A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)(74)
Author: Tessa Dare

One hoary eyebrow arched. “Only dancing?”

“You’re right. It’s not only dancing, it’s more than that. You see, Bram and I have grown very close these past weeks, and . . .” She cast a fleeting glance at Bram. “And I love him.” It made her so happy, just to say it. She never wanted to stop. “I love him, Papa. I do.”

Her father looked at the floor and released a long, measured breath. She stared at him, oddly amazed. How could anyone breathe at a time like this?

Then he raised his head . . . and her heart fell.

She’d just told her father she was in love. For the first time in her life, in love. And he refused to even look her direction. From the distant expression on his face, she could tell Papa was going to receive this news in the same spirit he received all her other secrets and confessed emotions.

He was going to ignore it. As if he’d never even heard.

Oh Lord.

Had it been this way, all those other times? When she’d believed herself to be confiding to a distracted genius, had she truly been pouring out her heart to someone who just didn’t care? The idea was nauseating. Unthinkable. Of course Papa cared for her. He’d saved her life. He’d given up so much to live here at Summerfield.

Bram cleared his throat. “Sir Lewis, we obviously need to talk.”

“Oh yes. Indeed we do.” Her father calmly reached into his breast pocket and withdrew an envelope. “I was going to wait until after the field review tomorrow. But I think now is the ideal time.”

Bram released Susanna’s hand and accepted the folded paper. He opened the envelope and scanned its contents. “Bloody hell. Are these what I think they are?”

“Written orders,” her father said. “Yes. I made inquiries with my friends in the War Office. More like strong suggestions. There’s a navy vessel leaving from Portsmouth this coming Tuesday.”

Susanna gasped. “Tuesday?”

Her father’s demeanor was cool. “You’ll be on it, Rycliff. And back with your regiment in a matter of weeks.”

“That’s . . .” Bram swallowed hard as he stared at the paper. “Sir Lewis, I don’t even know what to say.”

Say no, she wanted to scream. Say you can’t possibly leave so soon. Say you’re marrying me.

“No need for thanks.” With his palm, Papa smoothed his wispy silver hair. “I view it as an even exchange. If not for your militia review, I’d never have this chance to demonstrate the new cannon.”

“The new cannon?” Susanna turned to Bram, mortified. He’d given her his word he wouldn’t involve Papa in the militia. Surely he wouldn’t have lied to her.

“Yes, Susanna,” her father said. “The new cannon. It will be unveiled tomorrow, as part of the militia review.” He looked to Bram. “I do hope you’ve managed to whip those farmhands into shape? I’m counting on an impressive display, in exchange for the favors I pulled.” He tapped the letter in Bram’s hand.

“But—” Susanna shook her head. From across the room, Kate’s plinking arpeggios hammered away at the last bits of her composure. “Bram, please tell me I’m misunderstanding this somehow. Tell me you haven’t gone back on your word to me, in some underhanded ploy to regain your command.”

He lowered his voice. “It’s not like that. I can explain.”

“Tell me I can trust you,” she rushed on, emotion tweaking her voice. “Tell me you haven’t been lying to me this whole time. Tell me I haven’t made the most wretched, foolish mistake of my life, or . . . or I don’t know how—” Her voice broke.

“Susanna,” her father said sharply. “Stop embarrassing yourself. You know you’re given to overwrought emotion. Whatever silly infatuation you’ve developed, it will pass. Tomorrow isn’t about your girlish fancies, it’s about legacies—both Bramwell’s and mine. Perhaps we’ve humored you to a point, my dear. But there comes a time when men must be men. You can’t keep holding us back.”

Twenty-four

Cursed cannon.

Colin wrestled with the ropes as he hauled the cannon into the wagon. For a scale model prototype, the thing was damned heavy. The barrel was thick as his thigh, fashioned of solid brass.

He straightened. “You. Don’t touch those.” From his perch on the wagon bed, Colin waved the Bright twins away from a pyramid of straw-packed crates. “Leave those be.”

“What’s in them?” one of the boys asked.

“Fireworks for tomorrow night. Don’t touch them. Don’t even breathe on them. Took more than a week for those to arrive from Town.”

“Can’t we help you with them?”

“No,” he said, gritting his teeth. Those fireworks were meant to be his surprise, his own unique stamp on the day’s festivities. Colin was going to produce the display himself, and he was going to do it well—prove to Bram he could be good for something. There wasn’t much he could seem to get right in this life, but he did have a knack for artistic destruction. What better canvas than the clear night sky?

But first, to deal with Sir Lewis Finch’s masterpiece. The cursed cannon.

He grasped a rope in both hands and rocked back on his heels, tugging with all his might. Being responsible for artillery had seemed a plum assignment, until Colin had realized just how much heavy lifting was involved. All day, he’d been hustling to and fro—taking powder to the ladies, then rolled cartridges to the armory, smuggling fireworks to Summerfield, and now carting Sir Lewis’s prototype up to the castle. Loading the thing was taking longer than he’d planned. He was racing nightfall now.

“What’s this one?” one of the twins asked.

Out of the corner of his eye, Colin saw Finn brush the straw from a noisemaker. Before he could object, the boy gave the cord a tug. The firecracker exploded with a sharp pop and a dusting of smoke.

“Cor,” Rufus said, grinning. “Try another.”

“I told you two to leave off,” Colin bit out. He stood tall—just in time to watch Dinner scuttle off with a frightened bleat. The startled lamb squeezed under the fence that bordered Summerfield’s gardens. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve gone and frightened the damned sheep. You know how Rycliff dotes on the thing.”

“Shall we fetch him?” Finn asked.

“No, I’ll have to do it. He’ll be scared of you now.” Colin vaulted the side of the wagon. He clapped the fraying strands of hemp from his hands and wiped his perspiring brow with his sleeve.