Absolute Surrender Read online

  “I believe wherever she ends, she’ll be cared for. Deeply,” Charles countered.

  Ender nodded. “Love is blindness. I cannot allow for my feelings toward her to color this decision, and yet—”

  “And yet, how do we not? Truly, I don’t believe I can be objective in this. When I hold her…” Charles shook off the thought, unable to discuss this much with Ender as yet. “This is not how I wished for this to progress,” Charles said, holding both hands up between them as if to physically push Ender away.

  “Well, had you chosen a simple chit, you’d be well and truly wedded and bedded by now,” Ender said with a grin, a poor attempt to lighten the mood.

  Charles merely shook his head then leaned back in the chair, smoothing his disarrayed locks as he did. He was desperately in need of more ale.

  “I will help. I believe the first impediment is her…condition,” Ender said.

  “And how will you help me with this?”

  “I’ll observe. Simply think of me as…another sort of chaperone. One who may have helpful suggestions.”

  “You are going to teach me how to manage her?”

  Ender visibly cringed. “That’s not how I wish to see it. I…you must understand it isn’t management she needs. It’s something more.”

  “But I don’t understand. That’s precisely the problem.”

  “And that’s what I’m here to rectify. But if you’re unable, you’re to cry off. I won’t have her in a marriage that’s unsuitable.” Ender was leaning toward him, pointing rather menacingly. “Are we in agreement?”

  Charles considered him for a moment. He saw no reason why he couldn’t learn to manage—to help—Amelia to the point that their marriage on face would be successful. Perhaps if he had this knowledge, the ability to calm her… Quite the opposite of what he’d done today. Charles nodded once, then stood, pulling Ender from his seat with him. Charles put his hand out to Ender. They had a common goal. Even if they were on opposite sides of it.

  Ender raised his hands, shook his head, and spoke softly, “You must understand. We are not friends. Someday, perhaps, but for now I simply cannot…”

  Charles nodded, pulling his hand back and waving the statement off. “I understand. I do hope, for Amelia’s sake…but I also understand.”

  “Do you? Truly?” Ender asked.

  “Do I…hope? Every moment of every day. I wish I could explain to you…but then—” Charles nodded. “Can we simply agree that I will call you Ender, and you will call me Jacks?”

  Ender then lifted his hand with a smile, and Charles took it. “Yes, Jacks, this we can agree on.”

  A tiny gasp came then from the doorway. “Well, isn’t this…interesting.”

  Charles and Ender turned together toward the entry to see Amelia. Watching…listening.

  “So very…interesting.” Amelia paused, not sure whether to run or go deeper into the web they were, quite obviously, attempting to weave for her. Charles and Hugh. Hugh and Charles. Charles and—

  “Amelia—”

  She jerked toward them, unsure which of them had spoken, closed as her eyes were, every bit of her attempting to remain standing.

  I won’t have her in a marriage that is unsuitable.

  If you’re unable, you are to cry off.

  We’ll determine what is best for her, where she’ll be safe, cared for…loved.

  She opened her eyes on the hand that held the doorjamb. Her fingers too numb to feel. She concentrated on that connection, willed her hand to feel the hardness, the smooth wood beneath her fingers. Had she gone to see Charles, which had been her first inclination, she would have been met with an empty house. As it happened, she was here, privy to a conversation that, quite obviously, she hadn’t been meant to be privy to.

  She swooned and was caught up by strong hands on her, too many to count, carrying her, arguing over her, moving her, then releasing her to a soft bed of cushions.

  Amazing how hands can argue.

  She felt the safety of Hugh surrounding her, calming her, even as the insistent touch of Charles wound her to the core. She kept her eyes closed and merely attempted to feel.

  “Amelia.” This was Charles. Charles… Her heart raced at the whisper of his name in her mind.

  CharlesCharlesCharles.

  “Amelia mine?” And this was Hugh. To effect a calm so completely with that phrase—only he could do that. She felt Charles bristle at the endearment.

  She opened her eyes slowly. They’d placed her on a chaise near the fireplace. Charles on the floor at her shoulder and Hugh at her knee, both with the most concerned faces she’d ever seen on either of them.

  “You mean to manage me,” she whispered.

  Manage. Not love, but manage.

  She’d thought they both loved her, of a fashion anyway. For she knew she was so desperately odd that she was truly unlovable. The realization was a true pain to her gut. She shrugged off their hands. All of their hands. She watched as they withdrew in unison, as if properly choreographed. All those big hands, hovering above her as if they feared that final step to retreat. As though once committed, they could never return.

  Amelia could feel their fear as a palpable, graspable, touchable thing. A heavy fog in the air around her, weighing her down. She moved to sit up, and they were back, but she stayed them all with a glance.

  So many hands. Four, to be sure, but it had felt like thousands.

  She straightened her skirts as she righted herself. This was an interesting position. This, between them. They were both crouched low, now on either side of her knees, their hands still hovering a bit, not knowing where to alight, as though to find a resting place anywhere but on her would be a terrible concession neither could live with. “You mean to manage me. You both believe I cannot make up my own mind about what I can or cannot do.”

  You do not mean to truly love me. She closed her eyes, quickly.

  They do not love me. She stared forward, between their silences. There was more hovering, a bit of discomfited shifting, eye dodging and throat clearing. She could feel them both, the serene care to her right, that wild caution to her left.

  “You think me weak.” She nearly dissolved from the inside out with these words, she felt them so keenly. A sob rent her countenance, and her hand flew to her temple to stave off an impending pain there.

  “No. No, Amelia, we do not think you weak,” Charles said quietly, as though afraid of startling her. Causing her to bolt. Charles’s mouth dropped open, but this time no sound came out. He looked to Hugh, as though for guidance, and she became truly enraged then.

  “I cannot abide this!” She motioned to them both, “This…whatever this is. You think me weak.” She held up one hand as they both began to shake their heads. The thaw had come, and they both seemed to realize they could, in fact, move. Speak. “What else would you be plotting here together? And you cannot lie, because I heard you. I heard you. Do not try to rationalize this with me. Do. Not. I—” They moved then in unison, and their movements did startle her, the two of them, hands out, placating. Cautiously.

  She wanted to scream. To rend the very air with her frustration. Hugh had always been her safe place, someone she could be herself with, to rant, scream, love, and share her innermost thoughts. Charles…she adored him. She hoped he didn’t know her well enough to hate her, to believe that he had to come to Hugh, to believe that he didn’t think he was enough for her. Or worse, that she was unsuitable for him.

  She’d always been able to relax with Hugh. She was herself. She did not have to control herself, her oddities, her wild thoughts. His very presence calmed those thoughts in her mind, made them irrelevant, more like whispers than the insistent screams they usually were.

  But here, between the two, she couldn’t rest. Her mind tangled to decide where to lean, to control her mind and her body in that usual fashion, because Charles was here, and she didn’t want him to know…but he did know. He’d seen. He was there. She remembered.

&nb
sp; She felt something like a seam come loose, straight up her middle, like a dress split for being too tightly sewn. She pressed her hand to her belly to hold back whatever was to spill forth as they moved to her sides. Hugh on her right, Charles on her left. A modicum of space between them all. Nearly immeasurable. She held very still, the heat emanating from the two of them tangible, and she knew if she came into contact with either—the conflagration of her soul would light London for a fortnight.

  She breathed. Attempted to, at any rate. Endeavored to steady her nerves. She swayed toward Hugh, then stayed herself…knowing. She could not cut Charles in such a fashion. Would not. Regardless of whatever had transpired here tonight. She closed her eyes to stay at least that much of her senses. Her hands smoothed down her skirts to her knees, then tangled there, and she allowed it. Did not attempt to control that outward sign of tension. At least she knew where they were, what they were doing.

  “I need to…I need to know what your intentions are where I’m concerned. I need to speak with both of you…separately. I need to know, precisely, what’s to come of me.” She waited patiently. Neither man moved. “I’ll not choose between you. The two of you must determine which of you is to be first. I will not. I cannot.” She waited.

  After a time, the cushion on her left shifted, and she leaned to her right, nearly imperceptibly, as she steadied herself. She heard the door to the library close, and she melted into Hugh, latching on to his lapels.

  “Damn you,” she said to his cravat.

  “Amelia mine, it’s not as you think.” She shivered and burrowed into him a bit. “Or perhaps it is, but not…not without the very best of intentions.” She knew his hands hovered at her shoulders, not quite sure yet whether he would be welcome.

  “And these intentions—that don’t take my wishes into account—are they like my mother’s very best intentions? Or are they more like my father’s very best intentions?” She pushed back and took his eyes with hers. “Tell me true, because I love you at this moment as I always have. Tell me what these very best intentions have to do with me.”

  “Jacks came here, because he witnessed the episode this afternoon. After he offered for you.”

  “He did not, in fact, offer for me. He left me wondering. He left me without a toehold. Hugh, I’m lost, and I came to find myself, and instead, I found that I’m not entirely sure I can trust you. Or him…” She glanced back at the door to the library. “He witnessed my—how much did he witness?” She shook her head, her eyes unfocused for a moment on the thought, then she looked back up at Hugh and concentrated. “I cannot feel my fingers.” She stared at them, sank her thoughts into the blinding numbness, willed that numbness to overtake the whole of her. Perhaps she could vanish there, somewhere, without feeling, without care.

  Hugh took her hands then, unlatched them from his lapels as she watched, straightened each finger, and gave them each a bit of attention, until the pins and needles started, and she wiggled free of his grasp. She shouldn’t touch him again. Somehow, it felt a disregard for Charles to do such.

  “Hugh, I need for you to explain.”

  “I understand. This conversation between Jacks and I should never have taken place, not without your leave. I will tell you this: We have come to an understanding, one that I never thought to see from the two of us.”

  “What is that?”

  “That our sole purpose, both of us, is to see you happy. Regardless of your family, your mother, your current situation, either of our suits. That’s our intent. That is the driving force behind our very best intentions.”

  She looked to him and read the truth of it in his eyes. She could always read the truth of him so easily that he couldn’t hide from her. He had the truest eyes, and she understood him at his very base. She supposed this was why he was safe. There was never any question. Charles, however, she didn’t know that well. She’d only hoped to. The wildness in him, the wildness he brought out in her, that wildness terrified and, at the same time, was exhilarating.

  “And?” she pressed for more.

  “That’s all. The exact method of our intent had yet to be devised. Though I know we intended to be with you, together.”

  Her breath stopped, most likely following the example of her heart. Her eyes widened. Together seemed terribly untoward. All those hands. All that strength. That overwhelming hardness, doubled. “Together…” She wasn’t entirely sure the word had been audible until he answered her.

  “Yes, though not like this. We had hoped to come to you…I had hoped to speak with you about this. As I’m sure Jacks did. Neither of us intended for this…mess.”

  She realized he hadn’t meant the images that her mind had called forth. He’d simply meant at the same time. Which is the same as together…but not the same.

  She shook her head. “Together?”

  “I…yes. Together. I’m not sure it’s my place to tell you of Jackson’s thoughts on this. I—”

  “I’m quite sure that this involves me, and you’ll tell me everything you know, as will he. When I speak with him. Do continue.”

  “Jacks came here out of concern, because of the episode today. He was concerned, as he should be, as to whether the position of duchess would be suitable to your…temperament.”

  “My temperament. Damn you twice, Hubert Garrison! If you tiptoe around me I shall take you on and you’ll be sorry for it.”

  “Apologies, Amelia, I…I’m simply feeling more cautious than normal.”

  “Well, stop. Just…stop. Now explain. In no uncertain terms.”

  “Yes…yes, Jacks was concerned that the responsibility of the duchy would be too great for you after witnessing the episode today. He doesn’t want to force something on you that you’re unable to do, that would somehow damage you further. He has a great responsibility to the crown and…well, that’s the plain of it.” Hugh looked away from her, scrubbed one hand through his hair before studying his shoes. “I’m sorry.”

  Damage me further. Charles saw her as damaged. They saw her as damaged.

  “Don’t be,” she whispered. “It’s what I asked for. Thank you.” She sat for a moment to consider. He was right, Charles was. He was absolutely right to take her behavior into consideration. His duchy was a powerful one, close to the queen. The title required much of him, as her title would require much of her, were she his duchess. She’d considered this in the past, of course she had. But she’d hoped he would never have need to consider it. She wasn’t sure whether she could manage a dukedom. The simple of it, of course, the households, the staff, all the simple necessaries required of her, absolutely. It was the extended requirements, the parties, the celebrations, the requirements to London, the presentations, the official—and quite formal—productions that would be required of her.

  It was too much to ask that she be a silent partner. A duchess was required to support her duke, to take on the tasks considered more menial, so he would be free to deal with the much more difficult tasks required by his queen.

  As well, there must be children. This fact weighed heavy on her mind. Not that she didn’t want children. She did. And she knew to her toes that she wanted his. But carrying a child within, when even she wasn’t comfortable in her own skin, to share that space with another being? This confounded and frightened her.

  She turned to Hugh. “He has every right to be concerned. These are my concerns as well. I had hoped that in courting, we would discover if my difficulties would be an issue. I had hoped, in attending functions of the ton at his side, that I would be able to discern whether this could be done. I had such great hopes, Hugh…” Her tears fell then, poured from her like water from a sieve. “Such great hopes.”

  He wrapped himself around her like a blanket and took her into the safety of himself. She soaked in that safety she was so fond of. “What’s to become of my mother?” she whispered.

  Hugh bristled at that, but he breathed through the anger, then waited a very patient moment before responding. “Amelia, you
r mother is not of our concern. You are.”

  “I…what? What did I say?” she asked quietly as she pulled the handkerchief from his pocket, the one that was always there, and wiped her eyes and nose.

  “You asked what would become of your mother, Amelia. Your mother. Not you—her. She’s not our concern, beyond the pressure she places squarely on your shoulders. This”—he motioned between them and the door, where Jackson waited on the other side—“this is between the three of us. This is about you and nobody else. Your mother is not a concern.”

  “But she must be. She’ll have nowhere and no one.”

  “If she has no one, that’s her own doing, not yours. And if she has nowhere to go, it will be because she drove everyone away from her.”

  “I can’t not consider her in my actions, Hugh. You must understand.”

  “I of all people understand how heavily this weighs on you. You know this. We’ll deal with your mother somehow. We will…” Hugh shifted, considering a decision that was quite monumental. “I will ensure she is cared for, regardless of what happens next. This, I vow to you.”

  Her eyes crept to his, and a weight transferred. Her lightening was nearly visible in the consignation of responsibility, and he knew the decision had been the right one. “I’ll see to her personally, if need be.”

  He held her for a time, let her take in everything he’d promised to her. Time to consider everything that had passed between them. He knew she needed quiet moments like this, time between, to rethink, re-examine, reconsider all that had come before. When she straightened, he knew she’d come to her decision.

  “If I allow you to do this for me, there is one other thing you must do.”

  He nodded, acceded, regardless that he was nervous.

  “You mustn’t hold back.”

  His breath left him, and then she moved. Her hand curled around his neck, pulled him toward her, brought his lips within a breath of hers, until he closed his eyes, and they met. A coming together. Not one or the other, but an agreement, and then the blaze. She whimpered, and he drove, pulling her flush to his chest. Allowing her hands to rove where they might. Allowing her tongue to rove where it would. And rove her tongue did, sliding against his, tasting him, tasting his lips, tasting the tears that slid down his cheeks before he’d a chance to hide them.