Read Online No Choice but Surrender by Meagan McKinney - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Meagan McKinney
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privilege of an English upbringing.
"Of course. Tis so ungracious they are, that you in your finery would put them all to the blush." He grabbed at the loose material of her dress and held it up to her, showing not more than one ragged flounce at the elbows and a worn, unembroidered petticoat of the same violet wool as her gown. "Do tell, Lady Brienne, what is your secret? I am sure your dowdy American cousins would like to know how you manage to stay atop the fashions of the ton."
"Stop this, I tell you!" she cried, pinkening all the way down to her breasts. "Perhaps I've not the most fashionable gowns, but at least I'm not a heathen American!" She grabbed the wool from his grasp and fought the urge once again to slap his arrogant face.
"Heathen!" he exclaimed incredulously. "You may call them that only if that's your name for beauty and heart! American women are not like these pale, insipid, whimpering little wallflowers you English call the fair sex. Why, I've seen better flesh on my Arabian mare!"
"Pale and insipid?" she whispered, too incensed to shout. She looked at him and speechlessly tried to fight back with an expression of complete disdain. But once again he let out an inappropriate laugh.
"You, my little wildflower, I have forgotten. You are the exception. You put on airs as if you were a queen. But alas, what a wretched state your kingdom is in!" He ran a strong, work-worn hand over her knotted and tangled hair and gently touched her cheek where the dirt from her bed had smudged it. She pulled back from his touch; this seemed to make him grow thoughtful. "Ready yourself now. I'll have the maid draw you a bath and bring a tray to your room—your room back in the house."
"I'll not be going back to the house. I am leaving. As I said last night, you'll not be keeping me here." She looked at him defiantly. She knew she was small—especially in his presence —but she was determined that her stature would not make her remain a prisoner.
"And where are your funds—your means to get away?"
"I have the means. Not much, but enough to get me where I am going." She thought of her mother's comb and the pain of having to pan with it. It would be difficult to sell it, but not as difficult as remaining at Osterley with this Colonial brute and her father's imminent arrival hanging over her head. She gave a small sigh and stated, "Now, if you will leave me so that I can complete my toilet—"
"Would this be pan of your plans?" Avenel reached into his waistcoat pocket and held out a brilliant gold comb set with eight large square-cut amethysts, sprinkled with at least a score of tiny pinpoint diamonds. She could not stifle her gasp. Unmindful of her state of undress, she ran to her bag and shuffled through it, desperately searching for her mother's piece. When she could not find it, she searched for her miniature. She whispered a quiet prayer when she spied it among the folds of her handkerchief.
"Give that back! You have stolen it from me!" she cried in abject frustration.
"Stolen it? Why, one of my men found it on the other side of Osterley's gates, apparently lost by some thoughtless maiden. You don't mean to say that this lovely piece belongs to you?" he taunted.
"You know it does! Please give it back to me. It's all I have in this world."
"All the more reason to keep it then, my lady . 'Tis a valuable piece. More precious than you could know," he said enigmatically.
"You must give it back. It's mine!" She tried to keep despair out of her voice, but it was too difficult. He knew as well as she did that without her comb she would have no means to leave at all.
"Prove it."
When his command met a mute response, he looked her over; his mercurial meanness returned. She once again tried to pull her dress together with shaky fingers, but somehow she felt his eyes would have seen more than she wanted them to even if she had been properly laced.
"It's mine!" she gasped as she watched him leave.
Before he departed, he
"Of course. Tis so ungracious they are, that you in your finery would put them all to the blush." He grabbed at the loose material of her dress and held it up to her, showing not more than one ragged flounce at the elbows and a worn, unembroidered petticoat of the same violet wool as her gown. "Do tell, Lady Brienne, what is your secret? I am sure your dowdy American cousins would like to know how you manage to stay atop the fashions of the ton."
"Stop this, I tell you!" she cried, pinkening all the way down to her breasts. "Perhaps I've not the most fashionable gowns, but at least I'm not a heathen American!" She grabbed the wool from his grasp and fought the urge once again to slap his arrogant face.
"Heathen!" he exclaimed incredulously. "You may call them that only if that's your name for beauty and heart! American women are not like these pale, insipid, whimpering little wallflowers you English call the fair sex. Why, I've seen better flesh on my Arabian mare!"
"Pale and insipid?" she whispered, too incensed to shout. She looked at him and speechlessly tried to fight back with an expression of complete disdain. But once again he let out an inappropriate laugh.
"You, my little wildflower, I have forgotten. You are the exception. You put on airs as if you were a queen. But alas, what a wretched state your kingdom is in!" He ran a strong, work-worn hand over her knotted and tangled hair and gently touched her cheek where the dirt from her bed had smudged it. She pulled back from his touch; this seemed to make him grow thoughtful. "Ready yourself now. I'll have the maid draw you a bath and bring a tray to your room—your room back in the house."
"I'll not be going back to the house. I am leaving. As I said last night, you'll not be keeping me here." She looked at him defiantly. She knew she was small—especially in his presence —but she was determined that her stature would not make her remain a prisoner.
"And where are your funds—your means to get away?"
"I have the means. Not much, but enough to get me where I am going." She thought of her mother's comb and the pain of having to pan with it. It would be difficult to sell it, but not as difficult as remaining at Osterley with this Colonial brute and her father's imminent arrival hanging over her head. She gave a small sigh and stated, "Now, if you will leave me so that I can complete my toilet—"
"Would this be pan of your plans?" Avenel reached into his waistcoat pocket and held out a brilliant gold comb set with eight large square-cut amethysts, sprinkled with at least a score of tiny pinpoint diamonds. She could not stifle her gasp. Unmindful of her state of undress, she ran to her bag and shuffled through it, desperately searching for her mother's piece. When she could not find it, she searched for her miniature. She whispered a quiet prayer when she spied it among the folds of her handkerchief.
"Give that back! You have stolen it from me!" she cried in abject frustration.
"Stolen it? Why, one of my men found it on the other side of Osterley's gates, apparently lost by some thoughtless maiden. You don't mean to say that this lovely piece belongs to you?" he taunted.
"You know it does! Please give it back to me. It's all I have in this world."
"All the more reason to keep it then, my lady . 'Tis a valuable piece. More precious than you could know," he said enigmatically.
"You must give it back. It's mine!" She tried to keep despair out of her voice, but it was too difficult. He knew as well as she did that without her comb she would have no means to leave at all.
"Prove it."
When his command met a mute response, he looked her over; his mercurial meanness returned. She once again tried to pull her dress together with shaky fingers, but somehow she felt his eyes would have seen more than she wanted them to even if she had been properly laced.
"It's mine!" she gasped as she watched him leave.
Before he departed, he
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