Sweet Surrender by Cheryl Holt

terrified her conscience might propel her to accept the tedious post at the school.  But before she succumbed to reality, she’d furiously work to secure a different conclusion. 
    If no grand passion could be found, and she was forced into the safe, responsible choice, she wouldn’t return to the school without first having a wild and inappropriate adventure.
    Could Duncan Dane be the answer to her prayers?
    "Are you drinking brandy?" she asked.
    "Whiskey."
    "May I have a sip?"
    He scowled.  "Of my whiskey?" 
    "Yes.  May I?  I never have."
    She reached for his glass, and she’d shocked him.  He studied her dangling hand, then her again.  Finally, he gave it to her.
    She tipped it up, eager to down a hefty gulp, and he grabbed her wrist.
    "Don’t overdo," he warned.  "It’s quite potent."
    He guided the rim to her lips, holding it while she managed a small swallow.  She gazed at him, refusing to look away, making sure he didn’t, either.
    "Now that you’ve tried it," he said as she drew away, "what is your opinion?"
    She wrinkled her nose.  "It’s not how I’d imagined it would be."
    "What had you imagined ?"
    "Well, when people imbibe, they grow very animated and merry.  I assumed it would taste like fun."
    "But it doesn’t."
    "No—unfortunately."
    "Have you often pondered liquor?"
    "Liquor and many other vices I haven’t had the chance to experience."
    He took the glass from her and downed the contents.  Then he tossed it over the balustrade, and it landed out in the grass with a dull thud.
    There was a steely gleam in his eye, and he scrutinized her in a cruel way.
    "You want something from me," he snapped.  "What is it?"
    "Why would you suspect that I want something?"
    "Let’s just say I’ve rowed this boat a few more times than you."  He shifted away.  "You’re being awfully forward, which annoys me when I don’t know what game you’re playing."
    "I’m not playing a game," she huffed.
    "Then what are you doing?"
    "My sister and I will be staying at Milton Abbey for several weeks."
    "So I heard."
    "Will you be staying, too?"
    He shrugged.  "Probably."
    "You seem like such a worldly fellow.  It must be boring for you out here in the country."
    "It can be."
    "You must miss the entertainment in town."
    He snorted at that.  "Not particularly."
    "I thought we could be…friends."
    "I never strike up friendships with girls.  My preferences run to females who are a tad more sophisticated than you."
    "I’m a quick learner," she hastily said.  "If I had a good teacher who could impart of bit of knowledge, I’m certain I could be very…interesting to the right sort of person."
    "You do, do you?"
    "Yes."
    "And you believe I could be that person?"
    "There aren’t any other choices.  I’m willing to settle for whatever I can get."
    He chuckled.  "I can’t decide if I’ve been flattered or insulted."
    He leaned into her, his body pressing her into the wood of the bench. 
    His torrid gaze dropped to her mouth, and she was positive he was about to kiss her.  She’d never been kissed—not in her entire eighteen years—and her heart raced with anticipation.
    Yet to her profound dismay, he didn’t proceed. 
    "We’ll see, little girl," he hurled like a threat.  "We’ll see what happens."
    He stood and strolled away.
     
    DC
    "Honestly, Percival, stop it."
    "I wasn’t doing anything."
    "You’re tapping your foot.  The noise is bothering your grandmother."
    Beatrice Scott frowned at her daughter-in-law, then at her grandson. 
    They were in the parlor of her London house—Percival’s house, she supposed she should say—and trying to have their afternoon tea.  Susan kept interrupting by chastising Percival.
    Susan was a terrible mother and had no maternal instincts, but Beatrice could hardly complain.  She, herself, hadn’t had much patience with her own sons.
    Beatrice had been stern and unbending, while Susan had completely abdicated any responsibility for Percival’s