Absolute Surrender Page 7

  But then he touched her, and her mind homed in on the contact, like a single burst of energy between them. The shock of the heat of his hand through the layers of gloves was nearly too much, and her heart stuttered. She jerked away.

  “I beg your pardon,” he whispered.

  No no no no no! she nearly cried, surprised when her mouth didn’t actually make the sound, but stayed silent, vigilant, though a sob rendered her sadness with stunning clarity.

  “I...Your Grace, I didn’t mean to…I didn’t mean to offend. I would have liked to hold your hand. I don’t understand why that happened.” She closed her eyes, saw Hugh, then looked up to see Charles.

  Charles reached for her slowly this time. Much more slowly. Made sure her eyes were on his hand. This time, her hand nearly melted into his, and it verily took his breath. Never had he felt such synergy with another person. It was more than the sum of their two worlds.

  He knew, in the way her lip trembled, that she felt that connection as well. A peace seemed to rend her motionless, while the whole of her self appeared to relax. All those muscles, retreating into a whole, like melting butter in the sun.

  She looked up to him with glazed eyes.

  “Would you please call me Amelia?”

  “I would be honored, beyond measure, to call you Amelia.” He heard her aunt huff from the shore, not a far enough distance away, and her control snapped back into place instantaneously, the feel of her hand whipping away nearly leaving him dizzy.

  Every defense she had fell into place like the heavy gates at Castleberry Keep, and that pained him. What now? he thought. He had to bring her back.

  His father had told him that every woman wanted to hear that she was loved. Charles had no idea what that meant—love. He knew he felt for her like he felt for no one in the world, but he assumed that if he’d felt love, for anything or anyone, he would have known it. He did feel something…and he was happy to call it love, if it were to make her happy, but using with her the tactic his father had taught him—it would have felt more than wrong. He did not want to taint this…whatever this was.

  Hugh walked into his study, poured two fingers of whiskey from the tantalus on his desk, then paused with the tumbler at his lips, allowing the scent to burn through his nose and reach his lungs. He slammed the glass to the desktop, shaking off the splash of liquor that hit his palm.

  He sat heavily in the chair, then turned the chair toward the windows at his back, putting his boots up on the sill and leaning against the worn leather. He’d kissed her. He’d promised himself, long ago, that he wouldn’t kiss her unless she was truly his. He’d known, to the depths of his soul, that if he kissed her, he simply would not release her. And he had, most definitely, kissed her.

  Damn me.

  Truly, it had been so much more than just a kiss, as he’d known it would be. He’d poured every promise he had into that simple touch of lips. And what did promises mean now? He probably wouldn’t have thought so harshly of himself, of his own broken promise, if that damned duke hadn’t been so damnably honorable.

  Damn me twice.

  He closed his eyes and threw his arm over his face, his nose resting solidly in the crook of his elbow. He breathed deep. His jacket smelled of her where they had been melded together. Where they had touched.

  Damn me thrice. The sweet, wholesome scent of her.

  It’s lilacs. She smells of lilacs. He breathed of it slowly for a while.

  Castleberry should not be so patient. He should not have offered that bit of respect. So much had been spoken in that bow. As Hugh had meant to convey as much by ascending to his seat and staying himself, looking down upon the man who was so much more than he ever would be.

  This was inconceivable. He could not, would not, allow this man an honorable character. That quite made him impossible to hate, and Hugh wanted so desperately to hate Jackson.

  Amelia.

  Castleberry was forcing him to rethink everything he knew to be true. That she was taken from Hugh. That she belonged to Hugh. That this duke was the enemy. That she could never be happy with Jackson. That Jacks was not at all what she needed. That the only man in the world for her was Hugh. That she was meant for Hugh, meant to be his, meant to spend her days with him, the rest of her life in the comfortable seat of his barony.

  Hugh groaned and swung his legs down, leaning forward on his elbows, his hands steepled between them. Could he—he closed his eyes and forced his mind around the thought—could he allow this duke to care for her? Could he let her go? He felt the pain of it so suddenly, so keenly, that the entirety of him shuddered. To separate her from him, to push her out of this soft place inside where she had so completely invaded the very breath of him. To turn, and to walk away.

  Hugh realized then that he’d not truly prepared himself to break with her that morning. In fact, he knew now that he’d gone to do exactly what it was that he did do. Hugh had been a fool to think otherwise, and now… He turned back to the whiskey and downed it, hoping to dull a bit of that raw, gaping wound that had torn through his very core at the thought of sending her off.

  Castleberry. He’d always seen Jackson as a rival, and thus the pranks, the childish games to push him away, to keep Jackson from Amelia. Hugh’s actions had been cruel, and he’d known it, even though he’d been just a boy. But Amelia’s father had told him that she was meant for Castleberry, had asked Hugh to help foster a relationship between the two. Even then, the division from her had affected him in a tangible way, and thus began the assault, keeping Castleberry from coming between them in those early years. Quite opposed to what her father had asked of him.

  Hugh didn’t seem to be the honorable man that he’d always wished for Amelia when he considered these things. His head fell to the desk with a mighty whomp, and he groaned yet again. What had he done? He’d been selfish, single-minded in his belief. All this time, telling himself he knew what was best for her, that he was what was best for her, and with a single bow to his cocky, overbearing, improper self, Castleberry had shattered everything Hugh believed to be true.

  How terribly unfair.

  Charles stood. Looked at the woman. Might have growled at her. Lady Mathorpe backed away slowly, and Charles turned back to Amelia, pulling her up from the bench and walking her farther down the crystal water’s edge. Amelia looked to make sure Lady Mathorpe did not follow closely before she spoke.

  “I believe we would suit, if you’re willing to take me on. I do understand that I would be a chore. However, your suit would make my father and mother quite happy should you agree.” Amelia offered this statement to him as an apology, though it did sound terribly clinical to her ears.

  Charles shook his head slowly. “It would not at all be a chore. Marriage to you would be an honor.” His feet stopped, and she nearly tripped on the sway of her skirts. “Did you just offer for me?” he asked as he steadied her. “You amaze me. I have—” He looked down in concentration, and she focused on the feel of his thumbs circling the backs of her hands.

  When did he take my hands?

  “I believe I’ve cared deeply for you, in some form, since the moment I first saw you.” Charles cleared his throat then as he looked a bit confused, and she felt her jaw relax a bit too much. “I could only hope that you would also be terribly happy, and perhaps even one day you would come to care for me as well.”

  As well. That echoed in her head for a bit of time, along with: He threw my reticule in the pond. She tried to breathe through the realization of it all. He had said “as well.” Which meant—to her mind—that he already did. Care for her.

  Perhaps he’s not aware that he made such a declaration. Perhaps because he does not or perhaps he does and he did. Perhaps…

  It was then, after an insurmountable pause, that he caught her gaze again, and she was locked to his. If she had wished with all her might, she would not have been able to turn away.

  “There is no chore considered when I think of spending my life with you. There i
s no place I would rather be. There is no woman I would rather share my every simple day with.” Charles squeezed her hands, and when he blinked, she was able to look down—and breathe. She desperately needed to breathe.

  He did mean it. He was aware.

  “I…I thought you were merely following the wishes of your father,” she said. “I knew he had words with my father. I knew they’d arranged this when you were there that summer.”

  “No, Amelia, that was merely the door that gave me access. And won’t you please call me Charles?”

  Her mouth dropped open, as if to say it. To breathe the very life into him with the sound of his name on her lips, but she paused and scanned the park—

  Charles dropped his gaze to her hands. “Perhaps soon you’ll be as familiar with me as you are with Endsleigh.” He said the words quietly. Purposefully. His gaze traveled slowly up her figure. The dress really was quite pretty. It reminded him of the broad sweeping meadows near Castleberry Keep, the soft turn of her hips, the pinch of her waist, and the beautiful curve of her—he forced his gaze to her eyes. The dress did, truly, match her eyes. His own eyes betrayed him and fell to her lips.

  “There are things we should discuss, prior to our betrothal,” Charles said. A tremble rippled through her, and he knew she worried. He desperately wanted to allay her fears, but he also required a bit of reassurance himself. “Amelia. I would be honored to spend my life with you, but not if it isn’t what you truly wish, and at this moment, I don’t believe that it is.

  “I believe you need to discover what it is you desire. Whether it be me...” He smoothed both hands up her gloved arms and stroked the bared skin at the very edge of the fabric. He felt her tension ebb, her body sway. “Or Ender.” With that name, Charles pulled his hands away, clasping them behind his back. Perhaps removing his touch had been a cruel move, but he needed her to realize that if her heart were engaged elsewhere, his could not be availed to her.

  She swayed, and Charles wished to steady her, but he forced himself not to. He clenched his hands together and sent up a prayer for the will to keep a certain distance between them. It seemed an age before he knew she was ready to speak.

  “I understand,” was all she said.

  Charles turned and glanced at their chaperone, standing at a mere twenty paces, yet between them nonetheless. Amelia lifted her hand to her lips, holding his handkerchief, and inhaled deeply as she looked around. He followed her gaze.

  “Amelia, I cannot help but feel our marriage bed would be crowded.”

  Her eyes widened, and she looked away yet again. “I cannot promise more than I know, and I know this—he and I cannot be together. It is as simple as that.”

  “So not simple at all, really.”

  “I can only wish...I do not know. I cannot know. Please understand that when I think of him, I consider him a dear friend, whom I will miss terribly.”

  “But certainly your friendship has grown over the years.” His eyes traveled her figure again. “You have grown into a woman, and he…a man. Undoubtedly, your friendship has grown as well, perhaps changed as much as you have?” Charles was truly worried now.

  “No, I…I don’t think so, at least not from my perspective, though I know not about Hugh. I have a feeling he isn’t of the same mind. In truth, I cannot tell you. He’s all I’ve ever known of love, beyond that of my father. So judging these feelings…I know what I feel for you is different. This I know for certain. I also know that I would like to experience more of it. To better understand it, because my feelings carry a great deal of confusion with them…” She gazed into his eyes, nearly bored through them to the back of his skull as if to attempt to read his very intent. After a moment, her gaze settled into a confused countenance. “You threw my reticule in the pond.”

  He grinned, then nodded. “I did, yes. That was me.” He relaxed gradually. This is what he’d hoped for, in a manner at any rate. That she had no idea was entirely better than if she had believed she loved Ender as more than a friend.

  “I should get you back to your mother. I will speak with your father today, Amelia, because I told him I would, but I must tell you I will ask for permission only to court you formally. Is that agreeable to you?”

  “Yes, I—yes.” She sounded resigned, as though she had been prepared for more...or even less.

  His heart stuttered. Something inside him tried to force him to his knees to beg her forgiveness, but, alas, whatever it was, it was not powerful enough to do so yet. Charles took her hand, then gained her attention and smiled.

  “Amelia, can we call this a beginning?”

  “I would very much like to,” she whispered.

  “As would I. May I call on you tomorrow? Perhaps we could attend the opera later this week as well?”

  She nodded, and Charles finally saw what he believed to be a very genuine smile.

  They turned together for the carriage. Lady Mathorpe followed.

  The return in the carriage was fraught with confusion. She had prepared herself. Truly, she had. Practiced endlessly, not only for the hopeful conclusion, but as well for the inevitable rejection. She had not prepared herself for maybe.

  She had never prepared herself for maybe. Most people knew in a moment whether they wished to be near her, but this man...how could he not know? This confused her greatly. She twisted the handkerchief until some of the stitches popped, then frowned when she realized what she’d done.

  She had planned to place the handkerchief in her jewelry box. Carefully protecting the square of linen from damage, able to pull it out at any moment and remember his kindness, and the way he smelled. She smoothed the linen and reached for her reticule, so as to protect it from herself. When her hand met the soft cushion of the carriage, the empty space where she knew her reticule should be, she winced. Not because he had thrown her reticule in the lake, but because he had thrown it in the lake for her. Amelia wished she still had that reticule, to remember this day by, even though in having it…it wouldn’t have happened. There she was caught between the memory and the memento.

  She cut a glance to her aunt, who was looking out the other window, then pushed the handkerchief carefully into her bodice, for safety.

  She looked up to find Charles watching her, closely, and realized she hadn’t checked to be sure his attention was elsewhere before placing his handkerchief, his handkerchief, in her bodice so close to her bosom. His eyes seemed to darken again—surely, a trick of the light—and he reached into his jacket, never taking those dark eyes from hers. She watched as his hand searched, then he finally pulled her own handkerchief out of the elusive pocket and handed the linen to her.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, so quietly she thought she’d imagined it.

  She endeavored to paste on a genuine smile—which only meant her face was most likely twisted and pained into some semblance of propriety, so she closed her eyes and attempted to calm her now-racing heart. She lifted the handkerchief partly to hide her face and partly to breathe of him. She sank into the scent that was now all his. That fresh cotton smell. The smell reminded her of the laundry on the moors. She longed to see cotton plants. She’d seen drawings of them, and they seemed magical, somehow familiar, something so sweetly soft erupting from such a harsh and inhospitable shell.

  Even deeper than the scent of cotton was the very essence of him, that bit of man that had invaded this square of fresh linen the moment he’d placed it in the inside pocket of his coat. The scent was warm, like heat, like safety. She felt her heart steady and swell to take it all in, and she sank into the feeling. She imagined him on the moors with her, the fresh linen carried in the breeze, pinned to the lines, making the sunlight around them dance…

  The carriage stopped abruptly, and her eyes popped open to find him contemplating her. A chill coursed her spine as she had the sudden fear that she’d done something inappropriate while daydreaming. She looked from the corner of her eye to her aunt, whose eyes were wide with shock— and so she had.


  Damn me twice. What have I done? Her mind ramped up the spiral that would end with an inevitable episode—like a runaway carousel. She clenched her fist around the handkerchief as if to hold on…but then Charles smiled, and her heart paused in her chest. The smile merely quirked the left side of his face, as though there were two of him. This drew her full attention. She could see the smile before she’d even looked at him fully, then this grand, wicked smile broke across his face, left to right, as though awakening her very soul like a sunrise. It finally alighted in his brown eyes, which narrowed. As she watched, the smile seemed to go deeper, darker. This concerned her, and her heart answered with a violent knock, a warning.

  What have I done?

  In a flash, the safety she held so dear was gone. Her blood thundered in her ears. The door to the carriage jerked open, and the steps clanked as they dropped, startling her. Jacks moved stiffly to the door, and she thought she heard a stifled laugh.

  What have I done?

  Charles stood with his back to the carriage, shifting and adjusting his coat as she waited, more patiently than her being wished to allow, for him to bring her out.

  What have I done?

  Charles turned, and she attempted a smile, but the smile quite glanced off his now serious visage. He reached for her, and she paused, was quite unable to move her hand to his. Wasn’t sure if his hand would be warm salvation, or the harsh, sharp exterior of the cotton plant.

  What have I done?

  Charles finally reached in and took that hand that hovered just above her lap in indecision, and the tension broke and flooded her. She breathed then, not a small feat, but a great inhalation of London air. She filled her lungs as much as she was able, bent as she was, corseted as she was, confused as she was, then stepped down.

  “What have I done?” Her hand flew to her mouth but couldn’t stay the comment, and she pinched her eyes closed, hiding behind her handkerchief.