A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(69)

His chin ducked in surprise. “You . . . like me.”

“Yes. I do. I’ve come to like you. A great deal, you see. And I respect your deep commitment to your work. Because I feel the same. I wouldn’t want you to destroy your career and reputation. And I hope you wouldn’t want to see mine destroyed. But that’s what could happen, for both of us, if you insist on talking to my father today.”

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—”