by Jane Feather
“What d’you mean, ’tis nothing?” he demanded, his face as pale as death. “How often has he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “This was the first time … oh, he hurt my mother, I know he did, but he’s never done more than threaten me before. He just lost his temper this time and forgot himself. If I had had my pistol with me, he would not have had the opportunity. I promise from now on, I will have it on my person at all times.”
Sebastian’s expression changed to one of stunned disbelief. “Your pistol?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “I acquired it from a good friend in Brussels who felt that I needed protection, living as we did.” She tried a reassuring smile. “There’s no need for concern, Sebastian, he taught me how to shoot, too. I know how to use it, and believe me, if I have to, I will.”
“I’m not interested in your pistol or your skill as a good shot,” he said, sounding harsher than he intended. “I will not permit you to stay under this roof another instant. Get up and put together the things you cannot leave behind. From now on, you are under my protection.”
Serena’s sudden pallor was a mirror image of his own. She swung off the bed, facing him. “Hear this, Sebastian. I have no need of your protection or that of anyone else. I can take care of myself. I will not move from one male roof to another at anyone’s bidding. Understand that.”
“Do you seriously think, Serena, that I am going to walk away leaving you to the abuse of that bastard? Now, do as I ask. Pack what you cannot leave behind.”
“No, Sebastian.” She shook her head. “I will not leave until I have ensured Abigail’s safety.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Leave the girl to her own future. If her parents are fool enough to hand her over to the general, then so be it. She and her future happiness are their responsibility, not yours. You have no right to meddle, Serena.”
“Meddle,” she exclaimed. “How dare you, Sebastian? And how could you consign that poor child to such a future? You’re as bad as my stepfather.” She swung away from him with a gesture of disgust.
“What did you say?” His voice was so soft she could barely hear it. “Serena, repeat what you said.”
And she realized how anger had led her to say something unjust, something that put her in the wrong, leaving her at a disadvantage when she knew how right she was. She had known Sebastian would react like this if he saw what Heyward had done, and she’d tried to keep him from seeing it. But she’d given in to a self-indulgent whim, and this was where it had landed her.
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I should not have said that. I beg your pardon. But you should not have accused me of meddling. I am not meddling, I am attempting to save some innocent from what happened to my mother, not to mention from the fate I’ve been dodging for myself for the last three years. Abigail does not have my strength. He will sell her to the highest bidder once he has run through her dowry.”
Sebastian took his own deep breath. “Let me get this straight. Heyward is coercing you into whoredom?”
“Crude but correct,” she said, face and voice expressionless. “But I can take care of myself. I’ve been doing so for many years now.” And only failed once. But that she kept to herself. It would do Sebastian no good to be told of the Spaniard’s rape.
“It makes no difference. I will not leave you here. You must come with me,” he stated.
“You have no right of command, Sebastian.” Her voice was strangely detached as she gathered up the coverlet, wrapping herself in its folds.
“Marry me,” he said suddenly, knowing that it was the wrong moment, that emotions were running too high for the proposal he’d been waiting to make for days now, but utterly unable to keep silent.
“Marry you?” She stared at him. “What are you talking about?”
“Marry me, Serena. Let me look after you.”
It felt to Serena as if her head had been dipped in a bucket of icy water. She stared at him. “Look after me? Assert a right of command, you mean?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“No, you didn’t have to. You’ve been stamping around stating what you will and will not tolerate, as if I somehow belonged to you.” She waved a hand in abrupt dismissal. “You are in my bedchamber and not welcome here. Please leave. You may leave the side door unlocked. I’ll lock it again when you’re safely away.”
“Serena …” He took a step forward, his hands reaching for her, intent only on compelling her to see reason, and then he read the revulsion on her face as she held out a hand to ward him off.
“Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me.”
Without a word, he turned away from her and dressed rapidly. “Good night.” He bowed to her averted back, heard her own low-voiced “Good night,” and went to the door. He let himself out of the house without incident and walked through the cool air of the predawn to Stratton Street, cursing himself for overplaying his hand and Serena for being a stubborn, willful, impossible woman and consigning General Sir George Heyward to the sharpest pitchforks in the deepest depths of Lucifer’s inferno.
Serena waited five minutes, then slipped out of her chamber and down the backstairs to lock the side door. She didn’t realize that she was weeping until a tear splashed on her hand as she lifted it to the bolt.
She stood for a moment, her forehead resting wearily against her hand still pressed to the door. Why did such a glorious night have to end in such a bitter debacle? She and Sebastian were and always had been so perfect together, such a wonderfully interlocking fit … at least physically, in the ways of love. Maybe that was all they had. And yet she knew in her heart that it was not all. But she would never … no, could never give up her independence of thought, of action, never give up the right to act as she considered right for herself.
Marriage to Sebastian? She had never even considered it; their situations were so wildly different. Such a union could ruin Sebastian. He had spoken without thought, of course, out of anger, even, because she would not do as he wished. Out of frustration, he had simply fallen back upon the traditional attitudes about the way men and women should behave together. Marriage would give him rights he could not have otherwise. Husbands had the right of command, wives the obligation to obey.
How could she possibly have imagined they were a perfect fit?
Chapter Fifteen
“May I borrow the barouche this morning, Mama?” Abigail slipped into her seat at the breakfast table, fixing her mother with a cajoling smile.
“Good heavens, whatever for?” Marianne demanded, dipping a finger of toast into her teacup.
“I wish to visit Lady Serena before our dinner this evening.” Abigail had come up with what she thought was the perfect excuse for such a visit. “She said she would ask her maid to show Matty how to dress my hair in a particularly fashionable way, so I thought Matty could accompany me to Pickering Place. You will be so busy with preparations for this evening, I know you don’t have time, and it might be quite a long visit.”
Marianne looked doubtful, but her husband, delicately deboning one of a pair of kippers on his plate, said, “Oh, you may be sure Lady Serena knows what’s what when it comes to high fashion. I’ve never seen her looking anything but a perfect picture. You run along, puss, and take all the advice she’ll give you. Don’t want to look a country dowd at your first party, does she, Mrs. Sutton?”
“I hardly think Abigail would look like a dowd when I have had the dressing of her,” Marianne declared with a sniff that told her husband he would have done better to phrase himself more diplomatically.
“No, no … of course not, my dear. Heaven forbid,” he blustered. “Meant no such thing, I assure you. But Lady Serena knows what young ladies in London are doing with their hair. Stands to reason a word of advice from her can’t come amiss, although your opinion is always the final one, my dear ma’am.”
Marianne looked a trifle mollified. “Well, I suppose it can do no harm, and there’s no knowing whom you may meet in Lady Sere
na’s drawing room. As it happens, I have no need of the carriage myself this morning, so you may have it for an hour, but I shall need you to rest upon your bed this afternoon. You must be in best looks for the evening.”
“Yes, Mama.” Abigail concealed her jubilation at the ease of her victory with downcast eyes.
She set off an hour later in the barouche, feeling pleased with her appearance. The dark blue pelisse lined and tipped with white fur was of the first style of elegance, and her blue silk cap beneath her fur-tipped hood was adorned with the most fetching velvet ribbons. As she had dressed, she had wondered if perhaps Mr. Sullivan might be visiting Lady Serena. And if not that gentleman, then there could be others. Lady Serena had to have a large circle of acquaintances and gallants dancing attendance.
The Suttons had never been invited to any evening gatherings at General Heyward’s residence in Brussels, but Abigail knew they frequently held large parties. Her mother had once or twice expressed a degree of resentment at the lack of evening invitations, but her father had reminded his wife that as Abigail was not yet out, it would not be appropriate to receive or accept invitations to the kind of large gatherings held by the general and his stepdaughter. As for himself, he detested going out in the evening; a quiet time by his own fireside after a good dinner was all he required.
Serena would have been wryly amused at Abigail’s assumptions about her social life had she been in a different frame of mind. She had slept badly after Sebastian’s departure and gazed at her wan reflection in the mirror with less than approbation. Her eyes were heavy, slightly red-rimmed from the tears she had shed, and her head ached. To cap it all, the Suttons’ dinner party was that evening, when she would have to be at her sparkling best, as most of the guests were her own acquaintances. Sebastian would be among them, unless he decided after the previous night’s debacle to send his regrets.
Serena could not imagine what kind of meeting she and Sebastian could have. What could they say to each other in public? Indeed, what was there left for them to say? Sebastian, for all his gentle courtesy, quick humor, sensitivity, and tenderness, was also stubborn, as she knew from experience. He would not lightly give up cherished opinions or change an attitude that he believed to be correct. And she had seen no inkling that he was persuadable in his conviction regarding the proper way matters should be conducted between man and wife.
She sighed and picked up the rouge pot. A touch on her cheekbones and a dusting of powder would hide the now faint shadow of her stepfather’s hand. Long sleeves were not exactly conventional wear for an evening party, but if she was to hide her bruised wrist, she had little choice. Unless she could come up with a satisfactory explanation.
She turned as the door opened, and Bridget came in. “There’s a young lady come to visit you, m’lady. A Miss Sutton, Flanagan says. He wants to know if you’re at home.”
Abigail here? Serena frowned. “Is she alone?” Abigail on her own she could manage, but Mrs. Sutton was more than she could face at this moment.
“Just with her maid, ma’am.”
“Show her into my parlor. I’ll be with her directly.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Bridget curtsied and disappeared.
Serena checked her reflection once more, satisfying herself that she looked as much like herself as was possible in the circumstances. She teased out her dusky side curls with her fingers, making them fall loosely around her face, which she decided had a softening effect. Satisfied, she rose from the dressing stool, draped a paisley shawl around her shoulders, and went to her parlor.
Abigail was standing by the window, nervously pulling at the fingertips of her gloves. She was unaccustomed to paying social calls on her own. But Serena instantly put her at ease as she entered.
“What a lovely surprise, Abigail.” She came forward, hands outstretched in greeting. “Let me ring for coffee.” She turned to the bell rope beside the fireplace.
“Oh, the maid said she would bring some at once.” Abigail looked around admiringly. “What a pretty room. It must be lovely to have a parlor of one’s own.”
“Yes, my sanctuary,” Serena said lightly. “Won’t you take off your pelisse and sit down?” She gestured to a sofa by the fire.
Abigail dropped her outer garment over the arm of another chair and sat down, drawing off her gloves. “I have a most particular question to ask you, Lady Serena.” She stopped, wondering how to phrase the question without sounding conceited.
“Go on,” Serena said with an encouraging smile. Abigail’s puzzles would be a welcome change from her own convoluted situation.
“Well … it’s rather awkward.” Abigail played with her gloves in her lap. She looked up and said resolutely, “Do you remember Mr. Wedgwood?”
“Jonas, the young man who accompanied us to Green Park? Yes, of course I do.” Serena nodded with the same encouraging smile.
“Well, Papa has made Mama invite him to dinner tonight. He says we must be courteous and welcoming to a member of the Wedgwood family, because he and old Mr. Wedgwood belong to the same business set in Stoke-on-Trent.”
“Yes, I quite understand that.” Serena nodded again, turning slightly to the door as Bridget came in with the coffee tray. “Thank you, Bridget. Set it down there. You needn’t serve it.” She poured coffee and leaned over to hand a cup to her guest.
“Of course, Mama is cross because it means she has to invite old Miss Bentley to make up the numbers,” Abigail confided. “She’s some kind of a distant cousin who’s a companion to an old lady in Kensington. Mama doesn’t think she’s suitable company, but Papa says she’ll do very well in a pinch.” She sipped her coffee.
Serena concealed her amusement at this artless speech. She said neutrally, “It will be nice to see Mr. Wedgwood again this evening.”
“Yes,” Abigail said.
Serena frowned. She couldn’t tell whether Abigail agreed with her. “Is there some difficulty, my dear?”
Abigail blushed. “Mr. Sullivan will be there, too.”
“Ah. I begin to understand.” Serena smiled. “Two suitors at the same table.”
Abigail’s blush deepened. “Oh, please, I don’t mean to sound forward or … or …”
“You’re not, Abigail. ’Tis a fact, and you must admit it has its pleasing side.” She raised a teasing eyebrow.
“But … but Lady Serena, do you think it’s possible that Mr. Sullivan might consider an alliance with my family?” It came out in a rush, as if she were afraid that if she stopped to think, she would lose the courage.
Serena considered the question. On the one hand, she didn’t want to give Abigail false encouragement, but on the other, she didn’t want to create a vacuum for her stepfather to step into.
After a moment, she said delicately, “Would you consider Mr. Sullivan as a suitor, Abigail?”
The girl’s blush turned fiery, and her eyes dropped to her lap. “It would be most flattering. I would feel so … so fortunate.”
Serena pursed her lips. Abigail sounded a lot less than enthusiastic.
“He’s … he’s such a perfect gentleman,” Abigail rushed on. “So handsome and so courteous … any girl would be immensely flattered, don’t you think, Lady Serena?”
“I do,” Serena agreed drily. “Mr. Sullivan is everything you say. But tell me, do you have reason to think he might make you an offer?”
Abigail shook her head. “He has never given me cause to think it, although he is always so gallant. But Mama … Mama, you see … she has set her sights on a great marriage for me, and she thinks that Mr. Sullivan …” Her voice faded, and her great blue eyes were fixed pleadingly upon Serena.
“Well, Mrs. Sutton is like all mothers, Abigail. She wants only the best for her daughter.” Serena spoke briskly. “But I think, if you have a dislike of Mr. Sullivan, you have only to—”
“Oh, no, please don’t misunderstand me, Lady Serena. I do not hold him in dislike, not in the least, ’tis only that … that …”
�
�That what?” Serena offered another encouraging smile.
“That I can’t be quite comfortable with him,” Abigail finally confessed with a great sigh. “And … and I am so very comfortable with Jonas … Mr. Wedgwood.”
“Ah.” Serena leaned back in her chair. “And ’tis very clear to anyone with eyes that Mr. Wedgwood is very comfortable with you.”
“Yes … yes, I think he is.” Abigail picked up her cup, but the coffee was now cold, and she set it down again. “But Mama …”
“Mama will not favor such a match,” Serena finished for her.
Abigail nodded. “And I wouldn’t wish any discourtesy to Mr. Sullivan.”
“Oh, don’t let that worry you,” Serena said with a touch of acid. “Mr. Sullivan’s heart recovers quite quickly, I can promise you. He will take no offense.” She regarded her young visitor with a half-smile. “The issue, it seems, then, is how we persuade Mama that Mr. Wedgwood is the only man for you … if one might permit oneself the vulgarity.”
Abigail gave her a watery smile. “Papa will not present any objections, that at least I know.”
“Then we must recruit Mr. Sutton to our cause.” Serena’s nod was decisive. “I suggest you cajole him a little before this evening, mention how much you like Mr. Wedgwood, and then at dinner tonight, I will do all I can to encourage Jonas to shine at the dinner table. If your mother sees what a charming, educated, and assured young man he is, one who can hold his own in any company, she might prove easier to persuade.”
Abigail’s smile was now radiant. “Oh, you are so wise, Lady Serena. I knew you were just the person to ask. Of course, I must be polite to Mr. Sullivan, but—”
“Of course, you must be as polite to him as to all your guests, but you may leave it with me to ensure that he has no inflated hopes.”
Abigail rose to her feet. “I am so grateful, Lady Serena. I have often wished for an older sister,” she added shyly. “’Tis as if my wish has been granted.”
