A Wedding Wager (6 page)

She nodded finally. It was almost impossible to imagine this pretty child doing anything immodest or unacceptable. Even the aristocratic Mr. Sullivan would find her irresistible. “It’s very well,” she declared. “Now you must come downstairs and thank Mr. Sullivan properly.”

“Yes, Mama.” Abigail curtsied her acceptance and accompanied her mother back downstairs and into the dining parlor. She was rather afraid of what she would find there. Surely, someone as fine as the Honorable Sebastian would find her father impossibly rough and ready in his manners, and he probably would be itching to get away. But when the women entered the parlor, Sebastian was sitting at his ease at the table, his hand curled around a tankard of ale, listening with every
appearance of interest to his host’s retelling of a thrilling chase during a fox hunt across the Staffordshire countryside.

“Ah, here are the ladies,” William declared with obvious pleasure. “Come and join us, my dears. None the worse for your ordeal, I trust, child.”

“No, indeed not, Papa.” Abigail curtsied, turning her smiling countenance on Sebastian. “I have not yet thanked you properly, sir, for your kindness. I should never have gone out alone. I do hope you will forget the impropriety.”

Sebastian laughed and rose to his feet. “My dear Miss Sutton, I know of no impropriety. And if I did, I assure you, I am the soul of discretion.” He raised her hand to his lips as he spoke, and Abigail’s heart fluttered like a trapped canary.

The sound of the door knocker drew Marianne’s attention. “I wonder who could be calling.”

The butler’s voice could be heard in the hall and then his step across the parquet. The door opened. “Lady Serena Carmichael, madam.”

“Oh, my goodness. Show her into the drawing room at once, Morrison. How delightful.” Marianne looked distracted, wondering whether to abandon the honorable gentleman in her dining parlor and go to her new and long-awaited guest. She could send Abigail to Serena, but that would mean Abigail would have to abandon the Honorable Sebastian, and that was not something Marianne wanted to happen too soon.

“Lady Serena.” Abigail clapped her hands. “Oh, I must go to her at once. Excuse me, Mr. Sullivan … an old friend.”

Sebastian bowed. “Of course, Miss Sutton. I must make my farewells now, anyway. I have overstayed my welcome.” He wondered desperately if he could slip out of the house while Serena was being shown into the drawing room. The falseness of a social introduction in such a circumstance was unendurable. How could they bear to bow, to curtsy, to murmur politely? It didn’t bear thinking of. He’d already persuaded himself that as long as he didn’t frequent Pickering Place, there would be no need for social encounters. Serena would not be persona grata in the houses that Sebastian visited, for all her aristocratic lineage. Dealers of faro were not received in the best houses. And soon enough, Heyward and his stepdaughter would up sticks and head for pastures new. It was their habit, after all. The bitter reflection rose like acid in his throat.

“Thank you, Mr. Sutton, for the excellent ale. Mrs. Sutton …” He bowed, kissed the lady’s hand, and was out of the room before anyone could remonstrate.

Serena stood in the hall, reaching into her reticule for a visiting card. She glanced up as a door at the rear of the hall opened and Sebastian emerged. There was a moment that seemed to stretch to eternity when they simply looked at each other. And for a moment, a very brief moment, their eyes locked as they had done so often before, and she could see herself reflected in the penetrating
blue depths, as she knew he could see himself in her own violet pools. It was a game they had played, this losing themselves in each other’s souls. A dangerous game, and there was no place for it in this reality.

“Mr. Sullivan, what a surprise.” Her voice, light and easy, surprised herself. It gave away nothing of her inner turmoil. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Mr. and Mrs. Sutton.”

“No, how should you?” He spoke pleasantly as he bowed, his eyes now hooded, their expression hidden. “As it happens, we are but newly acquainted. But how delightful to run into you like this. I believe it’s been several years since our last meeting.”

And every minute of those three years a wretched wasteland,
Serena thought. She herself had felt every miserable minute of those years in her very skin, bone, and muscle. She couldn’t believe it didn’t show, drawn deep on her countenance. But Sebastian looked so nonchalant, so utterly unchanged, still the picture of gleaming, golden, masculine perfection. She wondered if she had imagined that visceral moment of connection. Perhaps it had been wishful thinking.

“Has it been that long, sir?” she murmured. “I can hardly believe it. How quickly time flies.” A cool smiled touched her lips but came nowhere near the violet eyes.

Lying jade,
Sebastian thought.
You know damn well how long it’s been.
But he merely smiled.

“Oh, my goodness. You know Mr. Sullivan, Lady Serena?” Abigail exclaimed. “Just fancy, Mama, Mr.
Sullivan and Lady Serena are acquainted. Isn’t that amazing?”

“Yes, my dear, so it is.” Mrs. Sutton silenced her daughter with a small gesture as she smiled warmly at Serena, offering a small bow of welcome. “My dear Lady Serena, how good of you to call. Do please come into the drawing room. Morrison, will you bring refreshment, please?”

“Thank you.” Serena turned to Sebastian. “Good day, Mr. Sullivan.” Her bow was as chilly as her smile. She turned to follow her hostess.

Abigail lingered for a moment, hesitating uncomfortably. It seemed wrong somehow to abandon her savior in the middle of the hall and chase after the newcomer as if she were glad to see the back of the former and overeager to welcome the latter.

Sebastian read her dilemma and, despite his grim thoughts, was a little amused. He spent very little time with ingénues. He had several young female cousins, but they had never held much interest for any of the Sullivan brothers. He remembered them as shy children in starched ruffles, always hiding their faces in their mothers’ skirts, and these days, they were all simpers and giggles, fussing over dresses and bonnets and potential husbands to the exclusion of all sensible conversation.

He smiled at Abigail, saying, “You must go to your guest, Miss Sutton. You have given me so much of your time already. I would be a bear to expect more of it.” He raised her hand to his lips as she curtsied, blushing,
murmuring denials. He made a swift departure and had walked halfway up the street before his step slowed.

Damn Serena.
He stopped. Had he imagined that moment when their eyes had met? Had she deliberately tried to engage him in their old game, when they would try to lose themselves in each other’s eyes?
But of course she hadn’t.
He was a fool to think it. Just as he was a fool to imagine it was possible to walk away and leave matters between them like this. Something had to be said. He didn’t know what, only that
something
had to clear the air between them. He had been haunted by the memory of their parting for too long.

Serena listened to Abigail’s excited chatter with half an ear.
What on earth brought Sebastian to this house?
He could not have met any of the Suttons in the ordinary course of events; they could have no acquaintances in common, except for herself, of course, but that was irrelevant. She was waiting for a suitable break in the chatter to inquire, but Abigail was in full flood about the miserable Channel crossing and the kindness of a young man, “a most respectable young man, Lady Serena, one of the Wedgwood family, would you believe? They live so close to us in the country, but we had never met before. He was kind enough to lend me his boat cloak, it was so cold on deck, but I couldn’t stay in the cabin, it made me so wretchedly ill. Were you ill on your crossing?”

“No, I’m never seasick,” Serena told her, her tone unintentionally dismissive. She saw Abigail’s face fall and was instantly remorseful. “I am fortunate, you know. Some people don’t suffer at all, but few people are so lucky.”

She was reminded suddenly of an afternoon on Loch Morar, near the Highland home where she had been born and spent her childhood until her father’s death. She and Sebastian were in a small boat in the middle of the loch when the wind rose abruptly, as it often did in those parts, and a black squall raced across the previously smooth green waters. Sebastian had sailed the lakes of Cumbria all his life and had seemed unperturbed by the violence of the brief storm. He had handled the little boat with a competence that awed her, instructing her where to move, what to do, in a voice as calm as the waters had been a few minutes earlier. But when he had managed to steer under minimal sail to the shores of one of the islands in the loch, he had knelt on the rocky strand and vomited, cursing vigorously throughout at the weakness of a stomach that could not withstand a boat’s violent pitching.

Serena had been drenched but laughing, full of exhilaration at the danger now past, and Sebastian’s sickness had astounded her. She liked to think she had hidden her surprise and her slight sense of superiority, but Sebastian had clearly resented her immunity, and it had taken until the evening for him to recover his equanimity.
In other circumstances, the memory would have made her smile … the memory of the night they had spent later could still fill her with—

Enough.
“But tell me how you came to know the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan, Abigail.” She turned the subject as she smiled her refusal of a glass of ratafia, repressing a shudder. The sticky sweetness of the drink would make her sick where the roughest seas could not. “No, thank you, ma’am.”

“Oh … well, it’s a little awkward.” Abigail glanced uncomfortably at her mother. Could Lady Serena be trusted with the truth of her indiscretion?

“Abigail’s maid disappeared for a moment when they were shopping this morning.” Mrs. Sutton stepped in smoothly with what would now be the accepted version. “They were shopping, and something in a window caught the eye of the wretched creature, and she disappeared, leaving my poor child alone. An unpleasant encounter with some gentleman ensued, and Mr. Sullivan was good enough to step in and protect Abigail. He brought her home safe and sound. We are most grateful to him. Aren’t we, my dear?” She smiled and tapped her daughter’s hand with her closed fan. “Such a silly child.”

Abigail bridled at this demeaning comment, but common sense told her to run with the fabrication. “I believe it was more Matty’s fault than mine, Mama.”

“Well, maybe so, but fortunately, no harm was done. May I offer you coffee, Lady Serena?”

“Thank you, but I mustn’t stay, ma’am.” Serena rose. “I have another engagement this afternoon. But I wished to call upon you as soon as we arrived in town to see how you’re going on. Such a pretty house … you’re most fortunate to have secured such a residence before the Season begins in good earnest. Abigail, perhaps you will ride with me one morning?”

“Oh, but I don’t have a pony in town.” Abigail looked at her mother.

“Mr. Sutton is still setting up his stable, Lady Serena,” Marianne said, directing her response at her visitor. “He will procure a lady’s riding horse for Abigail, you may be sure.”

“Then I look forward to many pleasant rides together.” Serena drew on her gloves.

“Perhaps General Heyward would offer Mr. Sutton his advice on setting up his stable,” Marianne suggested rather tentatively. “If he’s not too busy, of course. But Mr. Sutton is not familiar with Tattersalls, and I believe that’s where one goes for buying horses.”

“Indeed, it is, ma’am. I’ll mention it to my stepfather. I’m sure he’ll be happy to help.” She couldn’t manage to inject any enthusiasm into her voice.

“We should be most honored to receive a call from General Heyward.” Marianne reached for the bellpull.

Not if you know what’s good for you.
Serena wanted to shout it aloud, but foiling her stepfather required cunning, not brute force. She fixed a smile on her lips and held out her hand. “Abigail, I will leave my card with
your butler. Do call on me. We shall have a comfortable chat, and you shall tell me all about the young man on the boat.”

Abigail blushed, and Marianne said sharply, “Young Mr. Wedgwood is not in town. I’m sure he has returned to Stoke-on-Trent.”

Serena had heard rather a lot in Brussels about the glories of the pottery towns, Stoke-on-Trent in particular. Abigail had compared her hometown very favorably to the capitals of the Continent. She offered her anodyne smile and followed the butler, who had appeared in answer to the bell, out into the hall, where her maid sat patiently awaiting her pleasure on a bench by the door. The fresh, cool air on the street was a welcome relief from the stuffy heat of the drawing room, and she breathed deeply, hoping it would clear her head of the churning turmoil of her thoughts.