A Night to Surrender (Spindle Cove #1)

“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—”

Susanna raised an open palm. “You did tell me I could have my say.” Turning back to her father, she continued, “At the same time, Papa, the ladies at the Queen’s Ruby are growing concerned. The militia exercises have disrupted their schedule, and they’ve lost the highlight of their summer—planning the midsummer fair. Some are thinking of leaving Spindle Cove entirely, which could prove disastrous in its own, albeit different way.”

She drew a deep breath. “So Lord Rycliff and I have decided to join forces and work together, to protect what’s most dear to us both. The militia drills and preparations will become the joint project of all village residents. Men and ladies, together. There’s so much to be done, and Lord Rycliff has admitted he can’t do it without my help.” She gave Bram a cautious glance. “But together, we can plan a display to do you proud. What do you think, Papa?”

Her father sighed. “It all sounds eminently logical. And entirely unworthy of this urgent conference that disrupted my work.”

“There is something else,” Bram said. “A question that requires your answer.”

Susanna gulped. “Can we have a ball?”

“A ball?” Bram and her father echoed in unison.

“Yes, a ball.” She’d blurted out the idea without thinking, but upon reflection, Susanna saw that it was perfect. “That’s the proposal. We’d like to hold a ball here, at Summerfield. An officers’ ball, directly following the field review. I know you will have esteemed guests for the occasion, Papa. A ball is the perfect way to honor and entertain them. It will also serve as a reward for the militia volunteers, after all their hard work. And it will give the young ladies something to look forward to. A reason to stay. It’s perfect.”