A Night to Surrender

He stood tall and rubbed the back of his neck. “I have to offer for you. I have to offer for you, or I can’t live with myself.”

“You have offered.” Tilting her head, she gestured loosely between them. “In some way that involves no declarations of sentiment or actual posing of questions, you’ve offered to wed me in haste, bed me with enthusiasm, and then leave me alone to deal with speculation and scandal, all so you can go throw yourself in front of another bullet with a clear conscience. Please accept my polite refusal. My lord.”

He shook his head. “It’s the deceit, Susanna. I can’t stomach the lies. Your father has done a great deal for me. He at least deserves my honesty.”

“Hullo. What’s going on here?”

Her father stood in the doorway, still dressed in his work apron.

Susanna smiled, sat tall on the desk, and chirped, “Oh, nothing. Lord Rycliff and I were just having a scandalous, clandestine affair.”

Her father froze.

Susanna kept that smile pasted on her face.

And finally, with the same palpable, atmospheric relief that accompanied a storm breaking, Papa finally burst into wry, disbelieving laughter.

“There,” she whispered, brushing past a stunned Bram as she dismounted the desk. “No more deceit.”

She tapped her chin meaningfully. Taking the hint, he shut his gaping mouth. He shot her a fierce green look, equal parts admiration and annoyance.

Rubbing his hands on his apron, Papa said, still chuckling, “I did wonder why I found myself dining alone last night. Rycliff is lucky I heard about that hubbub in the village last night. If not, I might be testing the new rifle lock on him this morning.” He crossed to the bar and unstoppered a decanter of whiskey. “Well, Bram? Out with it. Let’s keep this brief.”

“Absolutely,” Bram said. “Sir Lewis, I came to discuss an important matter with you. It involves Miss Finch. And a proposal.”

Her stomach plummeted to the floor. Still? He meant to pursue this still? Oh, he was so wretchedly honorable and good.

“What kind of proposal?” her father asked.

Bram cleared his throat. “The usual kind. You see, sir . . . Last night, Miss Finch and I—”

“Were talking,” Susanna interjected. “About the militia review.”

“Oh really?” Papa turned and handed Bram a tumbler of whiskey.

Bram lifted the glass, sipped—then seemed to think better of the gradual approach and drained the rest in a single swallow. “As you know, we were called away from the dining room to deal with some disturbance in the village. But when we arrived there, one thing led to another, and . . .” He cleared his throat. “Sir Lewis, we engaged in—”

“Intense debate,” Susanna finished. “We argued. Most”—she flicked a glance at Bram—“passionately.”

“Whatever about?” Sir Lewis frowned as he lifted his own glass.

“Sex.”

Bram, curse him, just thrust that word into conversation. It was bold, bald, and unfortunately for her, impossible to cut short. In the ensuing tense silence, he slid her a look that said, Take that.

She hoisted her chin. “Yes. Just so. The sexes. Male and female. In our village. You see, Papa, the militia endeavor has been disrupting the ladies’ restorative atmosphere. It seems the needs of men and women in this village are at odds, and Lord Rycliff and I exchanged some rather heated words.”

“Oh yes,” he said dryly. “I’m afraid I gave Miss Finch quite the tongue-lashing.”

A violent coughing fit seized Susanna.

“However,” Bram continued, “when we concluded that argument, we adjourned to the village green. And that was where we joined—”

“Forces,” Susanna supplied, fairly shouting the word. An echo bounced back at her from the ancient sarcophagus.

Her father blinked at her. “Forces.”

“Yes.” She smoothed her damp palms on her skirts. “We decided to put aside our differences and work together for the good of the whole.”

She slid a glance toward Bram. He leaned one hand against a papyrus-shaped column and made a magnanimous wave with his empty glass. “Oh, do go on. You tell him everything. I’ll wait and have my say at the end.”

They exchanged looks of challenge and amusement. It must be wrong, she thought—very wrong indeed, that this conversation was fraught with imminent peril, and yet they were having so much fun.

“I understand,” she said, trying for a more serious tone, “that this militia review is important. Important to you, Papa.” She turned to her father. “And important to Lord Rycliff, as well. But if I may say it . . . much as I know this is difficult for Lord Rycliff to admit . . . initial prospects do not look encouraging. Quite frankly, his recruits are hopeless. The review could prove a disaster, embarrassing us all.”

“Now, wait,” Bram said, pushing off the column. “That’s premature. We’ve only had a few days. I will train those men into a—”

Susanna raised an open palm. “You did tell me I could have my say.” Turning back to her father, she continued, “At the same time, Papa, the ladies at the Queen’s Ruby are growing concerned. The militia exercises have disrupted their schedule, and they’ve lost the highlight of their summer—planning the midsummer fair. Some are thinking of leaving Spindle Cove entirely, which could prove disastrous in its own, albeit different way.”

She drew a deep breath. “So Lord Rycliff and I have decided to join forces and work together, to protect what’s most dear to us both. The militia drills and preparations will become the joint project of all village residents. Men and ladies, together. There’s so much to be done, and Lord Rycliff has admitted he can’t do it without my help.” She gave Bram a cautious glance. “But together, we can plan a display to do you proud. What do you think, Papa?”

Her father sighed. “It all sounds eminently logical. And entirely unworthy of this urgent conference that disrupted my work.”

“There is something else,” Bram said. “A question that requires your answer.”

Susanna gulped. “Can we have a ball?”

“A ball?” Bram and her father echoed in unison.

“Yes, a ball.” She’d blurted out the idea without thinking, but upon reflection, Susanna saw that it was perfect. “That’s the proposal. We’d like to hold a ball here, at Summerfield. An officers’ ball, directly following the field review. I know you will have esteemed guests for the occasion, Papa. A ball is the perfect way to honor and entertain them. It will also serve as a reward for the militia volunteers, after all their hard work. And it will give the young ladies something to look forward to. A reason to stay. It’s perfect.”

“Very well, Susanna. You may have a ball.” Her father plunked his glass on the desk.

And then his manner changed, somehow. His gaze roamed the blotter absently, as though he’d misplaced his chain of thought. And Susanna felt dropped, without warning, into one of those awful, terrifying moments. Those moments where the filter of daughterly affection slipped, and suddenly she wasn’t looking at her dear familiar papa, the charismatic, eccentric hero of her childhood—but simply at a stranger named Lewis Finch. And that man looked so old and so tired.

He rubbed his eyes. “I know this militia business seems rather silly on the face of things. But there’s a great deal hanging in the balance—for us all, in one way or another. I’m gratified to see the two of you working together to ensure its success. Thank you. Now, if you’ll both excuse me.”

And he was gone, exiting through the side door.

Bram turned to her. His expression was blank. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“You can’t believe I did what? Save your life and your career? Not that you seem to make a distinction between the two.”

He stared out the window. “Susanna, you just gave him reason to doubt me. He assigned me a duty, and you told him I can’t do it.”

She winced. How was it that men could be so big and strong in body, and yet so fragile when it came to pride?

“I told him you can’t do it alone. And there’s no shame in that.” She moved to stand at his side. She began to reach for him, but thought better of it, crossing her arms instead. “As my father just said, a great deal hangs in the balance. I know what this means to you, truly. You need to prove yourself after your injury, and this is your one chance.”

A flicker of denial crossed his features, like a knee-jerk reflex. But then he nodded. “Yes.”

She wanted so badly to hug him. Perhaps, once this militia was a success and he had proved himself, he could turn his attention to all those other, less easily admitted needs. Like his palpable yearning for closeness and affection. Or his obvious, unspoken desire for a true home. Perhaps he’d even change his mind, and decide to stay. But she knew he couldn’t consider any of those things until he felt strong and whole again, in command of himself and others.

“Then let me help.” She said honestly, “For both your sake and my father’s, I want to see you succeed. But we must face facts. You have a little more than a fortnight to get those men uniformed, drilled, and trained to perfection. Not to mention all the preparations for the day itself. There’s so much work to be done. I know this village, inside and out. You can’t do it without me.”

He pushed a hand through his hair. “Now that you’ve thrown an officers’ ball into the mix, I suppose I can’t.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment idea,” she admitted. “But a good one. If anything can convince Mrs. Highwood and the others to stay, it’s the prospect of planning a ball. We’ll need everyone working together, men and ladies. If we’re going to keep both our dreams from disintegrating, we have to make this day a grand success.”

“Something tells me Miss Finch has a plan.”

“Not a plan,” she said, smiling a little. “A schedule. As you know, Mondays are country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. On Wednesdays we’re in the garden, and Thursdays we shoot. On Fridays, we’ve always climbed up to the castle. To picnic, sketch, stage our little theatricals. Or sometimes just to plot and scheme.”

“Well,” he said. “We can’t disrupt the ladies’ schedule, now can we? Bring them all up, then. It’ll be a good way for the men to patch things over, after last night’s mayhem.”

“We’ll plot and scheme together, Bram. You’ll see, it will all come out right.”

She stared up at him, so handsome and strong. Along with all the other firsts he’d given her, he’d now made her first offer of marriage. A forced and unromantic one, but still. She rather treasured the sentiment, and she wanted to repay it somehow.

On impulse, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

He grasped her elbow, forbidding her to retreat. “What about us?” His words were hot against her ear. “How do matters stand between us?”

“Why, I . . . I still like you.” Nerves fluttered in her chest, but she kept her tone light. “Do you like me?”

A few moments passed in silence. She would have counted them in heartbeats, but her foolish heart had become a most unreliable timepiece. It gave three pounding beats in a flurry, then none at all.

Just when she’d begun to despair, he turned his head, catching her in a passionate, openmouthed kiss. He put both arms around her, fisting his hands in the fabric of her dress, lifting her up and against his chest. So that her body recalled every inch of his, every second of their blissful lovemaking. The now-familiar ache returned—that sweet, hollow pang of desire that only deepened as his tongue flickered over hers. In a matter of seconds, he had her gasping. Needing. Damp. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">