Surrender The Night (9 page)

She sighed, pulled her hands away, and sat back on her heels. “Why can’t you understand that it’s not you I scorn, but your behavior?’ ’ She bent her head, hesitated, then whispered, “I’d give several years of my life to have things different for us. The feelings you stir in me would be honorable were you not a nobleman, or I not a baker’s granddaughter. But I can’t change reality; I can only deal with it to the best of my ability. And in truth I would rather starve than whore. Even for you.”

Restlessly he stood and paced the room. ‘ ‘Dammit, why do you persist in calling yourself that? I don’t think of you as such.” His eyes narrowed upon her. “If you think to shame me into offering you my name, it shan’t work.”

She scrambled to her feet. “Oh, I should have known an appeal to your heart is useless! Well, sir, no more will I tell you what’s in mine!” She whirled to leave the room, but he caught her from behind.

“Have I ever asked for your heart?” he snarled into her ear. “Love! Hah! There is no such thing. You pride yourself on facing reality, but you’ll not admit that love is an invention of poets and fools. One impulse above all rules England, and indeed, all the world: profit. You have a marketable commodity I wish to purchase. Let’s not dress up lust as love, my dear, if you truly want honesty.”

Slowly she turned to face him, and his sneer faded at her expression. The look was a strange one for a penniless orphan to cast upon the richest earl in the world’s greatest country. “Only now do I realize how fortunate I’ve really been. I had a warm, loving childhood. But you—how lonely you must have been in your great manor house. It’s true then. When your parents died in that carriage accident, you had no one to care for you but servants?”

Scornfully he looked down into her luminous eyes. “Don’t pity me. You can dismiss any gothic notions that I subsisted on crusts of bread and shivered in drafty attics. I had the best nannies, tutors, and barristers money could buy. By the time I attained majority, I was fully ready to take over my estates. I daresay my tenants would agree that I have been a conscientious master. A libertine you might think me, but I am probably a better landlord, guided as I am by profit, than are many of my peers who quibble at my way of life.”

‘ ‘Isn’t there aught you care about, truly? Some person whom you will grieve for when he dies?’ ’

“I’ve friends aplenty, my little puritan. And Billy would die for me, and I him. We’ve been friends since he was a stable boy at my estate.”

“That’s all? This is the legacy you will leave when you depart this earth—one man to grieve and orderly estates?”

“It’s a weightier legacy than the one you’ve sought to leave
—virgo intactus. A
childless, friendless servant.”

She bit her lip at the painful truth of his words, but then she thought of the many possets she’d carried, children she’d taught, and lonely women she’d companioned, and her chin lifted. “I was active in my father’s parish, and would be so again, given the chance. Now, doubtless, the good women of my village would spit upon me.”

“Your complaints grow tedious. I’ll not let you go, Kat. Virago though you are, I want you. And by God, before this day is out, you’ll want me, too.” He swung her up into his arms and carried her out of the salon. “Billy, on no account abandon your post,” he ordered as he carried her up the stairs. He kicked the door shut behind them. The sounds of enraged curses grew muffled, then gradually turned into moans.

Billy cocked his head and listened. When the rhythmic sound of a creaking bed frame
came faintly through the door, he smiled wryly, tipped his hat over his forehead, and leaned back to doze. When Devon came down the stairs much later, Billy sat up and pushed his hat back.

His piercing gray eyes narrowed at the white look about his friend’s mouth. “Do ye really think ye’ll win the gel by forcin’ her?”

“You know me better than that, Billy. I didn’t need to force her.” Devon sat down on the bottom stair and propped his elbows on his knees to stare moodily into space.

“Fer a man who’s known as many women as ye have, ye understand ’em little. At least not good women. To one such as her, makin’ her enjoy agin’ her will is a type o’ forcin’. I heerd every word ye exchanged a bit ago, and this little gel ain’t like yer others. She’ll ne’er come to yer bed gladly as long as ye hold her agin’ her will—”

Devon waved an impatient hand in the air to cut him off. “Women are the same whether they live in the gutter or Buckingham Palace. Feed their vanity promises of love and their greed with gifts and they’ll spread their legs gladly.”

“And what did the little gel do when ye give her them jewels?” Devon looked away from his piercing gaze. “Don’t that tell ye somethin’?”

“Yes, that her price is the lies I won’t give. But she’ll come ’round eventually. She’s a very sensual woman. I’ve only to make her admit it.” Looking determined, Devon stood and went into the salon, slamming the door behind him.

In the hallway Billy frowned after his friend. He’d seen Demon Devon in the worst and best of circumstances: cool and controlled on the dueling field, explosively furious when trouncing a cheating bailiff. But he’d never seen Devon so single-minded in pursuit of a woman. Usually he treated women like a banquet. When he was hungry, he gorged himself. When he was sated, he ignored them.

True, the little blond wench hadn’t been here long, but Billy, too, remembered Katrina. Devon had never desired any woman so long or been reduced to kidnapping. Winning her hadn’t satisfied him, nor was it like to. Whether he knew it or not, Devon wanted more than the girl’s body.

Billy was the only person in the world who knew how vulnerable Devon really was. He’d been the one to hold the seven-year-old boy, himself only eleven at the time, when Devon’s parents had died. He’d watched the vibrant, loving little boy grieve himself into a stupor. When Devon recalled himself to the world, he’d changed. The well-meaning servants had not encroached on the barriers that grew higher by the day. Instead, they’d treated the little lord with the respect they believed he deserved and instilled in him the same feudal pride engrained in them and their parents before them.

But compassion, mercy, kindness are qualities only a loving heart can teach, Billy reflected. He’d done his best, but Devon had needed a feminine hand. The few women servants bold enough to try to get close to Devon were gently but firmly rebuffed by the little boy who’d decided that self-sufficiency was a good thing, after all. And the beliefs his old nanny had instilled in him were the legacy of her own generation, not theirs.

By the time Devon graduated from Oxford, he’d fallen in with a wild crowd. Women were fair game to the young rakes who had no intention of setting up their nursery before age thirty. And the type of women attracted to such men perpetu
ated their poor opinion of the “gentler” sex.

Thus, now that Devon had met a woman truly worthy of the name, he did not know how to react. And Billy understood, if Devon did not, how susceptible is an untouched heart. Other than himself, Devon had loved no one since his parents died. If he should grow to care for this headstrong, moral girl, then heaven help them all
              Bowing his head, Billy prayed.

                                                        Chapter Three

Upstairs, Katrina drifted
awake. She opened her eyes to the indented pillow next to her; she smelled the evocative scent wafting from the sheets. A few tears trickled out, but she forced herself to face the cold truth: Every value inculcated in her was violated when she shared this bed with Devon, but still she responded to him. Was she really so weak that her body could overpower the mind she prided herself upon? Or was Demon Devon a man she . . . cared for too much to resist?

Katrina
‘s whispered “No!” reverberated like a warning bell in her head. She leaped out of bed. Whatever the reason, she must concentrate all her energies on escape. As long as he held her, she’d be susceptible to him. Each time it grew more difficult to lie still and pretend indifference. Soon, she feared, she’d not only respond to those devastating caresses, she’d initiate some of her own in the best harlot fashion.  If she took the jewels, she should be able to sell them for enough to get far away from London, where he could never find her. Her mouth curled. As if he would look beyond a fortnight, anyway.

Deciding to air out the room, she went to the window and opened it. She stood for a moment, enjoying the breeze on her overheated body. She sent a regretful look at the sheer drop. Devon had known better than to give her a room with a balcony.

She searched for her bags, but found only the boxed gowns he’d purchased for her. Even his own clothes were gone. She scanned the room again, then snapped her fingers. Of course. The armoire. Perhaps the maid had put her things away.

She looked in the bottom drawers, but found only the jewels he’d given her and scandalously sheer night attire and che
mises. She slammed the drawers shut and opened the full- length door on the left. The day was overcast and she was too short to see the top shelf, but she thought she spied some neatly folded clothes. She stepped inside the armoire onto the bottom of the cavity and reached up, standing on her toes. The door quivered as a gust of wind caught it. With a well-oiled swish and a bang the portal slammed shut behind her.

Darkness shrouded her. Her heart leaped in her chest, but she swallowed and fumbled for an inside latch. When she found none, terror engulfed her. She kicked at the door until her bare toes were bruised. Still the heavy wood held firm. Her heart was pounding so hard she could scarcely breathe, so her first scream was weak.

She banged her fists against the iron maiden gripping her and screamed louder. For an eternity she yelled for help, but no footsteps approached. In the last dimly rational part of her brain she remembered the outer chamber door was closed. No one would ever hear her through both portals. She sank to the floor of the compartment, curled her arms over her head, and wept.

When, thirty minutes later, steps approached, she didn’t stir. They came to an abrupt stop. A masculine curse sounded, then came the whoosh of curtains being pushed back, and the rustle of lifting bedcovers. Finally the steps came to the armoire. The door was wrenched open.

Devon gasped. “Kat, my dear, are you all right?” He bent and pulled her out of the armoire. She was so stiff that she stayed curled in a ball and he had to half drag, half carry her, to the bed. Her eyes were rolled back in her head, and she didn’t respond to his frantic questions. '

After covering her, he poured water on a small cloth and washed her scraped hands. He inspected her fingers, then, looking grim, he fetched a small knife from his shaving kit and trimmed her broken nails so she wouldn’t scratch herself. He treated her hands with a soothing salve. When she still didn’t move or respond to his questions, he flung off his shoes and climbed into bed to comfort her.

He wrapped her in the down-filled quilt, propped his back against the bedstead, and pulled her onto his lap. “Kat, please, tell me what’s wrong.” He cleared his hoarse throat. “What

happened?” He rained gentle kisses on her white face. He drew back at the taste of salty tears, his strong features unwontedly soft. Her stiffness gradually relaxed in his arms, but then she began to tremble so hard her teeth chattered.

He said, “It’s all right. You don’t have to be afraid now. I’m here. You’re safe.” He rocked her back and forth and made soothing noises.

Slowly his comforting solidness and steady heartbeat eased her catatonia. She wrapped her arms so tightly about Devon’s neck that he coughed. If the a
rchangel Gabriel had himself warned her off at that moment, she would not have heeded him. This man had twice saved her from ugly ends. It was as natural to take comfort from him now as it was to respond to his kisses.

She began to talk, haltingly at first, then louder. Her face was buried in his chest, so she couldn’t see the arrested expression in his eyes as he listened. “It . . . happened when I was seven. We played in . . . an old deserted monastery. I thought I’d found such a cleve
r place to hide. It was a crypt so ancient that the walls were disintegrating. But I didn’t consider the dangers as I climbed inside the end of a sarcophagus where the statue on the outside had broken away. I . . . suppose even my slight weight was enough, for I was no sooner inside than the outside cornice crumbled. I was there for almost an hour before my father found me.”

The trembling that had abated started again. “The coffin was still sealed, but it smelled so . . . old. I’ll never, ever, forget that scent. I . . . imagined I he
ard bones rattling as the skeleton arose to berate me for disturbing his rest.” She rubbed her goose-pimpled arms as if that stench still clung to her. She slumped against him, the last of her terror spent in the confession.

Devon stroked her hair for a few more minutes. Something odd happened then. When she tilted her head back for his mouth, he merely brushed her lips lightly with his, then set her away. He evaded her reaching arms and turned to the door. “I’ll fetch you some tea,” he muttered, walking out.

Katrina stared at the closed door. Why hadn’t he rung for Martha? Had he continued to hold her, she would have gladly participated in whatever he desired, for her barriers had been smashed by his kindness. The fact that he’d rejected her when she’d finally been eager for him both puzzled and hurt. Would she never understand him?

By the time he returned holding a tray, she’d composed herself. She met his uncertain smile calmly. “Thank you,” she said, nodding, when he set the tray down beside the bed. While she sipped the tea he’d fixed her he left the room and returned shortly—carrying her valises. He set them down next to the door.

He sprawled in the chair beside the bed and accepted the cup she handed him. When she sent a grateful look at the cases and said quietly, “Thank you,” he nodded.

They drank in silence, but she caught his surreptitious glances. He peered at her as if he’d never seen a woman before. If she tried to hold his eyes, he looked away. His behavior was peculiar, for it had always been
she
who’d not been able to sustain
his
arrogant gaze. How could her tale of woe change him so drastically? she wondered. Or did she imagine a concern lacking before?

The suspicion was borne out by his behavior from then on. That night, and for two nights after, he did not initiate relations with her. Though she could feel him growing hard against her leg, he merely held her in his arms until she drifted off to sleep. On the third night he finally turned to her like a starving man, but his lovemaking had subtly changed.

Where before he’d demanded, now he asked. Where before he’d taken, now he gave. And that tenderness was far harder to resist than his selfish, wicked skill, but somehow she managed. His gentle loving sent pleasure such as she’d never known coursing through every pore of her body, but even at its height she didn’t return his caresses. Only the conviction that she could never be happy as his mistress strengthened her against the enchantment of those long, lazy nights.

His wooing during the day was almost as devastating. He made her laugh, he made her cry, he made her angry, he made her glad. One occasion was especially memorable. They were relaxing before the hearth during a rainstorm, she on the settee, he on the rug before the fire with his back against her legs. He suddenly sat upright, turned, and clasped his arms about her knees.

“How would you like to walk in the rain?”

She looked at him as if he had maggots in his head. “The Earl of Brookstone surely has more dignity than that,” she teased.

He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Now who’s toplofty?” He stood, took her hands, and hauled her to her feet. ‘ ‘Come along, my lady. You should look forward to seeing me at a disadvantage.”

“How so?” she asked, but she followed when he led her to the door. Billy grinned at them as they passed his post, but turned his head discreetly when their banter became suggestive.

“You can hide
your feelings
much better.” Devon glanced down at the front of his breeches.

She blushed, but threw back, “And shame on you if you’ve aught to hide. Twice already today—”

“Ah Kat, as long as you supply such quality. I’ll want quantity. In truth you make me feel like a lad sowing his first wild oats.” There was that kindling warmth in his eyes again, but something else, too. Something that touched her heart as well as her body.

She looked away from that compelling stare and collected her scattered wits. “Lad indeed! There must be many a field in every comer of England stripped bare from the ‘sowing’ you’ve done.”

Throwing back his tawny head, he roared with laughter. Then, removing his heavy coat and tossing it over the banister, he took her hand and said between chuckles, “Your wit is rapier sharp, but you’ve mixed your analogy a bit. One sows oats, not reaps them.” When she tossed her head, he leaned down and nuzzled under her ear. “Shall I show you yet again the difference?”

She shivered. When his arms snaked about her waist, she slipped from his grasp, flung open the door, and leaped down the steps. “First one to the park gets to decide what we have for dinner!” She raced off, her feet flying so fast that her hair escaped its pins and streamed down her back. She lifted her face to the rain and laughed, feeling carefree for the first time in years.

Devon loped alongside her, his hair, too, becoming a ragtail mess. She grimaced at him, realizing that he was matching his strides to hers and could outpace her when he pleased. Her eyes narrowed on the park gates, barely twenty feet away. She glimpsed a leashed pug huffing out of the entrance. Deliberately, she turned her head and gave Devon the smile he claimed always drove him wild.

His eyes dropped to her lips and watched as she licked the rain away, so he didn’t see the pug that veered into his path. A rotund little woman hurried along behind the dog in apparent eagerness to escape the rain.

Katrina leaped over the leash that would have tripped her; it caught Devon neatly around his ankles. He sprawled across the soft turf, jerking the leash from the woman’s hands. The pug, with a triumphant yip, trotted off to his first taste of freedom.

The middle-aged woman screeched, “Come back, Pip!” When the little dog ignored her and began sniffing at the curb, the woman removed her drooping hat and slapped Devon on the shoulder with it when he tried to rise.

“You clumsy oaf! Why, it’s a sorry day when a lady cannot even walk her dog in the park.” She went on in an aggrieved tone, periodically tapping Devon with her hat to emphasize her words.

Devon was wet to the skin, his hair straggling down his shoulders, his stockings muddy, and Katrina wasn’t surprised that the woman mistook him for a lackey. She covered her mouth to stifle her giggles when he sent her a fulminating glare.

“Forgive me, madam,” he said, standing to take her hand and kiss it.

The woman’s whine wheezed to a stop. She blinked down at his wet gold head, then batted her short lashes at him when he straightened.

Almost choking on her laughter, Katrina trotted down the street, stepped on the dog’s leash, then led the panting little animal back to its owner. “Here you are, ma’am. I, er, tripped his lordship, so it’s my fault. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

At Katrina’s reference to Devon’s title the woman’s tight mouth gaped into an
O
of surprise. She limply took the leash Katrina offered. She looked so dazed that she didn’t even notice the young man who stopped his carriage until he leaped out to call.

             
“Come, Mama, we’ll be late!” He skidded to a stop when he saw Katrina. His eyes widened, then gave her a heated appraisal.

“Well, hel—lo,”
he said, doffing his hat.

“And good day,” Devon snapped, nodding curtly to them both and taking Katrina’s arm to usher her away.

When they were out of earshot, Katrina said, ‘ ‘But I thought ' you wanted to walk in the park?”

“That thin material is clinging to you like . . . like
...”

‘ ‘Like a wet dress? What did you think would happen when you brought me into the rain?” She irritably swiped back a sodden curl from her face.

“I have trouble thinking at all when I’m around you,” he groused, then snapped his teeth closed as if regretting the admission. Their eyes met for a long moment. Was that uncertainty she read there in this wealthy lord’s gaze? Before she could decide, he removed his heavy waistcoat, stopped, and draped it about her shoulders.