A Wedding Wager

by Jane Feather

  Jonas stepped up gallantly to offer his arm to the elderly cousin from Kensington. He had expected nothing else. The rest of the party fell into couples, and the procession made its way to the dining salon.

  Serena found that Jonas was seated opposite her. Her own neighbor, Freddy Amesworth, was an easygoing gentleman who wouldn’t object if his table mate engaged in a cross-table conversation, so after the first course had been removed, she leaned over the table and said, “Mr. Wedgwood, is there good hunting in your county?” Hunting was Freddy’s passion, almost more so than hazard.

  Jonas looked up in surprise and with a degree of relief. He had been laboring dutifully with the cousin from Kensington, forcing himself to keep his attention on that lady and his eye from wandering along the table to where Abigail, recovered from her embarrassment, was engaged in lively conversation with Sebastian.

  “Excellent, Lady Serena,” he said. “We hunt over Hanbury Hill, where Mary Queen of Scots used to hunt, when she was imprisoned at Tutbury Castle and also when Lord Shrewsbury was her guardian. ’Tis magnificent country.”

  “Ever hunted Rutland country, Wedgwood?” Freddy asked, instantly diverted.

  “No, but I have been out with the Beaufort on several occasions.”

  Serena sat back, exchanging a look with Sebastian. Jonas was now the center of the conversation among the people closest to him, and he was holding his own well. Marianne was looking surprised but also gratified. Her dinner party could be counted a success. Abigail’s head moved from side to side, her eyes wide as she followed the conversation, looking entrancingly pretty, with her blue eyes a bright contrast to her dewy complexion. William sat at the head of the table, nodding slightly over his wine glass. Every now and again, he’d jerk awake, look rather guiltily around to see if anyone had noticed his absence, join the conversation for a few moments, and then discreetly nod off again.

  Marianne finally rose from the table, and the ladies rose with her. The gentlemen stood courteously as the ladies left the dining room, then settled in with the port. William, at this point, awoke fully. He beckoned to Jonas. “Come sit by me, Jonas. I’ve wanted to ask you something about your uncle’s manufacturing process.”

  Jonas took the place vacated by Lady Mountjoy, more than happy to conduct such a conversation with his host. Impressing the rest of the dinner company didn’t interest him particularly, except as a way of gaining favor with Marianne, but if he had Mr. Sutton as his ally, he would be well up on the totem pole.

  In the drawing room, Abigail at her mother’s bidding took her place at the harp as teacups were passed around. Serena winced a little at the number of wrong notes but acknowledged that the girl looked pretty as a picture, plucking the strings, her fair curls caressing her rounded cheek, a dreamy smile on her lips. Serena was fairly certain the dreamy smile had little to do with the Welsh folk song she was attempting and guessed that Abigail’s thoughts were with Jonas.

  Jonas was among the first of the gentlemen to enter the drawing room. He had been very circumspect with the port, remembering the previous night’s excesses, and, having collected tea from his frozen-faced hostess, went to stand at Abigail’s shoulder as she played. She gave him a quick, shy smile, then, conscious of her mother’s eyes upon her, bent her head to her instrument again.

  Sebastian had followed on Jonas’s heels. He took his tea to where Serena was sitting on a gilt-edged sofa and perched on the scrolled arm beside her. “She looks a picture,” he murmured. “Jonas can’t take his eyes off her.”

  “I don’t think he has much of an ear for music,” Serena said with a soft chuckle. “I think it would be good if Jonas declared himself to Mr. Sutton without delay, don’t you?”

  “Definitely. Should I prod him?”

  Serena shrugged a little. “It can do no harm. The fair lady’s heart is well and truly won.”

  Sebastian nodded and sipped his tea.

  The party broke up soon after the rest of the gentlemen entered the drawing room. Sebastian drew Jonas to one side as farewells were being made and Marianne was occupied. “Do you think you’ve fixed your interest with Miss Sutton, Jonas?”

  Jonas looked over at Abigail, who had given up her playing with obvious relief and was standing with her mother at the entrance to the drawing room, curtsying her farewells as the guests moved past them. “I believe so … she’s such a darling. She looks at me in a way that … oh, I must sound like a coxcomb … but I do think she looks at me in a special way. Don’t you, Sebastian? Just a little particular attention.”

  Sebastian laughed. “Without doubt, and if you’ll take a word of advice, Jonas, don’t waste any time in talking with her father. The sooner you’ve made your interest clear to Mr. Sutton, the better he will like you for it.”

  “Tonight, d’you think?” Jonas looked both alarmed and excited at the prospect.

  “No time like the present.” Sebastian gave his shoulder a friendly pat. “Go to it, man. Faint heart never won fair lady, as the proverb says.”

  “Yes … yes, you’re right. I’ll talk to him right now.” Jonas headed back into the drawing room, where William had remained, trying not to nod off in the fire’s warmth as the buzz of departing guests continued around him.

  He looked up as Jonas coughed politely, standing nervously beside his chair. “Goodness me … is that the time?” he exclaimed as the mantel clock chimed midnight. “What kind of a time is that to seek one’s bed?”

  “I wonder, sir, if I might have just a moment of your time?” Jonas offered a tentative smile.

  William frowned, but the sleep had vanished from his eyes, and they regarded the young man shrewdly. “Well, now,” he said. “’Tis a little late for business talk, Mr. Wedgwood. Come and see me tomorrow, eight o’clock, when I’ve finished my breakfast and my brain’s at its sharpest.”

  Any other young man would quail at the prospect of such an early hour, but Jonas was bred in the same school as William Sutton and accustomed to being at work early in the day. “At eight o’clock, sir.” He bowed and smiled. “Good night, sir.”

  “Good night, Jonas.” William nodded at him, concealing his own smile. He was fairly certain what the young man had to say to him, and he was more than pleased about it. Marianne would not be, but, indulgent husband though he was for the most part, the battles he chose to fight with his wife he always won. If his little Abigail wanted Jonas Wedgwood, she should have him.

  “Allow me to escort you home, Lady Serena.” Sebastian took her cloak from the footman and draped it around her shoulders. “A chair has been summoned for you.”

  “Thank you, sir. I would welcome the company,” she said, her eyes sparkling despite the studied formality of her tone. She took his arm out to the street and settled into the sedan chair.

  “Stratton Street,” Sebastian instructed the chairmen as they picked up the poles.

  Serena raised an eyebrow but said nothing. They said not a word to each other on the short journey. But words were not necessary. The silence was charged with anticipation, with shared secrets, with old wounds that needed to be cauterized.

  Outside the house, in the same silence, Sebastian handed Serena out of the chair, paid the men, and took her arm as he inserted his key in the lock. The hallway was in darkness, only a line of candlelight showing from beneath the parlor door.

  Sebastian put his head around the door. Perry was gazing at a problem on a chess board, frowning in concentration. He looked up. “Ah, you back?”

  “We are,” his twin said.

  “Ah.” Perry nodded. “My respects to the lady.”

  Sebastian backed out and closed the door. “Come.” He took Serena’s hand and led her up to his bedchamber. He kicked the door shut behind them with the heel of his shoe and stood looking at her for a moment, before, with a tiny cry of exultation, he reached for her, lifting her against him, holding her up.

  She laughed down at him. “Oh, are we playing strongman tonight?”

  “Samson t
o your Delilah,” he agreed, letting her slide slowly down his body till her feet touched ground again.

  “I promise I won’t cut your hair,” she murmured, smoothing her hand over the shining fair head before her fingers swiftly untied the velvet ribbon that held the shining queue at his nape.

  “Oh, two can play at that game.” He took the silver fillet from her hair and then the silver-headed pins, slowly, one at a time, dropping them onto the washstand. He lifted her hair free of the pads that formed the pompadour and then let the blue-black mass cascade over his hands, using his fingers to tease out the tangles in the silky curls.

  She turned her head into his hand, her tongue darting to lick the salt skin of his palm. Sebastian caressed the column of her neck, bent his head to kiss her ear, his tongue tracing the intricate whorls, his teeth nibbling the lobe. They said nothing, their bodies expressing all that was necessary. After a moment, they moved apart, their eyes locked as they took off their clothes. Silently, he helped her with ribbons and laces, watched as she unfastened her garters and slid her stockings over her feet. Then naked they came together, her skin cool against his as they fell back together onto the bed.

  And cool became heat, and smooth became slippery soft, and hunger became a desperate need to expiate, to heal, to renew. Until finally, they slipped apart to lie flank to flank, exhausted, replete, and restored.

  Sebastian wasn’t sure whether he had slept when he became fully aware of his surroundings again. Serena was clamped to his side, one leg thrown across his thighs, her head pillowed in the hollow of his shoulder. Her breath was moist on his cooling skin, her heart beating rhythmically against his ribs. He tried to reach the coverlet to pull it over them without waking her, but she stirred as he moved.

  “Don’t go.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I’m not. But I fear you’ll catch cold. The fire’s almost out.”

  Slowly, she struggled up against the pillows, her hands crossing over her breasts. “What time is it?”

  He swung off the bed, gathering up the coverlet and pulling it over her. “Near dawn.” He went to the fire and threw fresh kindling onto the glowing embers. It caught quickly with a crackle and spurt of flame.

  “I must go.”

  “Why?” He stood at the foot of the bed, his body caught by the light from the fire behind. “If, as you say, he can no longer harm you, why would you worry what time you returned?”

  Serena leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. He was right. She had said she had her stepfather in hand, so what was to stop her doing what she wished, as long as she gave the general what he wanted in the salons?

  Sebastian watched her. After a moment, her eyes opened. “Yes,” she said. “You’re quite right. But for as long as the charade has to continue, just until Abigail is safe, I would prefer not to antagonize him unnecessarily. Can you understand that?”

  He sighed. “I suppose I can. I just wished to see what you would say. I’ll escort you home in a few minutes, but first …” He hesitated, wondering if now was the time. Then he decided if it wasn’t now, it never would be.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “What is it, Sebastian?” Serena frowned at him in puzzlement, wondering why he was standing so still and silent at the foot of the bed. “Why are you staring at me?”

  “I didn’t realize I was staring. I beg your pardon.” He punched one fist into the palm of his other hand as if making up his mind. “Last night, I asked you a question, one you told me was absurd. Now I’m going to ask you again, and I need you to think before you answer. Will you marry me, Serena?”

  She paled, her eyes growing huge in her heart-shaped face. Reflexively, she pulled the coverlet up to her chin. “Why would you persist in this, Sebastian? You know ’tis impossible.”

  “No, not only is it possible, ’tis absolutely the right and proper thing for us. I love you.” He spoke steadily, his eyes never leaving her face. “I cannot live without you.”

  “Marriage to me would ruin you, my dear,” she said with soft insistence. “I love you too much to let that happen. A Blackwater cannot wed a member of the demimonde, a fugitive from a river of unpaid debts, a gambler, a cheat … a poverty-stricken vagabond.” She laughed, a short laugh full of bitterness. “Oh, once, before the general appeared on the scene, it could have been, but not now, my love. You must see that.”

  He came around to sit on the bed beside her, taking her hands in both of his, holding them tightly. “Will you let me explain to you why ’tis the perfect solution to everything?”

  She looked at him, her eyes still huge in her pale countenance. “Must you prolong the agony, Sebastian? You know there is no answer.”

  For a moment, exasperation flared in the deep blue eyes. Then he shook his head once and said with calm deliberation, “Trust me, Serena. Sit quiet and hear me out before you say another word.”

  She owed him that, she thought, and even as she thought it, a tiny flicker of hope, a little flare of something remarkably like optimism, crept over her. Could Sebastian possibly have found a way through the maze? Could there be an answer that she just couldn’t see? Her fingers fluttered in his hand, and his warm hold tightened. “I do trust you,” she said. “I will listen.”

  He nodded, relief shining in his eyes. “The answer, my love, lies in my uncle’s will.”

  Serena couldn’t stop herself despite her promise. “What has that to do with us?” He looked at her in reproving silence, and she sighed. “I beg your pardon.”

  “So I should hope,” he responded, but there was the hint of a smile in his eyes. And then, quietly, he explained Viscount Bradley’s will. He explained how he had had his sudden epiphany when he saw his uncle’s musings. He was careful to describe none of the details to Serena, merely gave her enough to understand the simple, glorious fact that if the viscount considered her fair game in the world of the demimonde, then he could not argue, despite her conventionally aristocratic breeding, that when she married his nephew, his nephew had not fulfilled the terms of the will.

  Serena sat for a long time deep in thought. She was not squeamish about her own position vis-à-vis society, she had lost such delicate sensibilities long since, but her instinctive dislike of Viscount Bradley surged into a deep loathing. How dare the man make such assumptions, treat me with such contumely? “Did you hear about Lord Burford’s proposal from your uncle?”

  “Yes, but does it matter?”

  She hesitated. It did matter, and yet her pragmatic self told her that it shouldn’t. The only thing that really mattered was that, however despicable the means, the end could only bring happiness. Sebastian still held her hands between his, and she could feel his tension, his anxiety about her answer, radiating through his fingers. She looked up at the ceiling, watching the dancing shadows of firelight. “A little, I suppose, but not enough.”

  “Do you love me, Serena?” He released one of her hands and used his own to catch her chin, turning her face towards him.

  She could not deny it, not even if she wanted to. The truth shone in her eyes. She said simply, “I always have done, from the first moment I saw you.”

  “As I have you. Marry me.”

  And there was only one answer. “If we can disentangle this tangle, I will, with all my heart.”

  Sebastian felt a surge of such pure joy he could have danced on the table. He leaned forward, took her face between his hands, and kissed her. A long, slow kiss of final affirmation. “We can disentangle it,” he murmured against her mouth. “I have a special license, and we can be wed whenever and wherever we like.”

  Serena could not respond to that for quite a while as he kissed her again, even more thoroughly than before, but finally, he moved his mouth from hers, trailed a kiss down the side of her neck, and then sat up, smiling at her with a look almost of wonder on his face.

  She returned the smile with some of the same wonder. It did, indeed, seem as if they had wandered into a miraculous world where everything was golde
n. “How do we go about disentangling this? I cannot leave Pickering Place yet. And besides, what will we live on? Until you get your inheritance, that is. I don’t imagine you wish to open a gambling hell, and that’s about the only business I know.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he murmured. “I might quite fancy the disreputable life.”

  “Well, I, for one, have had enough of it,” she responded. “So what alternatives do we have?”

  He became serious again. “Until my uncle dies, I still have only five thousand pounds to my name.” It was rather less than that now, he reflected, after the special license and the six-month lease for the cottage. He went on musingly, “Of course, if we moved to the country in the interim, we could live very cheaply, even grow our own food.”

  Serena began to laugh despite the gravity of the discussion. “Oh, dearest Seb, you don’t know one end of a spade from the other. And you couldn’t identify a carrot if it wasn’t cooked and buttered on your plate.”

  “I’m not so feeble,” he denied, but then his eyes began to dance with merriment as he saw the funny side. They would be married. What difference did it make what they lived on?

  Serena, smiling, said, “I didn’t say you were feeble, just not educated to till the soil and plant the corn.” Then she became serious again. “But you said that your brothers, too, must satisfy the terms of the will if any of you are to inherit. Can you be sure that will happen?”

  “Jasper is already married. You’ll like Clarissa … Lady Blackwater. She’s rather like you in many respects.”

  “Oh?” Serena’s interest was piqued. “How?”

  “Independent, determined to pursue her own course, definitely not one to love, honor, and obey with any enthusiasm,” he said with a teasing smile.

  Serena accepted that that particular quarrel was a thing of the past and didn’t respond to the comment. Instead, she asked, “What of Peregrine?”