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Authors: Theresa Romain

BOOK: Season for Surrender
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“Perhaps I'll persuade you later,” he said in a voice of utter boredom. “We ought to return to the house before our fingers all fall off in this breeze.”
“Rather warm, m'self,” said Lord Weatherwax, tipping back yet another gulp of the hot spiced punch.
“But we must choose a winner, must we not?” Jane stood, stuffing her little hands into a red-fox muff and jutting out her chin. “I think Louisa's performance was the best.”
“Miss Oliver. Yes, that was most entertaining.” Lady Alleyneham granted a tight smile.
“Not bad, though it lacked theatricality,” said Lady Irving. “With a fair sight more punch in me, it'd seem more impressive to hear a young lady talk about gewgaws.”
“Aunt, be fair. I talked about scandals, too.” Louisa slipped from the center of the folly to stand at her aunt's side.
“Unless anyone protests—or wishes to offer another performance—then it seems we have a winner.” Xavier spoke quickly, not wanting to allow anyone else to break in. He was done with this farce, done with performing. Done with Numbered Expressions. Just for a little while.
“How delightful.” Louisa appeared everything that was sweet and placid. Xavier wondered if anyone else noticed the furious workings of her fingers, teasing through the soft fur at her pelisse cuffs. “I get to pick a forfeit of my choice, then?”
“A favor,” said Xavier, as Jane said, “A wager,” and Lockwood said, “Of
my
choice.”
Xavier did not roll his eyes. He adjusted his expression to one of unhurried patience. “As you like it.”
Louisa shot him a sharp look. “Yes,” she said. “I wish to do something festive, if none of you object. This evening, we could pair up, then see which couple can collect the most greenery.”
“Pairing off?” Xavier shook his head as Lady Irving nodded.
“Excellent notion,” said that lady. “We'll all get a bit of Christmas cheer about us, and I'm sure the pairs will be—hmm.”
“But it'll be dark later,” said Jane. “How could we see when we're off alone in the—
oh
. Never mind. I like it.” She shot an assessing look at Kirkpatrick. God help the man if she got him alone.
“We'll hunt for greenery,” Xavier decided, “before the daylight's entirely gone. If dinner's set back a bit, there will be time for an hour of searching. And at dinner, we can set the prize for the winners.”
“I already have a prize in mind,” Louisa said. “The winning pair shall claim kisses from the people of their choosing. As many as there are berries on a branch of mistletoe or holly.”
Xavier's throat felt dry; he wished Lord Weatherwax hadn't tossed back the last of the rum punch. “Which branch?”
“That depends on what the winners gather.” Her smile looked a little wild.
How much punch had she had? He wasn't sure. But in case she wasn't perfectly sober, it would be wise to talk this planned wager over with her. Catch her before the whole party went tramping around in the twilight, half-drunk and ready for kisses.
He could groan at the very thought of it.
He'd have to make sure he was paired with Louisa—no, he probably ought to watch over Jane. But Jane would never consent to accompany her own cousin. And who knew what might happen to Louisa under the influence of mistletoe and dusk, if someone like Lockwood got her alone?
This cursed responsibility.
He
wanted to slip into the woods, lose himself with her.
But maybe he was already lost.
He permitted himself to roll his eyes at his own mental fumblings, then—with a passable version of some Numbered Expression—led the way back to the house.
Chapter 9
Containing a Well-Timed Muffin
Once the flurry of return was over, once women had exchanged their boots for slippers and men had handed off their greatcoats, once guests had melted off for rest or bed-sport or whatever they pleased, Xavier went hunting for Louisa.
It was not much of a hunt. He knew where she was always to be found.
As soon as he pushed open the library door, he saw her: standing before the inevitable great fire, studying the pages of a small book in the warm light. The draperies had been drawn, and the room seemed to vanish into cold gray at the edges. With Louisa's slim body outlined by the light, and her pale gown splashed flame-orange, she looked otherworldly; some angelic vision born from wishes and coals and too much to drink.
That was only an observation. It was not one of those unnecessarily poetic thoughts.
At the low
thump
of the heavy door finding its frame, she looked up from her book. “My lord,” she said. “I mean, Alex. Happy Christmas Eve to you.”
“And to you.” He paused an arm's length away from her. “So. What is it that you think I want for Christmas?”
She shut the small volume and tucked it under her arm, then turned to face him. “That bothered you, didn't it?”
“That you played coy and didn't come up with so much as a lavender cravat for me? Yes. After our—” His hands flexed, as though he could grab the right word from the firelit air.
“Conversations about Cuthbert and the cipher?” She gave a maddening little half-smile, as if she was thinking of a secret that amused her. “You thought you deserved better.”
“It's not important. Never mind.” This conversation was foolish; beneath the dignity of a grown man. An earl. Xavier.
“Please.” She caught his wrist with her free hand before he could turn away. “I gave you the best reply I could before the group. Lord Xavier likes a little mystery, doesn't he?”
“You needn't talk as though I'm not present.” Her hand felt like a manacle around his wrist, and his stomach squeezed a protest.
Get away, before it's too late.
It was already too late.
“But you're not.” She dropped his wrist and folded her other arm across her chest, hugging the book to her. “At least, that creation the world knows as Lord Xavier is not.”
She turned her head away, her profile clean and traced by light, as she stabbed him with low, mellifluous words. “I see you differently, Alex. And what I see is that you don't know what you want. Not for Christmas; not for any day.”
“You are mistaken,” he said with a passable attempt at coolness. “My wants are both simple and well-known. Wine, women, and song, to be pithy about the matter.”
She always smiled at the most unaccountable times. “You needn't be pithy on my account, Alex. But you also needn't hide behind your reputation. If there's one thing I do believe about Lord Xavier, it's that he holds surprises.”
Xavier's jaw worked, his back teeth grinding against each other.
“You don't want seduction or debauchery, or you'd have those things,” she said. “You don't want any of the sins you're so often credited with. But you have nothing with which to replace them.”
Her voice had dropped low and quiet by the end; the sinking sound of pity. No. She could
not
pity him.
“I know what I want,” he said. The words sounded clumsy and harsh, the denial weak.
For a second, she turned her face toward him, and her dark gaze seemed to peel away the lie. “Then I apologize for being wrong,” she said in a colorless voice, and turned to look at the fire again.
Untouchable. Unreachable. Unfathomable. And he had nothing to say to her by way of reply. He was still too full of
maybe
, and void of any certainty.
“Why are you here?”
Her shoulders hunched. “Because I don't know what
I
want.”
Ah. There was a world of secret, unbearable pride in that one small sentence. His hand lifted. To touch her? Comfort her? Draw her close?
Push her away again?
He studied his fingers, splayed and waiting, debating. Never had he hesitated so long over a simple gesture. But answers didn't come easily where this woman was concerned. She was as deep-caught in mystery as that encoded family history.
Finally, he laid his hand at the curve of her neck. Just laid it down, soft and slow, where the tender skin of her neck sloped into shoulder. Her skin was cooler than he'd expected, as though the fire had licked her with color but denied her its warmth. She trembled beneath his touch.
She drew in a deep breath, and her shoulder muscles knotted under the light pressure of his fingers. “I don't want that,” she said in a rush.
Slow and gentle, he trailed his fingers up her neck, along the straight line of her jaw, until they found the point of her chin and turned her face to him.
His own breath seemed to come with an effort; the air was too thin, and too hot, and his hand trembled to slip the leash of his control and go skating over her curves.
“Come out with me,” he said. “This evening, for the mistletoe. Be with me.”
Her eyes were fathomless. “Is that wise?”
He dropped his hand to his side. “Not particularly.” He laughed, a short, sharp rasp. “But it's wiser than letting Lockwood get his hands on you.”
“Oh, yes.” That mysterious half smile again. “You and Lockwood. Always competing.”
“It's not a competition.” Stung, he added, “Besides, I find your company tolerable.”
“Tolerable, you say. How could I fail to be complimented by such an offer?” She turned to the fire again, dismissing the subject with her whole body, and Xavier was left with the feeling of having bungled without knowing how.
His mind spun for words—the practiced, candied words that served him so well with so many others.
You will light the evening with your smile.
Your very presence is better than any compliment.
You play the game so well, my dear; any man would crave you for a partner.
None of them was right; all over-dramatic and false.
“Muffin,” he said.
Disaster. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow.
No, she only laughed, a quiet, bubbling sound.
“You ridiculous man,” she said, and Xavier knew the danger had passed, but so had some opportunity. A fragile bridge between them had snapped, and they were back to whatever they had been. Sparring partners, kept at a safe distance by the length of their bladed words.
Yet now he knew how she saw him: Alex, not Xavier. There was no going back from that truth.
“What is this book you're holding?” he asked. It was the kind of thing she would expect Alex to notice, probably.
Her expression altered. If Xavier had to put it into his own terms, it was the face he would make if he expected to breathe in the woodsy, buttery richness of Armagnac, and instead inhaled vinegar.
In a flash, that look was gone, and her face was a sweet cipher. “I believe I've found the word that will unlock the Vigenère. This”—she indicated the small book in her grip—“is an old commonplace book that I found stuffed behind that row of ledgers on your bookshelf.”
Xavier leaned one shoulder against the mantel, ignoring the dig of marble into his upper arm. A little discomfort was a fair price for a pose he knew to look elegant and languid, all unconcern. A Numbered Expression, performed with his whole body. “A commonplace book full of what? Favorite quotations and such?”
“Yes.” She held the book out to him, but he only looked at it as though it were covered in soot. To move from his determined slouch would spoil the line of his coat, and would undermine the effect he sought:
it matters little to me whether you think I'm the finest vintage, or whether you think I've gone sour.
She studied him for a few seconds, then shrugged and clasped the book in her hands again, pulling it against her chest. The stillness of her body was like a third person in the room, the chaperone that made sure they'd keep a proper distance from one another.
“It seems,” she said, “your ancestors shared your love of Dante. The
Purgatorio
, in particular, is so often quoted that I believe it to be the key we seek. I'm only looking for a few more clues before I make the alphabet tables and try deciphering the ledger.”
“
Purgatorio
. That does seem fitting, considering what I know of my family.”
Louisa nodded, her expression still bland politeness. “Very wealthy. Titled. Admired. I can see how such circumstances would feel like a living purgatory. I only admire their fortitude in not thinking of it as hell.”
Xavier snapped upright before he could suppress the urge. “Careful, muffin. You're growing a long nose and tail.” When she stared at him, he added, “Turning into a shrew. All right, you're not in the mood for humor.”
“Was that humor? My apologies.”
“Listen.” He squared his shoulders, keeping his arms carefully still at his sides. “I don't know much of my predecessors, but if they were anything like the
ton
today, they wouldn't be grateful for anything given to them in this world. They'd only look at those higher up and rave at the unfairness of being set lower.”
Her brows had puckered. Good. She was listening, the prickly creature.
“I'm not saying it's right or wrong,” he added. “I'm simply saying that you'll rarely find a person in this world who would call his own life
paradiso
.”
Not that Dante's tale of paradise was all celestial light and ambrosia. But then, they weren't really talking about Dante anymore.
“If someone dislikes something about his life, he should make changes, if they are within his power,” Louisa mused. She looked at the fire, then at the book in her hands. Her fingers tightened on it, a protective gesture.
“Maybe changes are not,” Xavier replied.
Maybe
again.
Maybe they weren't. Maybe they were. Maybe he didn't want to change after all.
Or maybe he already had, just a little.
For one thing, he desperately wanted to kiss her, to break her control and make her shatter in his arms. But he hadn't done it. He hadn't done any more than turn her face. And as long as she stood still as a statue, she was no more touchable than one.
“I will meet you on the front steps when it's time to collect greenery,” he said at last. “I believe we have about an hour before the pairs set out.”
She nodded. “I'll be ready.”
He nodded back, feeling as uncertain as a child boosted onto his first pony, a boy handed his first gun. Was this not another rite of passage, to step into a new territory without knowing the lay of the land?
If so, then: “Thank you.” Then he added, “Louisa.”
She looked up at him, and her smile was like an arrow, clean angled and true. And he was Actaeon, shot and staggering.
“You are welcome. Alex.”
He left her then, not knowing whether he was Alex, or Xavier, or some creature that he'd not yet fathomed.
But he had only an hour to wait, and then he'd have her all to himself again. This time, with mistletoe.

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