A Wedding Wager (12 page)

“No, this won’t do. Help me take this off, Bridget.” Serena regarded her image in the glass with a frown of distaste. She had liked the lavender silk sacque gown when she had first put it on, it still flowed in graceful folds around her tall, slender figure, but now the color didn’t seem right. It seemed to make her look sallow, and where it ordinarily accentuated the color of her eyes, it seemed this morning to make them appear dull.

Her maid helped her out of the gown, hanging it up again in the armoire. “Which will you wear, then, my lady?”

Serena leaned over Bridget’s shoulder to flick through the contents of the armoire. Even when the general had less than two pennies to rub together, Serena’s wardrobe was always at the forefront of fashion. It was considered a necessary business expense.

“The green and white muslin over the green satin petticoat,” she decided at last, casting a glance at the clock on the mantel. It was already eleven o’clock, and her rendezvous with Sebastian was at noon.

It was quite a simple gown as prevailing fashion went, the sleeves banded in dark green velvet at the elbow, delicate falls of lace ending just above her wrists. The pale muslin overskirt opened over a dramatic dark green silk underskirt. The décolletage was edged with a deep lace collar, and a dainty white fichu tied just above her breasts gave the impression of modesty.

She surveyed her reflection anew, eyes narrowed, head tilted slightly. It would have to do.

“Will you wear the dark green cloth mantle, my lady? It’s quite chilly out, and it would look very well with the gown,” Bridget suggested rather tentatively.

Serena turned and smiled. “Oh, forgive me, Bridget. I’m being a miserable, irritable cat this morning. I didn’t sleep well. Yes, the green mantle will be perfect.” She hadn’t slept well, but then, she often didn’t these days. It had nothing to do with the upcoming meeting with Sebastian, or so she told herself.

The maid draped the short, hooded cloak over her shoulders, fastened the jet button at the throat, and handed Serena her dark green kidskin gloves, a perfect match for her heeled shoes. “You look beautiful, Lady Serena.” Her eyes widened with admiration.

“And you’re very sweet to say so.” Serena gave the young girl a kiss. “If General Heyward asks for me, tell him I will be back later this afternoon.”

“Should I tell him where you’re going, ma’am?”

“How could you, my dear? You don’t know,” Serena said with a smile. “Would you have a bath prepared for
me this evening, before dinner? And I will wear the ivory silk.”

“Yes, my lady.” Bridget curtsied as Serena hurried from the room.

She walked quickly to St. James’s Place, where Margaret’s footman opened the door at her knock. “Mrs. Standish told us to expect you, Lady Serena. Refreshments will be served to you and your guest when you wish for it.” He took Serena’s mantle and gloves as he spoke, then walked ahead of her upstairs to Margaret’s parlor.

The room was immediately welcoming. A fire burned in the grate; decanters of sherry, madeira, and claret were arrayed on the sideboard; fresh flowers bloomed on windowsills and side tables; fresh candles only awaited flint and tinder.

Serena looked around appreciatively but couldn’t help the wry thought that it was a veritable love nest, exactly as Margaret intended it to be. In Margaret’s eyes, a rendezvous was a rendezvous, after all, and anything could happen. But then, she didn’t know the history behind this meeting.

Serena wondered for a moment if Sebastian would get the wrong idea but quickly dismissed the thought. He was still far too hurt and angry for that. Her cruel-to-be-kind strategy had certainly worked, she reflected, thinking of the coldness in his voice, the flicker of contempt in his eye. He had requested this meeting to clear the ground sufficiently for them to meet with a convincing
semblance of civility in public if and when it happened. And she was perfectly happy with that.

“Should I bring up your guest as soon as he arrives, Lady Serena, or announce him first?” Margaret Standish’s butler knew his job well.

“You may bring up the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan as soon as he arrives, Horace. Thank you.”

She went to the window as the door closed on the man and looked down at the street. From here, she would see Sebastian as he turned the corner of the square. She felt unaccountably nervous and found herself twitching at the curtains, moving around the room, straightening perfectly aligned cushions, adjusting the arrangements of the flowers in the vases. It was close to noon, ten more minutes. Sebastian would be punctual. He was nothing if not courteous.

Precisely at two minutes to noon, Sebastian rounded the corner exactly as she’d predicted. He was on horseback, in buckskin breeches and a dark wool coat, a brilliant scarlet plume in his silver-laced bicorne hat. Her heart turned over. How many times in the old days had he come to her like this, while she waited in the little room above the taproom of the inn on King Street, all impatient anticipation for his arrival? For a moment, as she watched him dismount beneath the window, she could almost imagine she was back in that halcyon past … that in a moment, she would hear his feet on the stairs, racing to be with her. He would fling open the door as he had so often done and be beside her with two
long, quick strides, catching her up into his arms, his mouth on hers in a long kiss that would seem to draw her very soul from her body.

She lost sight of him as he stepped to the front door, but she heard his firm, decisive knock. She seemed to be having trouble breathing, and her face felt flushed as she waited for his step in the corridor outside. She heard his voice, so achingly familiar, speaking to the butler, and then the door opened. “Mr. Sullivan, my lady.” Horace stepped back as Sebastian entered the parlor. The door closed, and they were alone.

Sebastian stood with the door at his back. He tucked his whip under his arm while he drew off his gloves. “So, Serena” was all he said as he looked at her, a strange light in his blue eyes.

“So, Sebastian,” she responded, trying for a light tone but failing miserably. Just speaking his name seemed weighted with significance, with so many memories now flooding back in a tidal wave of emotion and loss.

She turned away hastily, afraid that he would see the sheen of incipient tears.

“Thank you for coming.” It sounded absurdly stiff, laughably incongruous in the circumstances.

“Not at all,” he responded politely, tossing whip, hat, and gloves onto a console table.

He was waiting for her to make the first move, Serena realized, which was unfair, considering that he had insisted on this meeting. Annoyance banished tears, and
she said rather sharply, “So, what did you wish to talk about?”

He laughed, a short crack of mirthless amusement. “Don’t be ridiculous, Serena.”

She spun around, her eyes now snapping with anger. “You call
me
ridiculous? You’re the one who insisted on this ground-clearing meeting. So let’s get on with it. Start clearing the ground, Sebastian.”

He sighed and glanced around the cozy room. “This is a pleasant house,” he observed. “Whom does it belong to?”

She should have remembered Sebastian’s adroit way of changing the subject to small talk when tempers were inclined to get heated, Serena reflected. She responded in like manner. “An old friend. She happens to be out of town for the day.”

“I see. ’Tis certainly a discreet rendezvous.” His eye fell on the decanters on the sideboard. He suggested gently, “A glass of wine would not come amiss?”

Serena fought the well-remembered urge to throw something at him. Now he was trying to put her out of countenance by pointing out her lack of courteous hospitality. It was another of his infuriating habits that she remembered all too well. Of course, in the old days, it tended to make her laugh. But that was then. She produced a calm smile and gestured to the sideboard. “Please. Help yourself.”

He turned to do so, saying over his shoulder, “Will
you drink sherry, as usual … or have your tastes changed?”

For a moment, she wished she could say that they had, but it would be a childish act that would hurt no one but herself. “Thank you.”

Sebastian poured wine and brought the glasses across the room. He handed her one and raised his own in a mock toast. “To clear ground, then.”

She shook her head and took a sip, before saying, “So, how are things with you, Sebastian?” She didn’t tell him how she had scoured the English papers whenever she could lay hands on them, dreading to see a notice of his engagement or even marriage.

“Well enough. And you, Serena? How is it with you?”

She wanted to give him a bold answer, tell him that everything was wonderful, but the words would not form themselves. Instead, she shrugged with an assumption of carelessness, saying only, “Business is good. The general is pleased enough.”

He regarded her over the lip of his glass in silence for a moment. He didn’t believe her. Something of the essential Serena was missing, the sensual energy, the spirit, the liveliness that he had loved so much. It was as if a flame had been extinguished. But then, he reflected, that flame had been extinguished three years ago when she had denied any feelings for him.

“And
you
?” he pressed. “How is it with you? I care nothing for the gambling hell you run.”

How should you?
she thought bitterly.
What could you
possibly know of my life?
“My well-being and the success of the business are inextricable,” she told him with a chilly smile, setting down her glass.

He was silent again, before saying quietly, “Why did you betray me, Serena? Did you fall out of love with me overnight? Because it’s no good telling me that you were never in love with me. We were both deeply in love with each other, and nothing you can say will ever convince me otherwise.”

She shook her head. “We felt something for each other, Sebastian, I won’t deny that. But it was a youthful frolic, a summer temptation. It couldn’t last … of course, it couldn’t. You were not being realistic if you thought it might become something lasting, established in some way. I’m one of faro’s daughters, and you’re a younger son of a noble and proud family with no prospects. What would we live on, air?”

Scorn laced her voice, and Sebastian’s face became very pale, a telltale muscle twitching in his cheek. “We could have managed,” he stated. “If you’d had the courage to tell the truth and face the truth, we could have managed. You were a coward, Serena.” He drained his glass and set it aside. “That is all I have to say.”

He picked up his hat, whip, and gloves, turning to the door.

The monstrous injustice of the accusation overwhelmed her. She struggled with herself for a moment before saying with credible mockery, “And that’s cleared the air, I suppose. We can now exchange civilized bows
should we happen to have the misfortune to bump into each other again.”

Sebastian spun around sharply, lips thinned. He stood tapping his gloves against his palm, his nostrils flaring as he fought to control the surge of fury at her insulting, dismissive tone of voice. It was just as she had spoken to him that afternoon three years ago, and whereas then it had devastated him, seemed to cut him off at the knees, now it just made him angrier than he could ever remember being.

She had turned away from him and stood at the window, her back rigid, shoulders set, staring out at the houses opposite.

There was something about the way she was standing that penetrated his anger. She seemed suddenly so vulnerable, the slender white column of her long neck looking too fragile to bear the weight of her head. For a moment, he had to fight the urge to go to her, to press his lips to the hollow of her neck. It had always been one of his favorite spots to kiss. The memory was so vivid he thought he could smell the fresh rosewater scent of her skin and hair.

He hesitated, then said more moderately, “I shouldn’t have called you a coward. I beg your pardon. You had your reasons, I’m sure. And if I mistook a fleeting attraction for a deeper love, then that was my error.” He gave a short laugh. “I was something of a moon calf, after all.”

His voice was low and strong, and Serena slowly turned back from the window. His mouth was set in a
decisive line, his blue eyes clear and unflinching, fixed upon her countenance. And she realized with a start that the tender, loving, carefree young man of that wonderful, long, passionate idyll had matured, grown into this broad-shouldered man radiating strength, confidence, determination. His features were somehow more defined, and his eyes, luminous as always, held a gravity that had not been there before. Distractedly, she found herself wondering if they would still light up with laughter as they once had done so readily. It would be a pity if experience had vanquished that capacity for merriment.

But at the moment, despite his apparently conciliatory words, their chief expression was one of controlled anger, and she knew he was entitled to it. She had been trying to provoke anger rather than sentiment and had certainly succeeded.

“Think nothing of it,” she said with a light shrug. “Can we call a truce?”

“A truce,” he agreed, extending his hand.

She stepped forward and placed her own hand in his. His fingers closed tightly over hers, and for a moment, their eyes met, and once again, they both had the sensation of losing themselves in each other. Sebastian dropped her hand quickly, averted his eyes for a moment, breaking the connection.

“Goodbye, Serena.” He walked quickly to the door.

“Goodbye, Sebastian. Horace will show you out.”

“Thank you.” And he was gone.

She listened to his retreating step on the stairs, his
voice exchanging pleasantries with Horace, the snap of the front door as it closed behind him. She went to the window, standing slightly to one side, shielded from the street by the velvet curtain as she looked down to watch him untether his horse and mount. For an instant, he glanced up at the window, and she stepped back swiftly, even though she knew he couldn’t see her. Then he turned his mount’s head in the direction of St. James’s Street.