Authors: Theresa Romain

Season for Surrender (10 page)

BOOK: Season for Surrender

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Xavier shot to his feet. “Excellent, Miss Oliver. Which means you shall offer the next perfâ”

“Wait,” Jane interrupted. She lowered her hand to her side, and she was simply Jane again. “We forgot to choose people to act as the hunting dogs. Who is to tear apart our Actaeon? After he became a stag, he was destroyed by his own dogs. So sorry for your fate, Cousin.”

“Death by dogs?” Xavier sighed. In for a penny . . .

Before he could think about all the reasons why not to do this, from the tailoring of his coat to the demise of his dignity, he flung himself to the ground again. Prone, he writhed and shuddered and kicked.

After several seconds of this, he stopped and stood again. Expression Number Three: Amused Tolerance. “There you go, Jane,” he said, breaking the stunned silence. “Death by dogs.”

He brushed at his clothes, then walked into the folly, caught hands with Jane, and bowed.

A second later, she bowed, too, and the guests began to applaud and catcall.

“Was that your idea of being torn apart by dogs?” Jane shouted to him over the noise. “It looked like an apoplexy.”

“I've never been torn apart by dogs before, so I made my best guess at the experience.”

“I've never transformed anyone into an animal before, but you didn't see me making a fool of myself,” Jane replied.

He folded his arms and stared at her until she relented. “All right, I did make a fool of myself.” She dipped into a brief curtsy. “Happy Christmas, Xavier. I know you could ask for no better gift than my humiliation.”

He gripped her shoulder for a second and gave her a smile. When she pulled a horrid face at him, he knew she'd understood his message:
thank you
.

He snapped up his fallen hat and pounded it back into shape. “More rum punch for everyone before our next performer? Miss Oliver, it's to be you.”

She took a deep draught from her tankard, then shuddered. “I'm to be punished for knowing something of mythology?”

“Temper, temper,” he chided. “You are
rewarded
. Please, feel free to astound us all. Remember, the stakes are high.”

“Not high enough,” said Lockwood. “What have we wagered?”

“That depends on the winner,” Xavier replied.

“How democratic,” said Lady Irving. “I think I could retch.”

“Drink it away, Aunt,” said Louisa, thrusting her tankard into the countess's hand.

“More punch,” called Lord Weatherwax, and Mrs. Tindall scurried to fill his request.

More punch. Yes, that was a good idea. Xavier fetched a tankard for himself and found a place near Lockwood. He remained standing, undecided. Had it been unkind to single out Louisa? Should he go to her rescue? Help her, as Jane had him?

No, she didn't want safety. Here, then, was her chance to be bold.

She glanced at himâglared, actuallyâas she took her position at the center of the folly.

Good luck, muffin
, he mouthed, and she shook her head at him, but he could see a smile trying to fight its way free. It rounded her cheeks, brightened her wood-brown eyes. In the breeze, the fur collar of her pelisse ruffled up around her face; fine curls tugged free from her hairpins. She looked a little wilder, flung into the outdoors. A little taller as she stood at the center of attention.

“I ought to thank Lord Xavier for choosing me to follow his performance, and Miss Tindall's,” she began.

“Then do so,” Jane called, and everyone laughed.

Louisa smiled. “But I won't. I
cannot
thank him. My own talents can't possibly compete with such theatrics as yours, Jane, or with a stag shot to the heart.”

“The stag wasn't much to look at,” commented Lady Irving, “though the actor himself wasn't half-bad.”

Louisa only shook her head, a faint smile still on her lips. Slowly, she began to turn in a circle, taking in the faces upturned toward her own. Xavier knew every one of those faces: not unkind, but difficult to impress.

“Lady Audrina,” she said at last. “Is there a Christmas gift you would like to receive?”

Lady Alleyneham's youngest was all titters and fidgets at being singled out. “Oh. Um. Jewelry?”

Louisa nodded. “In particular, a black pearl necklace with a heavy gold clasp. Yes?”

Lady Audrina's mouth fell open. “Yes, I mentioned that to my mother only yesterday. Did you overhear?”

“No.” Louisa's arms folded more tightly inside her muff. “I simply made a guess.”

“How on earth did you guess such a thing?” Lady Alleyneham laid a protective hand on her daughter's arm. “It's not possible. You must have overheard us. Though . . . we were in my daughter's bedchamber.”

Her brow furrowed with confusion, and she looked around the circled benches at the other guests.

Xavier leaned against one of the folly's slim columns and crossed his arms. This was an intriguing start. “Come now, Miss Oliver. Either you possess the hearing of a bat, or you've some mysterious talent for divination. Which is it?”

“Neither, my lord.” She hunched her shoulders, but her voice rang out strong. “It was a matter of observation. Lady Audrina, I've noticed that you prefer to wear dark colors. At this moment, you've matched your deep-green gown with black pearl earrings, but you wear a cameo at your neck thatâif you'll forgive meâdoes not seem in your usual dashing style. I assumed, then, that the pearls were your own choice and the cameo a family piece, and I further assumed that you didn't yet own a necklace to match the earrings you like so well.

“Because I know you to enjoy walking and games and other active pursuits, any jewelry you wear would require a heavy clasp. And what lady with your rich coloring would choose any adornment but gold?”

When she finished, there was silence for five endless seconds. Then Lady Audrina, looking dazed, began to applaud. “IâMiss Oliver, you are a wonder. You noticedâyou think I am dashing?” Her cheeks looked pink, and she raised a gloved hand to one of the black pearl drops at her ears. The smile she gave Louisa was wide and sincere.

Xavier had nothing like Louisa's talent for observation, but he could guess one thing: this was more friendliness than Lady Audrina had ever demonstrated before in Louisa's company. The Alleyneham family generally saved their smiles for those with the bluest blood.

“Choose someone else,” called Jane. “What do I want?”

Louisa turned her way and regarded Jane with close interest. “A scandal.”

Jane hooted. “Everyone knows that. What else?”

Louisa grinned. “A bigger scandal.”

Xavier raised his eyebrows. “She's got you there, Jane.”

As everyone else laughed, he gave Louisa a little smile. Lovely work. She noticed a startling amount, and he would enjoy the entertainment. As long as she didn't turn her deep eyes his way.

“And I?” Lockwood this time. “What do I want for Christmas, Miss Oliver?”

God, Xavier had taught him nothing. The way Lockwood was waggling his brows, he looked like some old rouÃ© from a comic opera.

Louisa looked him up and down, cool as ever. “A scandal for you, too. But you want it to be someone else's.”

“Dash it,” called Freddie Pellington, “they can't
all
want a scandal.” Pellington had impeccably styled curly hair, which covered a completely empty head.

“Naturally we all want to see some scandal, Pellington,” confirmed Lady Irving in a carrying voice. “That's why we've come to spend Christmas with Xavier, you ninny.”

Pellington's pleasant face sagged, and Louisa chimed in, “You're right, Mr. Pellington. I was distressingly uncreative. I would guess that his lordship would also like . . .” She tapped a gloved finger on her cheek, her muff balanced on her other arm. Seated on the bench at Xavier's right, Lockwood tensed.

Ha. Xavier knew many answers, none of which Lockwood would care to have repeated to the party as a whole. Miss Oliver's departure and the resulting ten pounds? Any winning wager in the betting book at White's? A mistress who wouldn't leave him for a richer man? The respect of his peers?

“A lavender cravat,” Louisa decided.

“Nonsense,” Lockwood replied, visibly relaxing. “I've never thought of such a thing.” He huffed, booted feet sliding out before him in an obnoxious pose.

Xavier did not roll his eyes. He simply asked, “Why do you suggest that?”

With her free hand, Louisa indicated Lockwood's high-crowned hat. “His lordship enjoys being at the forefront of fashion. His friends can count on him to wear unique pieces, many of which set new styles.”

Lockwood's chin drew back, and he blinked several times in quick succession.

“And so,” Louisa concluded, “while you might not have considered a lavender cravat in particular, my lord, it seems like the kind of thing you would enjoy owning.”

This was Spanish coin rendered into speech: beautifully gilt, totally worthless. Lockwood dressed like a cit, all flash and dash. It did draw notice, though, which Xavier guessed was all Lockwood wanted.

Yes. He was preening now. Again, Xavier did not roll his eyes.

Lockwood gave his own version of Expression Number Three, Amused Tolerance. “Excellent guesswork, Miss Oliver. I've always suspected you were a woman of
unusual talents
.”

To hell with it. Xavier rolled his eyes.

If anyone else noticed Lockwood's lewd little dig, they ignored it. Louisa had impressed these jaded folk at last.

Xavier realized he had folded his arms so tightly that he was starting to lose feeling in his hands. He forced himself to loosen the talon-grip he'd been keeping on his own arms.

It was not as though Louisa was
his
, after all. Just because they'd shared a few confidences, permitted each other the familiarity of Christian namesâwhy, he'd scarcely touched the woman. She wasn't his . . . anything.

The cold seemed to hit him suddenly, the breeze reaching for his face, slapping a chill through his body. She noticed so much, and the only assurance he had from her was: she didn't hate him.

If that was the best she could say, then she might leave. And he'd missâ

No. And he'd have to pay ten pounds to Lockwood.

It wouldn't happen. Lord Xavier never lost. And he
was
Xavier, damn it. Not the
Alex
she called him; not the sentimental being who cared what Louisa Oliver thought and whether she stayed, and who told her he needed a glass to read and . . . and met her in the library because he wanted to.

That was
not
how Lord Xavier spent his house parties.

He turned his gaze to Signora Frittarelli. The singer had garbed herself in white and scarlet today, like the berries of mistletoe and holly. She was the Christmas present he'd thought to give himself: lush and merry, her ripe bosom bobbing as she laughed.

Xavier didn't feel like so much as stealing a kiss from her.

“Xavier.” Jane's voice cut through the clamor of voices like a chime.

At first he thought she was addressing him, but when others started repeating his name, he realized that his dear cousin, whom he would probably be killing before the New Year, had suggested Louisa turn her gimlet eye upon him.

There was only one possible response: Expression Number Four, Condescension. “By all means. Let Miss Oliver divine my deepest desires, if she's so inclined.”

Louisa was meant to look intimidated at this head-on acceptance. But she never did what she ought. She only smiledânot at him, but at Janeâand shook her head. “It wouldn't be right. He'd be far too embarrassed.”

Xavier made his most Xavier-ish face. A little lift of the brows; a droop of the lids. His mouth curled. “How kind you are to seek to spare my feelings. You make me curious, though.”

Beneath his thick superfine coat, the sleek gray of his waistcoat, the linen of his shirt, his heart thudded quick and restless. But it was hidden deep; no one would know.

“ âI would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.'” Louisa's mouth kicked up on one side. Likely she thought no one would recognize the quotation.
Pride and Prejudice
.

Xavier narrowed his eyes. Never mind. He wasn't expected to know about books. “Then what have you to say?” He tilted his head back ever so slightly, lifting his chin. Expression Number One: Veiled Disdain.

Louisa's smile widened. “I ask you to trust me, my lord. It would not be a pleasure for you to hear what I have to say.”

So they were back where they'd started at the beginning of the house partyâexcept her eyes seemed lit with hot mischief instead of cold contempt.

BOOK: Season for Surrender

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