Season for Surrender (33 page)

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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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They met eyes and smiled. “I love you,” he said. “I shan't need a code to tell you from now on.”
“Much more efficient to say the words,” she agreed. “I love you, too. Alex. Lord Xavier.”
The coolness, the peace of forgiveness, washed over him again. He laced his fingers together so he wouldn't grab for her again. Not yet. He'd done his utmost to let her have her fill of him, though he would never get his fill of her.
“Alex, look at the clock.” She nodded toward the ornamental piece on the mantel. “We've been in here for well over an hour.”
“So we have.” He found the last of the hairpins—well, he thought it was the last—and lined it up on the chaise. “Then Wheeling must be gonging for some other cursed reason.”
“That's lucky, because we can't rejoin the company like this.” Louisa scooped up the hairpins. “Even with a ring.” Her voice hitched, and she shot him another of those looks that was wry and shy at once.
He found his feet, pulled her into a hug and gave her a swift kiss on the lips. “We'll have to make a run for it,” he decided. “Past the drawing room, up the stairs.”
He unlocked the door and they were off in a flash, Louisa holding those ridiculous hairpins in one hand and smothering a laugh with the other. As they darted past the open drawing room, he glanced in and saw that the guests were dancing. Wheeling gonged again just then, and the dance fragmented into a swirl of partner-swapping.
Part of Lady Irving's plan to distract the other guests? Maybe. As they passed by quickly, tiptoe-running down the corridor, he didn't spot her.
When he next saw her, he owed her his thanks.
They reached the great staircase without being spotted, and they slowed to a walk up the wide flight. At the top of the stairs, Alex caught Louisa's hand before she could hurry to her bedchamber.
“From this point, we'll do everything respectably,” he promised. “I'll write to your father for his permission.”
“I think you may take it for granted. He's given my aunt full authority to encourage, forbid, and execute suitors as she sees fit.”
In that case, he owed Lady Irving his
lifelong
thanks. By giving them an hour alone, she'd essentially given her blessing to their marriage.
“I'll speak to her tomorrow,” he said. “We can begin calling the banns this Sunday. Unless you'd prefer to be married by special license? Much more à la mode.”
She nibbled on her lower lip. Lord, she was lovely. And he was besotted. He knew it.
“It will mean a longer wait,” she decided, “but let us have your vicar call the banns. That way, your tenants will be among the first to learn of our marriage.”
Ah, his tenants. In time they would come to trust him to look out for them; he was determined on that. He would start by being present in their lives. He and the new countess. A new beginning for them all.
“That's an excellent idea,” he said. “I always knew you were brilliant.”
“Well, I'm not going to argue with
that
.” She smiled. “In return, I'll say: I know you're not being biddable. Just logical.”
Which reminded him.
“Louisa, I need your logic. And your brilliance, too, if you don't mind working out one last puzzle. Will you meet me in the portrait gallery tomorrow at noon?”
Chapter 30
Containing Lord Lockwood's Entrapment
The portrait gallery was a long, echoing chamber; a wide corridor that spanned the first story of Clifton Hall's central structure. Because of its great size, it seemed always too bright and dim at once, the light from tall windows spilling stark and cold halfway across the antique carpet. The portraits themselves hung on the shadowed opposite wall, massive in their carved gilt frames, capped by sconces. Even in daytime, the painted images were lit only by these ovals of yellowed candlelight.
Alex seldom ventured here. It had always seemed like a mausoleum in brushwork; a place for a tutor to bore him with history or chastise him for not living up to the family name.
With the information he'd gathered, he now knew exactly what that family name meant.
Ah. Louisa was approaching, calm and elegant in a leaf-green gown. On her finger was the wide gold band he'd given her. She looked delectable.
Never mind that, though. They were here to neuter Lockwood. Figuratively speaking. But it would be good enough.
Before the marquess became visible, they heard his footsteps echoing up the wide staircase, then softening on the carpet that stretched the length of the gallery.
“Ah, Coz.” His voice was soft and venomous. “I came a few minutes early, and how fortunate that was. Am I interrupting a tête-à-tête? That almost makes waking up before noon worthwhile.”
As he drew close, a rictus stretched across his features. Not a smile. It was tighter than that, and a little desperate around the edges.
Alex couldn't find it within himself to pity the man, even knowing what was coming. “Lockwood, about that. I know you like to be the first to know everything, but considering the hours you keep, it was impossible today.”
“Shall I tell him, my love?” Louisa looked up at Alex with a limpid, sheep-eyed expression such as he doubted had ever crossed her features before.
“If you wish, turtledove.” Alex gave her a soppy look. Nearby, Lockwood huffed, scuffing his boots on the carpet.
“I see I was right,” he said in a harsh voice. “There is something going on between the two of you. Dear me. I hope I don't slip and tell everyone.”
“Tell everyone what?” In unison, they spoke, turned their heads to Lockwood, and blinked. It was a fine performance. As fine as any Lord Xavier had carried out.
“That we're to be married?” Alex furrowed his brow. “We made the announcement to the house party at breakfast. The ladies were most vocal in their reactions. I'm surprised you slept through it.”
This was perfectly true. It had been a feat of charm, persuasion, and bribery with pastries to rouse the other guests and convene them before the sun hit its height. The fervor with which the news of their betrothal had been received made the effort worthwhile. If a few of the congratulations held more surprise than warmth, well, that was to be expected. Jane's delight at welcoming Louisa into the family had been both heartfelt and genuine.
Lockwood assimilated this news, his blue eyes narrowing. “Xavier.” Aha, he'd retrieved that soft voice. Apparently it was meant to be threatening. “I did tell you what would happen if you proposed to Miss Oliver.”
Alex's soppy persona shattered in an instant. “So you did. But I didn't tell you what would happen if you threatened me, or my future bride.”
He summoned all the gravity of Lord Xavier's wintry disdain; all the heat of his own heart. “Miss Oliver and I will be married. Therefore, if you trespass against her, you trespass against me.”
He let this sink in, then went on. “I might add, Lockwood, that if you threaten a gently bred woman who is known to be betrothed to your relative, the dishonor will be yours. And it won't be only me you'll have to answer to; it will be every woman in the
ton
.”
Lockwood blinked, then recovered. “A word in the right ear, then, and I can still—”
“Oh, stop, Lord Lockwood,” said Louisa. “As I intended to say when you first joined us, Lord Xavier and I don't wish to be troubled by your threats. It seems you think you have two holds over him.”
“Three, my pigeon,” corrected Alex, again in his lovesick-swain voice. Even as an obvious fiction, it annoyed Lockwood.
Louisa's lips twitched;
pigeon
had tested her straight-faced resolve too much. “Muffin,” he corrected.
“Yes. Three. You're right,” she agreed. “There are three issues at stake. First, your cousin thinks he can threaten me—well, I hope he doesn't think that anymore. Second, he thinks the encoded book implies you're not the son of the previous earl.”
“A bit of a bastard, you mean? I certainly can be at times,” Alex said heartily.
Louisa surreptitiously stomped on his foot. “
Third
. He believes you fear for your reputation.”
“
He
is right here,” said Lockwood. “And you are correct. I can still hurt you, Xavier.”
Alex dropped his cheerful mien again and looked Lockwood up and down coolly. God. The man was wearing a lavender cravat again. “Likewise.”
He half turned to gesture at the portrait behind him. “Recognize this fellow?”
The full-length painting showed a dark-haired gentleman in the garb of Caesar. His head was wreathed in laurel, his body sheathed in the armor of war and the draperies of peace. Not a very memorable portrait, in truth, except for the expression on its subject's face. In the yellow light of the sconce, his dark features smirked, as though he knew a joke upon the whole world.
Lockwood made an impatient slash with his hand. “It's you, of course. I fail to see the point.”
“Wrong.” Xavier stood aside. “It's my father. He had this painted for my mother upon the occasion of their marriage. What about this bewigged gentleman next to him? Put a peruke on me, and I could pose for this one, too. That's my grandfather. How far back do we need to go?”
Lockwood's eyes had narrowed further. Too bad for him. Nothing could block out the evidence before him.
“I think that'll do,” said Louisa. “You see, Lockwood, your cousin—yes, he is indeed your cousin—busied himself with research in my absence. The longtime servants of this house remember the late earl. They knew him as dissolute, yes. But his countess? No. Any child of hers was a child of her husband's.”
“The word of servants.” Lockwood sneered. “It's worth nothing. I still have—”
“The book? I thought you'd say that.” Alex turned his back on his grandfather's portrait. The old roué probably would have enjoyed this scene. “As it so happens, I believe a near-century of portraiture is better evidence than either the words of servants or a few lines in an old ledger. But if you don't believe me, I wonder if you recall the form of your father's handwriting. Quite a historian, wasn't he? I think I've heard you say so.”
Lockwood stilled. Slowly, he turned his head to one side. “His handwriting.”
“Yes. The estate records include plenty of old letters exchanged by our fathers. It's evident he wrote out that ledger,” Alex said. “Most likely he encoded the book for his own amusement, to make it look like an heirloom. Hoped to tangle the line of future Xaviers, perhaps. You've given it a fair effort, I'll grant you that. But I doubt the word of a long-dead, self-interested gentleman is worth anything to society.”
Lockwood didn't give up easily. Alex would grant him that, too. “What of your precious reputation, then, Coz? Only I know how much of a falsehood it is, and with—”
“Wrong.” Louisa folded her arms, tall and straight as a lily. “I know it, too. I also know a bit about
your
reputation. You brought a mistress here last year, didn't you?”
The marquess backed up and leaned against the stone mullion between two of the huge windows. “That's hardly relevant.”
“But you've introduced so many subjects.” Her tone was honey over acid. “How are we to judge which are relevant or not?”
Lockwood shoved himself upright and began to pace. Good. They were getting to him.
“I believe you parted with Melissande on bad terms, not long ago,” Alex said. “You left her short of funds, did you not? And so she's preparing her memoirs. How do you think your own reputation will fare when the polite world knows you buy ladybirds you can't afford, and you like to be hit upon the—”
“Stop!” Lockwood whirled on them. “Stop. Just . . . stop.” He was breathing heavily. “I have the funds. I can pay her.”
“About that.” Louisa tapped her chin. “You came into some money recently, didn't you? You made a wager on me.”
“As did he.” Lockwood jabbed a finger at Alex.
“Not that wager.” If possible, Louisa held herself straighter. She looked down her nose at Lockwood, already every inch a countess. “You placed a side bet at White's.”
They had
la signora
to thank for this information. Lockwood flinched, proving its veracity.
Louisa continued, ruthlessly calm. “You bet everything you had, and much that you didn't, on being able to best Lord Xavier. That's why you were so determined to make me leave. You didn't have ten pounds riding on it; you had
everything
.”
“And I won.”
This, Alex was not proud of. “So you did. You used my reputation for your own gain. Well. It wasn't the first time.”
He realized he'd been bottling up his breath along with his anger. He forced air in and out; felt his shoulders relax. “Lockwood, it needs to be the
last
time you do so. You won that side wager, but your behavior in doing so drew notice. It wasn't good
ton
, shall we say. The women at this party are letter-writers, and word got back to London.”
“The word of women is of no concern to me,” Lockwood said. Louisa's head snapped up.
Alex could have throttled him for that remark. “Lockwood. Do consider. Women talk to men. Will men of honor choose to wager with you again? Considering you won a pile off a none-too-pleased royal duke, I should say not.”
He wished for the sake of their bygone friendship that the marquess would listen, yet he knew this was unlikely. “You've lined your pockets, but your own reputation is as fragile as straw. Have a care with it.”
Lockwood shot him a filthy look. “You dare to lecture me? You, casting stones?”
Alex shrugged. “I'm telling you what
is
, Lockwood. You may do what you like with the information. But know this: I will never again make a wager unworthy of the people I care about. Or myself. You're on your own.”
Again in unison, he and Louisa turned their backs. He offered her his arm, and together they progressed down the long portrait gallery as though they were strolling through a garden. Only Alex felt the tension in her fingers; only she felt the cords in his arm.
Lockwood, they left behind. Where the marquess chose to go from there, Alex didn't care.
When they reached the sweeping marble staircase, Louisa squeezed his arm, then released it. “I think that went fairly well,” she murmured.
“Extremely, I should say. Come, we'll find somewhere else to speak.” He motioned for her to follow him up the stairs. The curving flight split here, winding upward to the second story with its less elaborate rooms.
Aha.
He opened a door on a small, sunny parlor with trellised wallpaper. “You might like this as your sitting room when you're countess.”
Louisa put a hand to her forehead as she sank onto a pinstriped chair. “Countess. I can hardly credit it.”
As he closed the door, she looked up sharply. “Wait. A sitting room here? You wish—you don't wish to live always in London?”
“Not always. I find that I like it here,” he decided. “In the country. It could be nice to see it when the grass and trees are growing, don't you think? If you've no objection.”
“Objection? No, indeed. I love living in the country.” She shot him a wicked little smile. “Though I also think I'll enjoy London life as I never expected to.”
“I shall do my best to make sure that's so,” he said. “There's a library in my town house, too.”
Another wicked smile. He met hers with his own, crouching to take her hands, meet her gaze at eye level.
“Do you realize,” she observed, “how much research you did to protect yourself from Lockwood? Talking to the butler, and to Signora Frittarelli. Your dear housemaid Ellie deserves some compensation for all she imparted to us, too.”
Always so full of thoughts. And more impressed by his digging for information than she would be by a diamond necklace.
Her respect made him feel every inch an earl, at long last.

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