No Choice but Surrender (35 page)

The Crescent was indeed a lovely house, Brienne thought as she waxed the great desk- bookcase that stood in the study. She arched her back almost unconsciously, looking about her, comparing her present surroundings to Osterley. Granted, the rooms were not nearly as large, nor as fashionable. At the Park, the rooms were done in the latest pastel colors, whereas the study at The Crescent, with its deep blue
verditer
pigmented walls, had the old-fashioned look of an earlier time. But the sturdy
Kentian
pier tables and the
Axminster
carpet gave it a warmth and intimacy that Osterley lacked.

But was it her state of mind that made it so? She had been frightened of everything back then, of Osterley and its master. Number One carried no such anxieties for her; perhaps that was why she did not see it as so threatening.

Unwillingly, her mind remembered back to when she had first seen the master of Osterley. There couldn't have been a more fearsome room than the gallery in which to meet him. She could almost laugh now at how terrified she had been. What a pathetic little creature she must have seemed to that

The vision she'd summoned of Avenel made her thoughts wander into forbidden territory. What was he doing now?
she
mused over and over again. Did he ever, in some long, lonely night, think of her? She shut her eyes to this painful question and tried to rid herself of all remembrances of him. It mattered little to her what he was doing, she forced herself to believe. He didn't care for her. Rather, he hated her. So she couldn't waste her energy on what might have been. She was better off without Avenel, she thought with rock-hard determination.

"Ah! Look at you,
miss
!" Genny, a young maidservant with a nervous
twitch,
exclaimed from the trompe
l'oeil
marbled hall.

"I guess I am a sight." Brienne looked down and saw that umber wax soiled her dress.

"Mrs. Whitsome said you were not well, miss. You should not work so hard." The maid's cheek
twitched,
and she gave Brienne a nervous, admiring gaze.

"I'm fine," Brienne insisted. "But the old desk was desperate for wax; perhaps I overdid it." She wiped her hair from her cheek, leaving a dark streak of wax across it. "I'll go and clean up so Mrs. Whitsome will be none the wiser." She grinned at the young girl and disappeared up the servants' stair across the hall.

It was a tedious chore to have a bath. But when Brienne got to her small room and peered into the polished metal that was her mirror, there was no doubt in her mind that she needed one. She had wax smudged in her hair, on her face, and even in the cleft of her bosom after she removed her fichu. With a great sigh, she donned her brown cloak and made her way through the chilly, covered walkway to the kitchen. It was the only place where the servants could bathe.

"Love, you're a mess!" The housekeeper greeted her from her Windsor chair.

"I know. I'm afraid I've gotten wax all over myself."

"Well, there'll be no lifting heavy water pots for you! I'll get you your bath!" Mrs. Whitsome placed her tatting in the chair

and
went to heat the water. At Mrs. Whitsome's odd remark Cook gave both of them a vaguely curious look, but then, as if she'd spent years minding her own business, excused herself from the kitchens.

"Please, Mrs. Whitsome, I can prepare my own bath water." Brienne tossed the housekeeper a quizzical look.

"No, love.
It's no bother, really." Mrs. Whitsome was firm; she gestured for Brienne to remove her clothes.

"Cook is marketing today? Isn't that rather strange? She usually goes at the beginning of the week." Brienne stood near the fire, having stripped herself of her clothing. She unconsciously rubbed the gentle curve of her belly and watched as the tub was pulled out and filled.

"The reason is that we're to have a visit. I just received a note to prepare the house."

"The master is coming here?" Brienne shrugged off a misbegotten shiver of apprehension. She had nothing to worry about, she reminded herself staunchly. After all, Mrs. Whitsome had gotten the new owner to approve of her employ. She remembered the housekeeper telling her about the letter from the estate manager. Considered a mere servant at Number One, Brienne told herself, she would probably not even have to see this man.

"The new master will be arriving from London today," Mrs. Whitsome informed her.

"So soon?
Why, that's hardly any notice at all." Brienne thanked her for her help and eased herself into the steaming tub before the large kitchen fires. She was more worn out than she had
supposed,
so instead of scrubbing herself clean, she lay back and closed her eyes.

"It's their way, these upper crusts. But the house is presentable. I have no qualms." The housekeeper picked up her lacemaking from the Windsor and put it away in her sewing bag. "I've got to check the linens. Will you be all right?"

"Of course.
Why wouldn't I be?" Brienne frowned.

"Have a nice long soak, then. No one will have
need
to come by the kitchens, so worry not. I'll be back in a few min
utes." The housekeeper smiled, ignoring Brienne's question. She then donned her cloak for the chilly passageway and left.

Quiet settled into the kitchens, and Brienne almost felt herself doze off in the soothing, warm water. Soon, however, she heard barking from the yard outside the kitchens, and she opened her eyes.

Now that was strange, she thought. She looked down and saw "my precious" lying close to the fire. The little honey- colored mongrel's ears were pricked up with alertness, and she was growling softly. Knowing there was only one real entrance to the yard and that that was from the house, Brienne was curious about how another dog could have entered the back.

She sat up in the tub and looked out
one ,
of the small windows that faced the house. Sure enough, there was a dog in the yard, bounding in the damp gardens and barking happily at the closed door, where it heard Cook's mongrel respond. Yet this dog was special. Her face grew pale as Brienne saw that the animal was not only large and beautiful but also as white as snow.

Forcing herself to remain calm, she lay back in the tub. She knew she was just imagining it. She had to be. The dog that barked at the door could not be Orillion.

Eyeing again the uncanny look-alike, doubt and apprehension descended upon her like a plague. Was it possible that the dog was Orillion? She bit her lip. Was it possible that Avenel had taken over Number One, as he had the Park, and was now coming for a visit? No, no, she told herself. That could not be. Hadn't Mrs. Whitsome told her that the new master had a title as old as English soil? Avenel Slane had no tide. He was American.

But her thoughts were not put to rest. Suddenly, Brienne heard heavy footsteps coming down the passageway, and panic flared through her like wildfire. The small kitchen seemed to shrink in size like a closing trap. She groped for a towel. But before she could reach the stack of linens on the pine bench, she heard the door crash open behind her. Gasping, she threw her arms over her bosom and sank low into the tub to hide her nakedness. Then she heard from behind her what she dreaded most in the world: an angry, accusing silence.

God, did she dare to turn around? She knew with utter certainty that everything she had run from was back there in full force and that soon she would again experience the anguish she had felt at Osterley. It was painful to turn around. But it was not nearly as painful as when her violet eyes met the silver-gray ones, and she was all at once filled with feelings of anger, bitterness, and love.

"How could you be here?" she accused him, wanting desperately to sound cold and heartless.

"I could ask you the same, wildflower. Ah, but finding you here at all has answered that question for me." Avenel's large, splendid frame filled the doorway. Slowly he moved to close the door behind him. Shivering from the cold air that touched her damp skin, Brienne clutched her breasts more tightly.

"So you've found me." She tried to put on a brave front but wondered how she could reach for the towels without removing her arms from her chest. "But it signifies nothing, for I mean to leave at the first opportunity."

"Fine.
Have it as you
will,
ragamuffin." He walked toward the tub and ran his hand over her wax-soiled cheeks and hair. "But where will you run next?
Your father's house in London?
You'd still be living under my roof. Consider it another one of my conquests." Avenel looked down at her; his eyes smoldered with furious desire as they raked up and down her water-clad figure.

"I am not one of your conquests. I left you, remember? And I shall do it again, even if I must live in the streets," she answered vehemently.

"You'll never be out on the streets, my love. I'll see to that." With his hard hand he stroked the satin skin on her back, although she suspected that in his angry state he would have preferred to whip it instead. Not daring to move, she closed her eyes and hoped that darkness would dispel the magic of his persuasive touch. The water was still warm, but she was shaking and she desperately wanted him to leave. She wanted him gone so she could dress and escape.

"I shall choose the streets over you." She finally pulled away from him, fearing that he would advance farther upon her. She would never repeat that last afternoon at Osterley. She would hate herself forever if she did—hate herself for lying with a man who didn't love her and never would. It would be unbearable.

"You would leave the comforts of a home? Sometimes I think you are touched in the head, love—just as I was told when first I arrived at the Park." He laughed, and his mouth twisted into a painful grin. "But then, I pride myself on knowing you as no other
has
. And I see your motivations very clearly."

"So you see why I would assume a life of hardship. I think it would be a far greater pleasure to be out on the streets whoring for all men than whoring just for you." Her eyes locked with his, and she could almost feel the sting of a slap on her face. She was surprised when it didn't come. Instead, she saw his eyes narrow. It was almost admirable, the way he controlled himself. Still, she decided, she was not willing to test him again soon.

"Get out of the tub. Put on your clothes. We're going back to the house," he ordered, this time obviously expecting no retort. But she didn't move to comply. "I said—"

"I heard you," she replied slowly. Was it modesty that gave rise to her sudden anxiety in her breast? She didn't think so, but the thought of exposing her body to his scrutiny unnerved her beyond reason.

"Come along, my love. As much as I enjoy the view"—his eyes dropped to the bath water, which only partially hid her voluptuous body—"we must talk. And I think we'd get more said if you were wearing your clothes." He smiled a wicked, tormenting smile.

"Turn around," she ordered. "Turn your back. Then I'll get dressed."

"What maidenly shyness! But you know you have nothing to show me that I've not seen before." Insolently, he took a seat on the pine bench before her. "Get up now." He held out
a
towel for her to step into.

"No," Quickly she reached for the stack of towels, but he merely slid them out of her reach. She was forced to reclasp her arms over her chest.

"Let me assure you that I can control my lust in the presence of your naked body. Get up," he ordered again.

"Please turn around." She made another attempt to save herself; from what, she wasn't exactly sure.

"Brienne"—he bent and put his hand firmly on the nape of her neck—"I said I can control my lusts. Don't make me not want to."

"Please."

"What are you afraid of? It's as if you have something in that naked body of yours to hide. . . ." His words dwindled. Suddenly a gleam appeared in his eyes, and he growled, "Get out of that tub."

"Avenel, don't." She knew what he was thinking.

"Now!"
Before she could fight him, he placed his strong hands under her arms and forced her up. Bath water sloshed up on his waistcoat and breeches, but he seemed not to notice. All he did was
stare
at her body and at the slight changes that had taken place since he'd seen it last.

"Let me go!" She began to struggle, and immediately he put her down. Scrambling out of the tub, Brienne grabbed the nearest towel and pulled back from his tall, lithe body, covering herself with the linen.

"The child must be big, if already—"

"There is no child!" she screamed at him.

"Brienne!"
He stood up and went to her. "Tell me. I have a right to know."

"Damn you! Damn you!" she cried out and backed away closer to the fire. "Why did you have to find me?" Twisting beneath his gaze, how she wanted to deny what was happening! How she wanted to scream and cry that it was not so! But deep down she knew it would be for naught. The absolute demand for truth on Avenel's face told her he would be relentless.