by Jane Feather
“No … no, I don’t think so, thank you, sir,” she stammered.
Sebastian blinked at the well-modulated tones of a young woman of breeding. He had assumed the buck’s victim had been a servant girl running an errand or even a denizen of a Covent Garden nunnery, but now, as he took in the girl’s clothes, the freshness of her complexion, the elegance of her speech, he realized he had been mistaken. Her assailant, still bent double against the wall, coughing and choking as he struggled to get breath back into his lungs after the powerful blow to the pit of his belly, had obviously assumed that a lone young woman, hatless and seemingly fancy-free, was fair game.
“Come.” Sebastian took the girl’s arm and led her out of the fetid court and back into the sunlit street, where the air immediately smelled fresher, and Abigail’s breathing slowed, the panic fading.
“Where is your maid … your governess … whoever’s with you?” Sebastian asked, looking up and down the street.
Abigail shook her head reluctantly. She knew what this man would think of her the minute he realized she was alone. “I … I came out alone,” she confessed, hanging her head. “I only wanted to be free for a little while.”
Sebastian regarded her in silence for a moment. He understood the desire; it had often struck him that women, young women in particular, must find the restrictions on their movements unendurable at times. Even Serena, who had more freedom than most women, obeyed certain social conventions. Or had done, he amended. He didn’t know what she did now.
“Where do you live?” he asked finally.
“Bruton Street.”
He nodded. As he’d assumed, a most respectable address. “Your family will be beside themselves with worry.” He hadn’t really considered the comment in the nature of a reproof, but the girl’s china-blue eyes welled with tears, and her lip trembled. She was little more than a child, he realized, and presumably had acted as impetuously as any child.
“I don’t mean to scold,” he said hastily. “’Tis hardly my place to do so, but I will escort you home now.” He offered her his arm with a small bow that went a long way towards restoring Abigail’s dignity. “Sebastian Sullivan at your service, ma’am.”
Abigail managed a small curtsy. “Abigail Sutton, sir. And I am most truly grateful for your assistance.”
He laughed, but not in mockery. “’Tis a pleasure, Miss Sutton.”
On the short walk to Bruton Street, Sebastian learned a great deal about Abigail Sutton. She had recovered her equanimity with remarkable speed and chattered as if to an old and valued friend. “I did not care for Paris particularly,” she confided, “but Mama thought it necessary I should acquire some experience of the Continent and to practice my French. I’m afraid I wasn’t very good at foreign languages at school. My French is barely passable, but I do speak a little Italian, and my drawing is quite good, or so Miss Trenton told me at school. She said I had quite a talent. I play the pianoforte a little, and I sing, so I have all the accomplishments, although I am not at all proficient with the harp.”
“I cannot imagine why one would wish to become proficient with the harp. It seems to be an instrument purely the province of elderly ladies with very severe coiffures,” Sebastian said solemnly, eliciting a delighted chuckle from his companion.
They arrived at the house on Bruton Street, and Sebastian would have been prepared to leave his charge once he had seen her admitted, but the door flew open before he could even raise the knocker, and a distraught lady of ample girth seemed to explode onto the top step.
“Abigail … child … where have you been? Your father is beside himself with worry. I have been tearing my hair out.”
Hands waved in the general direction of her powdered coiffure illustrated the truth of this. Wisps escaped from the tight confines of hidden pins, and straggling locks tumbled around her face. Scarlet rouge stood out dramatically against the white of her powdered cheeks.
“What on earth can you have been thinking of?” she continued, her voice rising. “And who is this? A man … you have been alone with a strange man in the public street. What kind of man would take advantage of a young girl … oh, your father will have to call him out, and I daresay—”
“Just a minute, ma’am.” Sebastian’s crisp tones cut through Mrs. Sutton’s rising hysteria. “That seems an unnecessarily vigorous response to what was intended only as a courtesy with the best of motives. I merely escorted Miss Sutton home after she ran into some unpleasantness in Piccadilly.” He bowed, hat in hand. “The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan at your service, ma’am.”
Marianne had been dumbstruck during this masterly speech and looked at her daughter’s escort properly for the first time. Everything about him spoke of refinement and breeding. “Oh, my goodness, sir, I didn’t mean to imply … you have done my daughter a great service, I’m sure. Will you come in? I know my husband would wish to thank you in person.”
Abigail was sinking with embarrassment as she saw her mother through Sebastian’s eyes. Her mother’s less refined vowels had escaped in the passion of the moment, and with her hair adrift and her gown in disarray, she looked a fright. But Sebastian was smiling at Mrs. Sutton, bowing over her hand, as if he didn’t notice any of these giveaway indications of the lady’s less than genteel origins.
“I should be honored, ma’am. But believe me, it was a mere bagatelle, and I enjoyed Miss Sutton’s company.” He turned to Abigail, indicating the open front door. “Miss Sutton, allow me to complete my self-appointed task and see you safely within doors.”
Abigail blushed and hurried into the house ahead of him. As she had feared her father emerged instantly from the dining salon, a napkin tucked into his collar. His face was flushed. “Eh, what’s this, Abigail? Where’ve you been? Mama’s near hysterical with worry.” His eye fell on Sebastian, and his flush deepened. “And who might you be, sir? What business d’ye have with my daughter?”
Sebastian, reflecting that it was enough to stop anyone doing a good turn, bowed once again and introduced himself. “The Honorable Sebastian Sullivan, at your service, sir. I escorted your daughter home.”
“Eh?” William frowned at the young man. “Home from where?”
“Oh, Papa, indeed, you mustn’t,” Abigail exclaimed, mortified at this catechism. “Mr. Sullivan rescued me from a most horrid man, and I am so grateful to him. You mustn’t speak to him like that.”
William cast a glance at his wife, who said, “Indeed, William, we must be most grateful to the gentleman. He has done Abigail a great service.”
William snorted. “It wouldn’t have been necessary if she hadn’t been out where she’s not supposed to be in the first place. But I suppose I must thank you … Sullivan, did you say?” He extended a hand.
“Yes, sir.” Sebastian took the hand and responded to the firm warmth of the handshake in like manner. “And believe me, I did nothing.”
“Well, you can say that if you please, but I’ll not believe it. Come in and have a bite of nuncheon with us. ’Tis well past noon. You’ll be glad of a bite and a draught of ale, I’ll be bound.” He swept Sebastian ahead of him into the dining parlor, leaving Abigail with her mother.
“Come upstairs at once, child. I wish to hear everything that happened.” Marianne had recovered her composure and was already beginning to think that Abigail’s unwise adventure could be turned to advantage. “What a personable young man he is.” She shooed her daughter ahead of her upstairs. “You must tidy yourself and change your gown, and then you must thank Mr. Sullivan prettily for his kindness.”
Abigail did not interrupt as her mother fussed, summoning her maid to help Abigail change her gown and rearrange her hair.
“So what happened, Abigail?” Marianne demanded as she adjusted a fichu in the neck of her daughter’s sprigged muslin gown.
“A man accosted me. ’Twas nothing, really, Mama, but I was a little frightened, and Mr. Sullivan offered to escort me home.” She concealed the true horror of the attack, reasoning
that it would do her mother no good to hear it, and she certainly had no wish to relive it by describing it.
“To be sure, I cannot imagine what he must have thought … a young girl walking alone in Piccadilly,” her mother scolded. “He must think you a veritable hoyden. You will never catch a suitable husband if you behave in such fashion. You may count yourself fortunate if Mr. Sullivan keeps a still tongue in his head. It will be the finish of all your prospects if the gossip mongerers hear of it. All my efforts wasted, all your father’s money wasted.” She sighed heavily, and Abigail bit her lip, knowing that her mother would go on like this for several days at least … until something else distracted her.
Marianne surveyed her daughter’s appearance with a slight frown. The pale green sprigged muslin was made even more demure with the addition of the fichu, and the modest hoop was exactly right for a young girl just out of the schoolroom. Her fair curls were confined simply with pink ribbon, and the pink satin slippers accentuated the smallness of her feet. She looked as dainty as a Dresden doll and every bit as innocent.
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—
