the secret liaison had captured
la signora
's heart as well as her pocketbook.
A royal duke could never marry a foreign-born, Catholic performer who'd been known to conduct affairs with any number of men in the past. She faced nothing but hopelessness in love.
“I am sorry,” he said.
She shrugged, but Xavier could tell the carelessness was an act. “It is the part I choose,” she said. “I do my best with it.”
“You do admirably well,” Xavier said.
He let himself sag against the upholstered back of the long divan. The rosewood frame underlying the overstuffed cushion braced him, kept him up straight.
He'd had enough of Petrarch and Dante: poetry had not served him well. It had made him sentimental and far too yielding.
As long as he was consulting a variety of Italians, he'd mull over the advice from the opera singer. But he'd also keep Machiavelli's words in mind: “Among other evils which being unarmed brings you, it causes you to be despised.”
He was not unarmed now. With Louisa safely away, he could go on the offensive. He could put rumor to work for him, put together some sort of plan instead of drifting among the whims of others.
And then he could take
la signora
's advice, and seek the solace of undeserved pardon.
“Have you heard,” he asked her, “of the betting book at White's?”
Chapter 24
Containing a Great Many Resolutions
December 31, 1818
Resolutions of the Hon. Louisa Oliver,
Spinster, Bluestocking, Eccentric,
for the Year 1819
Find a bucket of cold water in which to douse my head.
 
Louisa's hand hovered over the sheet of foolscap. How should she continue? There were so many things she wanted that her head felt over-full.
But her hand wouldn't write them down.
The desire for kisses and books seemed long ago. Everything she wrote now seemed a habit, not a true yearning of her heart. In the day since she'd left Clifton Hall, her carefully catalogued self had been scattered like paper in the wind, and she had no inkling how to collect it again.
After slamming the trunk lid on her creased garments, Louisa and Lady Irving had driven for hours through a chilly rain over pitted roads. They had reached Nicholls, the country estate of Viscount Matheson, late in the evening. Here lived Louisa's stepsister, Julia—one of her dearest friends in the world—and Julia's husband, James.
James, who had once asked Louisa to marry him. James, who thought his old friend Xavier had betrayed him once upon a time.
Louisa had never intended to return here to live; nor would she. But she couldn't go anywhere else with a trunkful of damaged clothing, and after the bumpy, nerve-testing carriage ride, she and Lady Irving had been too exhausted to repack and travel on to the countess's home in London.
So here she was, as though the house party had never happened. Sitting at the little walnut writing desk in her familiar cream-and-green bedchamber, waiting to catalogue her life.
How she'd hoped she was done with waiting.
The quill trembled in her hand, and she wiped it and set it down.
A knock sounded at the door. Louisa didn't want company, but a distraction from her disappointment would be welcome.
“Come in,” she said, drawing a blank sheet of paper across her stubbornly incomplete list.
A rounded belly entered the room, followed by the rest of Julia. The young viscountess was as slight as Louisa was tall, and the weight of her unborn child coupled with her untidy fair hair made her look like a kitchen maid smuggling a melon.
She heaved herself onto the bed and regarded Louisa with suspicion. “I wasn't expecting your return for several more days, which means something must have happened. And you've been hiding inside your bedchamber like a buzzard with a carcass—”
“Charming,” Louisa muttered.
“Which means,” Julia continued, “that the mysterious
something
that happened must have been momentous. And now you've had a night to think about whether it was wonderful or dreadful. So which is it?”
“This thing that you are fabricating, that you've compared to a carcass?”
“Yes.” Julia pulled a face. “Stop stalling or I'll have you pitched out a window.”
“Impending motherhood has done wonders for your temper,” Louisa commented. Her fingers played over the blank sheet of paper that covered her non-list of non-resolutions.
The full truth was too embarrassing. She had already been shamed enough in the eyes of the people who loved her. Why should Julia—married, a mother, loved and wanted—know that Louisa had been cast aside once more?
She decided on a partial truth. She pasted a secretive smile on her face and rose from the chair to join Julia on the spring-green counterpane. The ropes under the mattress creaked as she settled onto her back.
“As a matter of fact, the carcass-thing is more in the realm of wonderful, and it's for you and James. Lord Xavier sincerely regrets his falling-out with James. I believe he never intended to do anything wrong, to hurt any of us.”
Julia plumped backward next to Louisa. “Is that all you came to say? That wasn't worth driving over soupy roads for. You could have simply sent a letter. As a matter of fact, Xavier did that this morning.”
Louisa jolted. “He—what?”
Julia looked innocent. “I'm sure you heard me correctly. Oof. Is there any chance this child will outgrow me before he's born?”
“Julia. The letter.” Louisa poked her in the arm. “Explain.”
“Oh.” Julia blinked, then studied the canopy of the bed. “Yes. It came in the morning post. A very nice letter covering everything that happened at the time you broke your engagement. ‘Carelessness, all an accident, never meant to hurt, deepest regrets,' and so on. James forgave him at once and is currently trying to compose a reply that will communicate his clemency without damaging his manly pride.”
Louisa felt like a poked soufflé. “I see. Well, good. That's very good. I'm glad.”
“Hmm.” Julia was still determinedly studying the canopy. “So. That's the only reason you returned in a tizzy with your clothes all damaged?”
“What other reason could there be?”
Julia hoisted herself onto one elbow and peered down at Louisa. “Excellent dodge, my dear sister. But I think a man is involved.”
“Nonsense.”
“Is it?” Julia patted down the side of her dress, searching for a pocket, then pulled out a folded paper. “Is this nonsense, then? This letter for you that came from Clifton Hall, along with the letter for James?”
Louisa's fingers went cold as she made a grab for the paper. “Likely it is. But I'll never know until you show me.”
Julia held out the paper, watching. When Louisa snapped it up, the viscountess's piquant face crumpled.
“It's true, then? You and Xavier? I shouldn't be disappointed. I know I shouldn't. James is all ready to forgive him, and I . . .” Julia closed her eyes for a long moment. “Well. Couldn't you have picked anyone else in the world? Even a pickpocket would be better. Or a Frenchman.”
Louisa had to smile at that. “Julia, you of all people ought to know, it's not always possible to choose whom one”—she pressed her lips together before the treacherous word could escape, and settled for the lukewarm—“cares for.”
Julia shoved her bulky body up to a seated position. “I know. I know, I know, I know.” Her shoulders sagged, and of old habit, Louisa patted her on the back. “I just want to believe he deserves you,” she finished in a small voice.
“I want to believe that, too,” Louisa agreed. “But I won't without evidence. Never you fear about that.”
Julia slid to the floor and lumbered toward the door of the bedchamber. She turned, her fingers on the door handle, and smiled. “Read your letter. Sort the evidence. I know you'll render a fair verdict, whether he deserves one or not.”
She paused, then added, “You're not going to stay, are you.” There was no need for a question.
No need for an answer, either. Julia's wide eyes and rueful mouth showed that she already knew the truth.
Ever since their childhood, Louisa had tried to protect Julia. But it had been a long while since Julia needed any such help. Vivacious and stubborn, her stepsister had built her own life.
There was nothing for Louisa here. Not anymore.
She sat up, the letter crackling in her fist. “No. I can't. I'm sorry, Julia.”
Julia gnawed on her lower lip, then nodded. “I thought so. Truthfully, I wasn't sure you'd ever come back from the house party. It was time, wasn't it? For something new, I mean. I could tell you'd been ready for a while.”
Louisa could only stare. It seemed her sister had been noticing the change in her before she'd seen it in herself.
“I'm selfishly disappointed, but selflessly happy.” Julia grinned. She placed a hand at the small of her back for support. “I'm glad you came back, if only for the turn of the year.”
“What better way to ensure a new start?” Louisa smiled, but the expression faded as soon as the door closed behind Julia.
Actually, she was talking utter rubbish. Returning to the home of one's pregnant sister and one's former betrothed was hardly the way to jump into a new life. But since Louisa had no idea which direction to go, returning to a familiar path had one small advantage: she knew she wouldn't be alone.
She collapsed back onto the bed, cracked the seal on her letter, then unfolded it. A ten-pound note fluttered out, landing across her face as lightly as a feather.
The accompanying letter was as brief as her own had been.
 
It was not a fiction.
 
She stared at the words, as though the sight of them would help their meaning assemble in her brain.
The first words that came to mind were:
Damn you, Alex.
Because of course it was a fiction. His whole
life
was a fiction.
And that made her annoyed—no,
angry
. Because he had trapped himself in a thankless role. He, who read Dante and was interested in ciphers, who had a sly sense of humor and was embarrassed by his weak eyes.
He denied all of that. And so he denied her regard, or the possibility of anything real between them. With his ten pounds, he denied even her gesture of understanding.
We made a lovely novel
, she'd written. Those words were intended to convey much: regret, pleasure, the willingness to let it recede into a fond memory.
He wouldn't let that stand. He denied that, too; that what had happened between them was a fiction. Yet he'd sent her away like a disgraced servant, so it could not possibly be real.
And so it was . . . nothing.
She should have known that was all it could ever be. She
had
known. She'd simply wanted that not to be the case, because—well, because she had come to love him. Alex. The man he tried so valiantly to hide.
And that didn't matter one bit. For all her
noticing
, she'd missed the essential in a storm of sweet inconsequentialities: he lacked the courage or the desire to change his reputation. It was only a matter of time before he became the man that, for now, he only pretended to be.
The idea was nearly unbearable, that he would lose himself under the weight of meaningless expectations. But what could she do? Add to them? She crushed the note in her fist and wished she could toss it aside, like a mistletoe berry. But the time for pretending she didn't care—that she could use Alex for pleasure and sport—was long past. In the essentials, she had never changed: she was still quiet, wary, hungry for love.
Lord Xavier had taught her something after all. It didn't matter how she felt. She'd show a confident mask to the world, unhurt and untouched—and eventually, she, too, would become the type of person she now only pretended to be.

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