Sweet Surrender (6 page)

Mr. Scott’s brows rose as he tried to figure out how to respond to the question.  If he answered
yes,
that he was Michael’s uncle, he was admitting Edward’s paternity, which he wasn’t prepared to acknowledge.

Instead, he stood and whirled on Grace. 

"We need to talk," he muttered.

"I believe you said everything that needed to be said in your parlor."

"Miss Bennett, you and I have scarcely begun to communicate."

He led her away from Eleanor and Michael, pulling her down the lane and around the bend where they would be shielded by the trees. 

"Do you treat all females so discourteously?" she fumed.  "Or is it just me?"

"It’s just you."

"I have no idea why you’d deem it appropriate to manhandle me."

"If I’d asked politely, would you have come with me?"

"No."

"I rest my case.  You deserve to be abused."

"You are a swine, a dog, a ruffian, a—"

"Miss Bennett?"

"What?"

"Be silent."

He stopped and jerked Grace around to face him.  The abrupt movement happened too quickly, and without warning, the entire front of her body was pressed to his. 

The contact was so thrilling that, for a fleeting second, she froze, held rapt by sensation.  He felt it, too, and was extremely disconcerted.  He scowled down at her as if he couldn’t recall who she was or why they were together on the lane.

Then she remembered herself and leapt away.

A memory flashed—of his harem of loose women—and her cheeks flushed bright red.  He was a man who fondled naked trollops as a hobby, who consorted with undressed doxies in the middle of the day.

She was embarrassed to her core.

"Why have you traveled to Milton?" he demanded.

"Why would you suppose?" 

"What is it you’re requesting?  Is it money?"

"No, it’s not money."

"What then?  What will it take to make you go away?"

"Nothing.  We’ll depart at once.  Now that I’ve met you, there is absolutely no reason to linger.  Goodbye."

She spun to stomp off, but he grabbed her again.  Her furious glare could have lit him on fire. 

"Do you ever behave in a way that’s not rude and offensive?" she seethed.

"Do you ever curb that barbed tongue of yours?"

"I’m a very friendly person," she spat, "when I’m in friendly company."

"And I’m a very civil person when I’m dealing with rational people."

"Ha!  I’ve spent two minutes with you, and I’m questioning my sanity.  If I appear befuddled, it’s because you’ve driven me mad with your ridiculous posturing."

"You’re not leaving with that boy."

"His name is Michael," she snapped, refusing to let him pretend he didn’t know.

"Fine.  You and
Michael—
and your sister?"

"Yes, my sister."

"We’re all going to Milton Abbey."

"As I believe I previously mentioned, you are in no position to boss me."

"I’m not ordering you.  I’m…asking you to come."

The word
asking
stuck in his throat, as if he never made polite appeals, and she was sure he never did.  He told people to jump and they said,
how high?

But she’d never been submissive, and she wasn’t about to start with him.

It was on the tip of her tongue to scold him, to bicker and fight and insult, but suddenly, she was overcome by the worst wave of despondency.  The sky seemed to press down, the weight of the world on her weary shoulders.

She was floundering and out of options.  She’d pinned her hopes on the Scotts of Milton, and even though she shouldn’t have expected a good ending, she felt utterly betrayed.

She was sad and drained and still mourning—Georgina’s death, the loss of their home, their fleeing Cornwall and all that was familiar.  She just wanted to scurry away, to huddle in a ball and lick her wounds, and she couldn’t bear having him watch.  He was too astute, his probing eyes not missing a single detail.

"Thank you for
asking
us to attend you," she courteously said, nearly choking on her manners, "but we shouldn’t have visited without an invitation.  I’m sorry to have bothered you."

"I wasn’t bothered.  I was merely taken by surprise."

"I understand, and I apologize for imposing.  You won’t hear from us again.  I swear it."

She would have huffed off to join the children, but a carriage rattled into view, approaching from the direction of the Abbey.  He pointed to it.

"I arranged for a groomsman to fetch you so you wouldn’t have to walk."

He stared her down, his steely gaze confirming that he wasn’t about to let her leave.  Not until they’d hashed out every despicable, poignant fact.

She could have refused, could have argued and shouted and stamped her feet, but she truly imagined he might pick her up and toss her in the vehicle against her will. 

Her shoulders sagged with defeat.  "We’ll come to the Abbey."

"A wise decision," he pompously retorted.

"I’ll show you my documents and provide you with all the pertinent information.  Then we’ll be on our way."

"We’ll see about that."

"Yes,
we
will."

She went to the bend in the road and gestured to Michael and Eleanor. 

"What’s happening?" Eleanor called.

"We’re going to Milton Abbey for a bit," Grace explained. 

"Really, Grace?" Michael said.

"Yes.  Mr. Scott has brought a coach."

Michael grinned from ear to ear.

DC

"You’re claiming my brother was Michael’s father?"

"I’m not claiming anything about your brother.  I’m telling you that Michael’s father was Edward Scott and that his family lived at Milton Abbey.  How many of your male relatives are named Edward?"

"In the past eighty years or so, there has been no
Edward
Scott except my brother."

"He must be the one then."

Jackson glared at Grace, wishing he could intimidate her, but she was immune to threats or displays of temper.  She calmly observed him, looking bedraggled and weary, as if she’d like to snuggle down on the sofa and take a nap.

They were in the main receiving parlor, with Miss Bennett seated on a chair while he paced back and forth.

Her sister and Michael had been whisked off by servants, with instructions to feed them and prepare rooms for the night. 

He and Miss Bennett were alone, and he kept firing the same questions at her, but to his great frustration and alarm, she kept supplying the same answers.

Edward had been a handsome and charming young man.  True.  He’d hailed from Milton Abbey, his father was deceased, and he had a difficult relationship with his mother Beatrice.  True.  He was a businessman who toured the countryside, seeing to his family’s factories.  Not true.

He had fallen in love and wed Georgina.  Apparently true.  Miss Bennett had the marriage certificate, and Jackson knew Edward’s signature as well as his own.  Edward had signed the blasted thing.

Then, evidently swamped by guilt, he’d feigned his death.  According to Duncan, Edward had set up a complicated accounting morass that furnished Georgina with a house and allowance. 

Jackson would never admit that
he
was responsible for the stipend ending and Miss Bennett being evicted.  His first act as estate executor had been to review the books.  A clerk had mentioned the odd, secretive payments in Cornwall, the ownership of a mysterious house. 

Jackson had ordered the residence shuttered and sold, the stipend stopped.

What a mess! 
How was he to unravel it?

She pointed to a portrait that hung over the fireplace. 

"That’s Edward, isn’t it?" she said.  "That’s your brother?"

"Yes, that’s Edward."

"And I have a portrait of him, too."  She reached into her purse and withdrew a locket on a chain.  "Edward gave it to Georgina on their wedding day."

Jackson marched over and extended his hand.  She dropped the locket into it, and he opened the clasp and peeked inside.  He had the same miniature portrait tucked in a tiny frame in his bedchamber in Egypt. 

It had been painted the year Edward was twenty, the year he married Susan.  The artist had made several copies, and Edward had distributed them to acquaintances.

Why would Miss Bennett have one unless Edward had given it to Georgina?  How else could Miss Bennett have come into possession of it?

"I’ll just keep this—if you don’t mind." 

He started to stick the locket in his pocket, but she jumped up and snatched it away.

"I
do
mind as a matter of fact.  It’s Michael’s only picture of his father, and you may not have it!"

She plopped down in her chair, and she glowered at him, oozing such disdain that he nearly laughed aloud.

Women loved him and always had.  Every one but Susan, that is, and she’d been smitten, too, until the title of countess had been dangled in front of her.  They liked his tall, dark good looks, his wealth and status.  Yet mostly, they were titillated by his masculine attitudes and habits. 

After his bout with Susan, he didn’t have much patience with feminine nonsense.  In his dealings with females, he was crass and brusque.  He didn’t care what women thought, and he found monogamy to be tedious, so he was a challenge they were all determined to win. 

They threw themselves at him, tolerating any behavior in case he turned out to be kinder than he seemed or more amenable to being shackled.

But he was who he was:  a bored, vain, rich man with few redeeming qualities and even fewer positive traits.

Miss Bennett realized that about him, and she wasn’t impressed.  The situation bothered him enormously, when he couldn’t figure out why.

She was a petite sprite who was too short and too thin, making her the complete opposite of the buxom, curvaceous blonds he preferred.  Her hair was an odd shade of auburn, the likes of which he’d never previously seen on a female.  It was probably quite striking, but she had it pulled into a tight chignon so he couldn’t tell for sure.

Only her eyes—big and green and expressive—gave any hint of beauty.  They were shrewd and assessing, and they followed his every stride as if she was watching to discover if he ever made a mistake.  He’d made plenty in his life, the most recent one being his decision to listen to her wild tale.

What was he to do now?

He stared and stared, and she stared back, refusing to provide any guidance as to how they should proceed.

"You claim you don’t want any money from me," he finally said. 

"I don’t."

"If you’re not after a financial boon, it would help if you would clarify what it is you’re seeking."

"I had hoped to receive some assistance for Michael, perhaps a small stipend or a place to live until we’re on our feet again, but we don’t need anything, after all."

"Really?" he scoffed.  "It appears to me that you’re about ten steps away from camping in a ditch."

"I don’t see how our fate is any of your affair."

"You don’t?  You barged in, declaring that you’ve brought my nephew, and you think I should be unconcerned?  Your brain works in convoluted ways."

"So I’ve heard."  She stood suddenly.  "Are we finished?"

"No."

She responded as if he hadn’t spoken.  "I must collect Michael and Eleanor so we can be going.  I’d like to make it into the village before dark."

"You’re staying here, Miss Bennett.  I’m afraid I have to insist."

"For how long?"

"A few weeks?"

"A few weeks?  Why?"

"I’m sending inquiries to Cornwall.  One of my men will interview your neighbors and the vicar who supposedly performed the wedding ceremony."

"They won’t tell you anything different from what I’ve told you."

"Pardon me if I say that I’d like to find out for myself."

"After you’ve had my story confirmed, then what?"

"I haven’t a clue."

She chuckled at that.  "Since we’re trading insults, let me admit that I had assumed a good result by coming here.  I’m not usually such an idiot."

Her pert nose stuck up in the air, she marched by him.  As she passed, he couldn’t resist grabbing her arm to stop her.  She was too brash and condescending for a female, and she annoyed him immensely.  Her conduct wasn’t seemly, and he was fascinated by her discourtesy and disregard.

The women of his world were all soft edges and sleek lines.  They quietly glided by on the periphery of his attention, making no waves, causing no trouble, stirring no discord.  They submitted to his wishes and bent over backwards to accommodate his whims.