by Jane Feather
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.
Suddenly exhausted, drained as if she had run a marathon, Serena sank down into the low armchair beside the fire and rested her head against its cushioned back, closing her eyes. The first time she had seen Sebastian Sullivan had been at a small party given by one of the regular patrons of General Heyward’s gambling house on Charles Street. The young host had professed undying love for Lady Serena Carmichael and followed her around like a lost puppy. Left to herself, she would have let him down gently and moved on, but her stepfather had decreed that she keep the young man on a leading rein. He stood to inherit a large fortune and was kept in ample funds, and it suited the general to see most of those funds absorbed by the Charles Street faro bank.
Serena had obeyed, as she usually did. Young Lord Fairfax would not be hurt overmuch, certainly not enough for her to risk her stepfather’s wrath. And then into that intimate gathering had walked the Honorable Sebastian Sullivan. A golden-haired Adonis, with the most startling blue eyes and a smile that filled her with sunshine. He had seemed only to glance once at her before moving into the room, losing himself among his friends, but it hadn’t been many minutes before he’d materialized at her side, handing her a glass of champagne with the careless comment, “I have a feeling this will be welcome.” She had laughed, asked how he could tell, and he’d responded, “Oh, I have a feeling that I’m always going to know exactly what you would like and when you would like it.”
The audacity of it had taken her breath away, and even now, bruised though she was, Serena smiled, remembering the overpowering thrill those words had given her. And Sebastian had fulfilled that promise in every detail.
Until … until she’d done what had to be done. And now he couldn’t forgive her. How could he? She couldn’t forgive herself.
Chapter Six
The young man who stood outside the house on Bruton Street self-consciously adjusting his cravat was clearly nervous. He was dressed with impeccable taste in coat and breeches of dark brown silk with a waistcoat of old gold striped with green. His black leather shoes were highly polished, their red heels showing not a hint of scuff, his silver-knobbed cane carried at exactly the right angle, his black tricorne hat nicely edged with gold. Twice he stepped up to the door to lift the brass knocker, and twice he stepped back. After a moment, he turned and walked away to the corner of the street, where again he stopped, looked back, seemed to make up his mind, and turned to walk back to the house.
Abigail had been watching the pantomime from the parlor window. “Oh, Mama, only see, Mr. Wedgwood’s coming back again. D’you think he’s afraid he has the address wrong?”
“I’m sure I don’t know, Abigail. Now, come away from the window. It’s not in the least ladylike to be hanging out into the street like that. Whatever will the neighbors think?” Marianne was not looking best pleased as she plied her needle to her tambour frame.
“I don’t believe the neighbors so much as glance from their windows, Mama.” Abigail withdrew her head with a little pout. “No one is the least curious here, haven’t you noticed? At home, everyone knows what’s happening on the street. Who’s visiting whom … who’s not talking to whom. It’s so much friendlier.”
“That kind of nosiness is not appropriate in good society,” her mother informed her with a sniff. “Now, pick up your work. If we’re to have a visitor, he can’t find you with idle hands.”
Abigail picked up her embroidery, her ears pricked for the sound of the door knocker. She jumped when she heard it, and a slight flush enlivened the perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Resolutely, she kept her eyes on her work, not looking up when the butler appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Jonas Wedgwood, ma’am, wishes to know if you are at home.”
Marianne glanced up. It was a nuisance that Abigail had come to the attention of the young man. For all his family’s prominence in their local Society, he was not the husband Marianne had in mind for her daughter. But good manners forbade her denying hospitality to the son of such a family, whose social consequence in Stoke-on-Trent was of the highest. “I believe we are, Morrison. Desire Mr. Wedgwood to step up, please.”
Morrison bowed and retreated, and a few minutes later, the young man appeared in the doorway, sweeping off his hat in a deep bow. “Mrs. Sutton, ma’am … Miss Sutton … how good of you to receive me. I had hoped to leave my card … had not dared to hope to find you at home.” His eyes darted to Abigail, who remained head down at her embroidery.
Marianne set aside her tambour frame and smiled graciously. “Do sit down, Mr. Wedgwood. We had not expected a call from you so early. I had thought you to be on some business for your uncle.”
“I am, ma’am, but it does not occupy all my time, and my uncle has encouraged me to take some time to become familiar with London.” He glanced at Abigail, who finally raised her head and bestowed a shy smile on the visitor. “I was hoping you and Miss Ab … Miss Sutton would accept an invitation to the theatre one evening, followed by supper. I have a box at the Drury Lane Theatre. They are playing The Tempest, I believe, and if you would not think it an impertinence, ma’am, I would be most honored …” The speech faded. He twisted his hat between his hands, and his cane fell to the floor with a clatter. Blushing, he bent to pick it up.
Abigail clapped her hands. “Oh, Mama, that would be wonderful … to visit the theatre … oh, how I have longed to go. Who is playing Miranda, Mr. Wedgwood? Do you know?”
His blush deepened as he straightened, his cane firmly held across his lap. “I’m afraid not, Miss Sutton. I … I fear I neglected to discover that.” In truth, he had no idea what the play was about, only that it was respectably classical. He looked appealingly at Marianne, who was frowning at her tambour frame.
Mrs. Sutton looked up with a chilly smile. “I will have to consult Mr. Sutton. He may not consider the theatre a suitable place for a young girl, Mr. Wedgwood. Abigail has a reputation to consider.”
Crestfallen, the young man stammered that he hoped he had not offended with his invitation. He had merely wished to give Miss Sutton pleasure … and her mother, of course. Marianne responded with another chilly nod, and silence fell.
“I do so hope Papa will let us come, Mr. Wedgwood,” Abigail said after a moment’s awkwardness. “I would dearly love to go, and you must not think for an instant that such an invitation could offend … oh, no, quite the opposite.” She cast a defiant glance at her mother. “In fact, I will ask him at once.” She darted to the bell and, before Marianne could expostulate, had given it a vigorous tug. Morrison appeared immediately.
“Please ask Papa if he would come up to us and decide something, Morrison.” Abigail spoke in a rush, trying to forestall her mother. “It’s a matter of the utmost importance, tell him.”
Marianne would not countermand her daughter’s instructions in front of a servant. She set her lips tightly and returned to her embroidery as the butler left.
Mr. Sutton bustled into the parlor in a very few minutes. “Now, what is all this about, my sweet? What do you want from your old papa now? Oh, it’s Jonas Wedgwood, isn’t it? Welcome, young man … welcome, indeed.” He pumped Jonas’s hand heartily. “So how has your business fared … tell me all. I’m fair starved of good business talk these days.” He looked as if he was about to bear the young man away, down to the library, there to discuss the pennies and guineas that so interested him.
�
�No, Papa,” Abigail stated, jumping to her feet. “You cannot take Mr. Wedgwood away until you have ruled on his invitation. He has invited Mama and me to the theatre one evening. It would be the best thing of anything, and I so long to go, but Mama says you must give your permission.”
“Oh, does she, indeed?” William looked at his wife and had no difficulty understanding the situation. Marianne expected him to veto the outing, although he could not for the life of him see why. In general, he followed his wife’s wishes when it came to their daughter, telling himself that women understood these things better than men, but this morning, a little devil stirred. Abigail was looking with those great, pleading eyes fixed upon him, her soft little hand was on his arm, and he liked young Jonas Wedgwood, had known his uncle for years.
“I see no harm in it,” he pronounced. “It will be good for you, puss, to see a little town life, have a little excitement, don’t you agree, my love?” He offered his wife a cajoling smile, which she did not return.
“If you approve, sir, then that is all there is to say on the matter,” she declared, setting her needle with a vigorous jab that caused her husband a stab of vicarious pain.
“Well, now that’s settled, I must take Jonas here down to the library for a tankard of ale and a good talk about the markets. Come … come, my friend. Say farewell to the ladies. You’ll be seeing enough of them, I don’t doubt.” He tucked a hand under the younger man’s arm and bore him off after Jonas had managed a hasty bow to the ladies.
