No Choice But Surrender Page 3

  "Lady Brienne Morrow will not be needin' those dresses where she'll be going. She's a homeless creature now, and a good candidate for Bedlam, too. I mean to see that the new master gets our point of view. Why, not even her own father will 'ave anything to do with her." Annie's voice sounded clear through the bedroom door as she spoke to another ser­vant.

  "Bedlam," Brienne whispered to herself, recalling the hor­rible stories she had heard about the madhouse—the filth, the decay, and the punishment that the patients were forced to endure. She smiled grimly. "They do think I am mad."

  "She 'as the devil in her," Annie continued, unaware that she was being overheard. "Her hair reeks of it, and her strange eyes—When I'm the master's mistress, I'll 'ave 'em come and take her away. You'll see. I've cursed her since the day she came to Osterley. There's not a man's eye that she's not captured."

  "But none of the men have even touched Lady Brienne! There's no need to be jealous. Besides, I think you're in over your head, Annie. After all, the new master has just arrived. And already you're thinkin' yourself to be his mistress! And telling him what to do!" The other maid, whose voice Brienne recognized, spoke up.

  "She's a bewitcher! Even my poor ol' Jack never had a chance with her, and it drove him mad!"

  "There's no such thing as witches, Annie."

  "You'll not say otherwise, I know that. But I also know the truth, and I'll not be swayed from it. She is mad, with her walks in the rain and her readin' all night long. It will not be hard to convince the new owner."

  "Perhaps, but before you can be the new master's mistress, we must make ourselves presentable. I'm sure he'll be calling for all of us sometime tonight. Let's be off." The other maid pulled open the servants' jib door in the back of the bedroom, both girls disappeared down the steps that led to their quar­ters.

  At first amused by Annie's presumptuous talk, Brienne was now a bit shaken. Things were bad enough for her, and this gossip about Bedlam angered her. She knew it was unusual for women to read, but not for those of her class. And her ability did not make her crazy. If she was mad for reading until the late hours because she was bored and lonely, then so be it. But feeling rather defeated, she started once again down the hall­way, wondering who the new owner would believe—herself or Annie.

  * * *

  The pale blue walls of the grand staircase provided a mag­nificent backdrop to the Rubens painting on the octagon- shaped ceiling. Brienne stopped and looked up as always, tak­ing in the beauty of the picture, "Apotheosis of a Hero." This and the griffons were the features she truly liked about the house. She sometimes found comfort in her enjoyment of them.

  "Oh!" Brienne turned around on the steps, only to find a small man watching her from the bottom of the staircase. He was middle-aged and had kind periwinkle eyes, and he was adorned in the most magnificent embroidered waistcoat she had ever seen. It was canary yellow and had gold thread sewn so heavily into it that one could only see small patches of satin.

  "And who might you be, my dear?" The older man bowed to her and showed his leg.

  "I—I am Brienne." She stared at the man's rich waistcoat and instantly thought he was the new owner.

  "Now, lovely Brienne, you wouldn't be the upstairs maid, would you?" The man took her hand and led her to the land­ing, seemingly enchanted with her. "I am looking for the earl's daughter and was told I could find her upstairs. You wouldn't know where Lord Oliver's daughter is, now would you?"

  She quickly put her hands on her arms to hide the woolen material thinning at the elbows. She was embarrassed that her appearance had proved to be so impoverished that the new owner had mistaken her for Annie.

  "I am the earl's daughter," she said solemnly. "I am Brienne Morrow."

  Suddenly the gentleman looked at her sharply; a worry line furrowed his brow. "You are the earl's daughter?"

  "Yes, but I can explain my appearance. You see, I—" She was not allowed to finish.

  "No, I am afraid, my lady, that nothing can explain your appearance." The man gave her a grim smile and looked at her violet eyes and her deep auburn hair. She kept her hands crossed over her arms, wishing desperately that she had had a more appropriate gown to wear. "Well, child, there is nothing we can do about it, now is there?" The man smiled at her in a sad, enigmatic way.

  She thought he meant to throw her out, and she started her prepared speech. "As you may already know, sir, I have been residing here. I expect to leave as soon as that can be ar­ranged, but in the meantime I would not find it beneath me to work in your household. My mother taught me all—"

  "My household!" the older man exclaimed. "My lady, this house does not belong to me!" He laughed as if she had made a joke.

  "No?" Brienne stumbled on her words. "But I thought—I mean, I had guessed—"

  "No, I am sorry." The older man shook his head almost with despair. "How I wish it were now. Dearly I do."

  "Then where is the owner? I should speak with him about my position." She tried to regain some of her poise after this strange conversation with the little man.

  "He is waiting in the gallery."

  "I see," she said. "I suppose, since you have come to fetch me, that he knows of my situation?" She looked at him sharply.

  "Yes, he found out that you were here from your father's solicitor."

  "I had hoped to explain it myself." Her shoulders slumped visibly. Now that the owner had had time to think about the situation, she knew it would be hopeless. At best, it would be awkward to have the daughter of the previous owner in the house.. But without the element of surprise, she knew there was little she could do to convince him to let her stay on. She would now be forced either to seek out her father or to be homeless. She would choose the latter.

  "Would you show me to him? I suppose everyone would feel better if this matter were cleared up." She smiled at the kind gentleman and was sorry he had not turned out to be the owner.

  "Of course!" His worried expression returned as he walked down the hallway to the gallery. She noticed that he was biting his lip, and she began to wonder if this new owner were some­one she would be better off not meeting.

  They entered the gallery through the south doors. Fires blazed in the two fireplaces, and in the middle of the long room a table was laid out with tea. Two footmen stood at all the doors, and petticoats flurried as one of the housekeepers bustled over the proceedings. But at the north end of the room, a man stood as far away from the activity as he could. His back was turned to them, but Brienne could tell he was staring at a portrait of Oliver Morrow—a portrait she had wanted to burn on many occasions.

  The older gentleman took her arm and seemed to gather courage. He brought her down the long gallery, but she could feel his hand shake as they made their way. His nervousness was beginning to infect her, and she slowed as they came closer to the man.

  The first thing she noticed before the man turned around was his magnificent size. Not that he was fat; on the contrary, she knew instinctively that only hard muscle would be found underneath the man's expensive clothing. But he was tall, and his shoulders spanned the cloth of his blue-black silk brocade waistcoat almost to the point of splitting it. And his legs that fit so leanly into his breeches had no need for the pads that many men found useful.

  "Slane," her escort began in a shaky voice, "I have found the earl's daughter."

  The man continued to stare at the portrait. "Bring her to me. We've got our agreement. I trust you won't interfere."

  "She's here with me now, Slane." The older man let go of her arm and stepped back from her. Brienne felt her mouth grow dry; she dreaded the man's turning around.

  But the man did not turn around instantly. First he took his eyes from the portrait and bent his head as if he too feared to see her. Then he raised his dark head and faced her.

  The man who greeted her did not look like the monster she had expected. He was dark, and there was a cruel slant to his fine lips, but his features were aristocratic and well bred, from hi
s chiseled nose to his high forehead. And then there were his eyes. They were like two blue diamonds shining out from thick black lashes. Their hardness was hidden temporarily by their brilliance, and she found them hypnotic.

  He seemed almost startled by her appearance, as if he found her as surprising as she found him. He stared at her for such a long time that she found her hands go once again to her elbows to hide the shabbiness of her dress. When he looked away for a brief second, she pulled at her bodice, hoping to present as neat an appearance as possible.

  "Cumberland, would you please see that we are left alone?" the man stated baldly.

  "Listen, Slane, I've—"

  "What is done is done, Cumberland!" He almost yelled at her escort; the man's rudeness angered her.

  Finding himself useless, Cumberland agreed to leave. Turn­ing to her, he asked, "Will you be all right if I leave you two alone for the moment, my child?"

  She nodded and gave the man a warm smile. He was trying to look after her, and she appreciated it. The man could not have known that she had taken care of herself for a long time before coming to Osterley. And he could not know that worse fates surely lay before her when she would have to leave.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "Sit down," the man said to her. When she did not comply, he eyed her judiciously. "Lady Brienne, if you insist on standing, then so must I. However, I prefer to sit while I drink my tea, so if you would be so kind?" He motioned to a large mahogany elbow seat that was covered in pea green silk damask.

  She sat down and waited for the housekeeper to bring them their tea. After she had poured out, the woman wheeled the cart near to them and left the gallery. They were completely alone now, and she was nervous.

  "I wasn't aware until recently that the earl had a daughter."

  "I do not socialize," she answered, trying very hard to hide her nervousness behind a facade of self-possession.

  "And why is that? Surely you have the means." The man's crystalline eyes fell to her bosom, and she found it very hard to meet them once they were raised.

  "But not the desire," she said. A blush crept up her throat.

  "Have you no thoughts of snaring a husband?"

  "None."

  "So what are your plans for the future, my lady?"

  Brienne cleared her throat and slowly sipped her tea. It was strong and hot, and it gave her strength. "I was hoping to leave for Bath, sir, but I have been temporarily waylaid."

  "At Osterley?" He smiled wickedly, or so she thought. "And what are you planning to do here to earn your keep? I am not your father, and he is no longer the owner."

  "I realize that, sir. But at the moment I have no means to go elsewhere. There is a coach that leaves next week. But until then the situation has, shall I say, caught me unawares. My father cannot be reached, and I have no other relatives."

  "Your mother?"

  "She's dead."

  "I see. But your father—surely he would not allow his only child to stay here? Wouldn't he rather you went to him? I don't understand this."

  She was quick with her wits. To get around her father's negligence she made things up as she went along.

  "My father has given up on me, since I do not favor his way of living. My mother shared my feelings, and I stayed with her until she died."

  "At Osterley?"

  "No, she died in Wales, where we had another estate." She looked down at her teacup and then took a deep sip of the brew. She was not sure he believed her, but it was the best she could do under the circumstances. There was no point in tell­ing him the truth, for then he would either force her father to claim her or kick her out onto the streets without mercy. This way she at least had a small chance of biding her time- in de­cent surroundings until the next coach passed through. She would worry about the fare later.

  The man studied her for a very long time. He was obviously displeased with her answer, and she couldn't account for it.

  "You are lying."

  She caught her breath at his bold statement. "What makes you think that, sir?"

  Suddenly without warning, she was grabbed from the elbow seat, and her arms were thrust forward.

  "There," he said, pointing to her threadbare elbows. "Does a man like Oliver Morrow allow his daughter to run about in rags solely because she disapproves of the way he carries on?"

  "I've not seen my father in a long time. He does not know of my state." He let her go, and she sank back down into the seat. After she had caught her breath, she began again. "I do not want to burden you with my family's eccentricities. I merely would like to stay on at Osterley until I have made other arrangements. It is my home. I am very attached to it."

  "Again, I say that you are lying. I know for a fact that you have been here no longer than a month. Before that, your very existence was unknown to the servants here. Explain that if you can."

  Owing him no explanations, she angrily stood and faced the man. "I would merely like a respite from this turmoil you and my father have thrust upon me. If this is not possible, just tell me so, and I shall move on at once. But my past and my relationship with my father is no one's business but my own." Her amethyst eyes flared, and she knew her cheeks were hot and flushed from annoyance.

  "There is no need for anger, Lady Brienne." He sat back down in his elbow seat. His long legs were stretched in front of him in relaxation that belied the power and agitation be­neath the man's surface. "You may stay here if you like. In fact, I insist upon it."

  "Thank you." She eyed him guardedly. The unexpected change in his attitude caught her off guard. "Let me assure you that in the meantime I plan to keep myself busy. I know how to care for a house such as Osterley. My mother was a wonder­ful teacher."

  "Yes. Marie Antoinette is fond of the rustic life, too. I sup­pose your mother was just like her?"

  "Yes, she enjoyed running a household. She found it . . . amusing."

  "But there is a difference, my lady, is there not? I am sur­prised that you have not noticed."

  "And what is that?"

  "The good queen does not dress in rags; nor does she cal­lous her hands with work—not even for amusement."

  Angrily she closed her palms from his view. "I will not be backed into a corner. If you seek to appease your curiosity, I shall leave now." She turned to go. She would not be tricked into telling this man about her father. She would not! She started to walk away, but his voice boomed out from behind her.

  "You shall not leave, Lady Brienne. As I said before, I insist you stay. You will get to know Osterley before this is through, for you are not leaving until we have a visit from your father."

  She blanched at this last statement. Why would he want the earl to come to Osterley Park? Oliver Morrow must be furious about losing the estate. She would stake her life that a meeting between him and this man, Avenel Slane, would be bloody. She turned to face him but could not decipher the veiled look he gave her. In a blind moment of panic spawned by confu­sion, she found her tongue.

  "I will not stay here. And you may not insist. You are for­getting that I'm the daughter of an earl, and you are not even a lowly squire. There is nothing that you can do to induce me to stay here." She could not let him know that she feared her father's arrival, so she spewed excuses at him. "I will not stay in the same household with one such as you."

  "And why is that, my lady?" he asked, baiting her with his smile.

  "You have no manners." She blurted out the first thing that came to mind. She saw the ridiculousness of her answer, but it was too late to take back the words.

  He started to laugh. "I have no manners?" He laughed again even harder this time. "Now, whatever makes you say that?"

  "You—you—" She fumbled for the most effective words. "You have failed to introduce yourself, and you have called me a liar!"

  He stopped laughing and looked at her brilliant eyes and at the disdain in her sweet rose-colored lips. "But you are a liar, my lady," he stated simply. "But for what reasons, I haven't the t
ime or the desire to expose at the present."

  He moved forward, took her by the arm, and guided her to his seat. She pulled to be free of his grasp, but it was like an iron shackle. In the next instant she found herself sitting inti­mately upon his lap; his arm had taken her unrelentingly by the waist.

  "Let me go this instant!" she demanded; her anger over­whelmed her fear. She struggled, but that only made the arm hold her waist that much more tightly.

  "But I was remiss in our introduction, Lady Brienne." She felt his arm relax somewhat after she stopped twisting. She was amazed that it could hold her with such power and yet with such gentleness.

  "I am Avenel Slane," he said. His other hand moved along her smooth cheek and slowly made its way down along the fragile column of her neck. Its soothing warmth was unex­pected, and she found herself unbelievably complaisant under its caress. Her senses overwhelmed, however, she attempted to regain control and again to move out of his grasp. But when she turned to confront him, his eyes caught hers with such intensity that she was suddenly still. Gazing into the frozen depths of his eyes, she tried to discern what was in them. What was it? Pain, desire, hatred? Almost unconsciously she felt both his hands, warm and strong, grasp her delicate face until she was completely in his power. His face was very close, and she could feel his breath on her cheek.

  "And you, my strange, beautiful one, are Brienne Mor­row." With that his lips descended on hers. Their warmth was intoxicating, and for a moment they made her dignity and even taking her next breath seem unimportant.

  But as quickly as it began, it was over. He pulled his lips away and stared down at her with eyes as cold and uncaring as the North Atlantic. It took her a moment to get her bearings, but as soon as she realized what had happened, she resumed her struggle to be free, noting with endless embarrassment that he had dared to do what she had been determined never to let happen.

  That was the final insult. She took her free hand, and despite his quickness she cracked it hard across his cheek. Tears sprang to her violet eyes, and she tried to escape from him. But once again she was pulled, this time viciously, to his side. He looked murderously at her; his cold, dispassionate eyes now gleamed silver with wrath.