Surrender to Sin Read online

  Abigail glared at him.

  “What an understanding fellow Mr. Husband is! I should very much like to meet him. Indeed, I intend to. If the poor man suffers any lingering doubts, I feel sure I can silence them forever. I daresay he will be pleased to know it was I and not some rude fellow who first taught his wife the joys of the marriage bed. But perhaps I know him already?” He smiled mockingly. “Hector Mickleby? Excellent choice of a victim, Smith. I doubt the little greenhorn could tell the difference between a plucked and an unplucked pullet.”

  “I think you’re disgusting,” she said coldly. “I’m sure you know the way out,” she added, leaving the room with what dignity she could muster.

  “Take the dog,” he called after her, maddeningly calm. “I’ll call for you tomorrow at six. Wear something pretty. You have stockings? Dancing slippers?”

  Abigail stopped in the doorway. “What?”

  “Miss Rhoda’s going-away gala,” he reminded her. “Remember, you promised Hector the first two dances.”

  “You needn’t take me,” she said sharply. “I can go with Mrs. Spurgeon and Vera.”

  “I have a sneaking suspicion Mrs. Spurgeon will be too ill to attend. You can scarcely go alone. It will look very odd if I don’t take you. People will think we’re hiding something.”

  She closed the door with an angry slam. The insufferable man evidently found the situation highly amusing in every respect. Without seeing any humor in her predicament whatsoever, Abigail knew that Cary was right. She was ruined, and he was the only man in the world whom she could ever marry. The pain in her womb, which she had thought permanent, actually had vanished quickly, but her virginity was gone forever. She could scarcely compound the shame by marrying an unsuspecting male who had every right to expect his bride to be a virgin. Even Hector Mickleby deserved better than such a cruel deception.

  She had two choices. She could marry Cary, or she could die an old maid. She didn’t want to die an old maid, of course, but she couldn’t imagine a happy future with Cary. Not when he casually said things like, “Don’t worry. I’ll marry you.” Not when he didn’t love her.

  How different things would be if he loved me, she thought sadly as she carried the dog up to meet Paggles. All her present doubt and misery would be swept away. She would share his insouciance. She might even be able to laugh about their present situation.

  “You look different today, my lady,” said Paggles. Looking up from her knitting, she smiled brightly. “Being married seems to agree with you.”

  Abigail was suddenly weary of everything, especially of being mistaken by Paggles for her long-dead mother. “Try to remember, Paggles. I’m Abigail. Anne was my mother.”

  “That is what I told Dickie-bird,” the old lady replied, “but I don’t think the dear boy understood me. He seemed to think you were his sister. But you’re not. You’re his niece.”

  Abigail suppressed her impatience. At least Paggles was in good spirits and her health, judging by her rosy cheeks and bright eyes, seemed actually to be improving. It was not her fault that her mind was going. “I wish you hadn’t told Dickie-bird about Lord Dulwich and me,” she said. “Though I don’t suppose you did any harm.”

  “That is what I couldn’t make him understand,” said Paggles. “Knit one, purl two. He seemed to think that your Mama was Lady Dulwich, that became Lady Inchmery when the old earl died. But that was one of the Bolger sisters, though I can’t think which one.”

  Abigail frowned. “Cary thinks my mother married Lord Dulwich?”

  Paggles blinked at her. “Who is Cary, dear?”

  “Dickie-bird, I mean.”

  “Not your Lord Dulwich,” Paggles explained patiently. “Your Lord Dulwich is far too young to have married your mama. This would have been your Lord Dulwich’s papa. He’s Lord Inchmery now, but he would have been Lord Dulwich in your mama’s day.”

  “So Ca—Dickie-bird—thinks that my father is Lord Inchmery?” cried Abigail. “And that Lord Dulwich is—is my brother?”

  “You haven’t got a brother, dear,” Paggles pointed out. “Your mama had brothers, though. Perhaps that is what you are thinking of. Your uncles.”

  “What a hopeless muddle! He doesn’t know who my father is at all!”

  “It is not a hopeless muddle,” said Paggles, annoyed. “I have just explained it to you, miss! And your father is Cedric, Lord Wayborn. Or rather, was. He is dead now, poor lamb.”

  “No, Paggles,” Abigail moaned. “Cedric was my grandfather. I’m Abigail! And my father…has just come back from Brazil!”

  “Now you’re just talking nonsense,” Paggles said disapprovingly. “Brazil, indeed!”

  “I’m sorry, Paggles,” Abigail sighed. “Of course, you’re right.”

  Paggles seemed mollified. “Now then,” she said, pointing at Angel, who had found an old wooden toy to chew. “Who cut off your fox’s tail? I don’t like foxes as a rule, but it seems rather cruel to cut off their tails.”

  “It’s not a fox, darling,” she said wearily. “It’s a corgi.”

  Abigail spent the best part of the next day deciding what to wear to Rhoda’s ball, trying on nearly every dress she had brought with her, excoriating herself for not bringing this gown or that from London. Nothing seemed suitable, nothing seemed to fit, nothing looked good on her. When she went down to tea, Vera smiled sympathetically.

  “Trouble deciding what to wear?”

  Abigail blushed. “What gave it away?”

  “You’re wearing four different necklaces,” Vera pointed out.

  “It’s hopeless,” said Abigail. “I never was any good at putting myself together. I always look…wrong, no matter what I do.”

  “May I advise you, Miss Smith?” Vera suggested gently.

  “Mrs. Nashe, I would be so grateful if you did.”

  “Please, it’s Vera. Now, the garnets scream ‘aging dowager,’ though I imagine you would look absolutely charming in a garnet-colored velvet redingote.”

  “I haven’t got a garnet-colored velvet redingote.”

  “The pearls are magnificent, but let us not be ostentatious. Ditto the canary diamonds. Keep in mind this is only a little country ball. The first rule of fashion is mustn’t overdo.”

  “I suppose the emeralds are all wrong, too,” said Abigail miserably.

  “No, indeed. They are small, tastefully set, and obviously of the very highest quality.”

  “I have matching earrings,” Abigail said, brightening.

  “Good. Have you got an emerald green dress? Never mind,” Vera said quickly, as Abigail’s face fell. “I have one. I shall lend it to you.”

  “You’re so kind,” said Abigail. “But I couldn’t take your dress. What will you wear?”

  “I shouldn’t think I’m going,” Vera replied. “Mrs. Spurgeon has declared her intention of staying home this evening, and, of course, I have a great deal of packing to do if we are to return to London on Monday. I can’t leave Evans to do it all on her own.”

  Abigail flushed in embarrassment. “I suppose it was high-handed of me to announce our return to London so abruptly. Of course, Mrs. Spurgeon need not go if she doesn’t wish it.”

  “Actually, I think it will do her good. I’m worried about her. You must have noticed how lethargic she has become, how quiet and reserved. In short, how unlike herself.”

  “If you think she is really sick—” Abigail began, becoming concerned.

  “She is homesick,” said Mrs. Nashe, allaying her fears. “The sooner we get back to London, the better.”

  “Yes,” Abigail agreed emphatically.

  Vera smiled. “Let me bring madam her tea, then I shall help you dress. I have an idea for your hair.”

  At ten minutes of six Vera stood back and admired her handiwork. Abigail too was pleased. The green dress made her hair appear more golden than red, and Vera had dressed it in the Grecian style, with bands of thin green ribbon threaded through the tamed curls. “I never thought of using
curling tongs,” Abigail said in wonder. “My hair is so curly to begin with.”

  Vera presented her with a little tin of pomade. “Remember, a little of this goes a long way. Use it sparingly, and you won’t have to worry about your curls looking frizzy or unkempt.”

  “Thank you, Vera. You’re my fairy godmother, that’s what you are.” Impulsively, Abigail hugged the older woman.

  Vera seemed embarrassed. “Run along now. He’ll be here any moment. And if he doesn’t pay you a thousand compliments, he’ll have to answer to me.”

  Abigail knew that, thanks to Vera, she was looking as pretty as she possibly could. She reddened with pleasure when she thought of Cary’s reaction. Perhaps, if he thought her pretty, he would find a more flattering way to solicit her hand. It was too much to ask that the green dress would make him fall in love with her, of course, but a few compliments would go a long way towards smoothing her badly damaged pride.

  To her dismay, Cary hardly looked at her. His greeting was barely cordial, and he helped her into the carriage without a word. Almost before she was settled in her seat, he tapped the roof with his stick and the carriage shot forward on its way down the drive.

  He sat opposite her, pinning her to her seat with a withering stare.

  “We’re not taking your—your bays?” she timidly inquired.

  “Chestnuts.”

  “No, thank you. They make my throat itch.”

  He glared at her and she went down under a wave of fresh humiliation. “Oh, you meant your horses,” she said miserably. “I thought you meant…well, chestnuts. It’s Sir Horatio who’s got the bay horses.”

  “Captain Sir Horatio,” he corrected her stonily. “Here,” he said, tossing something into her lap. Abigail saw that it was a shoehorn carved of tortoiseshell.

  “What’s this?” she asked, puzzled.

  “It’s a shoehorn,” he informed her. “In case anything flops out of that ridiculous dress, I thought you could use my shoehorn to shovel it back in!”

  In affronted silence, Abigail pulled her shawl tightly around her.

  “But perhaps I should give it to Hector instead so that he can shovel you out of it!”

  This could not go unanswered. “You—you—!” she stammered, growing red in the face.

  “You look like an orange-seller—complete with oranges!” he complained.

  “For your information,” she snapped, “these are not my oranges!”

  “Oh, I know that, miss!” he retorted. “No one knows your oranges better than I! Or should I say muskmelons?”

  Abigail was crushed by this display of contempt. “I borrowed some padding. I had to. The dress wouldn’t fit me otherwise.”

  “I’ve heard of borrowed plumes, but borrowed breasts? What are you doing with a dress two sizes too big in the bosom, anyway? Doesn’t your modiste have a measuring tape?”

  “I borrowed this dress from Vera,” she said tearfully. “It matches my emeralds. You weren’t supposed to notice my oranges! You were supposed to notice my hair.”

  They went along without speaking for a while, listening to the sound of the horses’ hooves as the carriage jogged along briskly. “I’m sorry, Abigail,” he said after a moment. “Your hair does look…pretty.”

  “Thank you,” she said sullenly.

  “I’ve always preferred peaches to oranges, that’s all.”

  She threw the shoehorn at him. She wondered why he had such a thing in the carriage at all, but now was not the time to satisfy an idle curiosity. Now was the time to ignore the insufferable man. It was going to be a long, miserable evening.

  The horses clopped along the road.

  “Married in orange,” he suddenly murmured. “What’s the rhyme for that? ‘Married in white, you have chosen right.’ ‘Married in blue, your love is true.’ ‘Married in red, better off dead.’ But what do they say about orange?”

  “Nothing rhymes with orange,” Abigail said repressively.

  “What about green?” he persisted. “Married in green…your love is obscene?”

  “Ashamed to be seen,” she coldly corrected him.

  “Well, we know you’re not ashamed to be seen,” he remarked. “Not from the waist up, anyway.” He paused politely, leaving Abigail room to wittily retort. “I suppose it could be worse,” he went on airily, as Abigail opted for cold silence. “It might have been yellow. ‘Ashamed of your fellow.’ You’re not ashamed of me, are you, Abigail?”

  She looked at him directly. “Will you kindly stop talking, Mr. Wayborn? I am not in the least interested in anything you have to say.”

  “Cream,” he said. “Married in cream, your life will be a dream. You ought to have worn cream, Abigail. Or ivory. Your life will be live-er-ly.”

  “That doesn’t rhyme,” she snapped. “And, for the last time, I’m not marrying you. I should rather die an old maid!”

  He lifted a brow. “Maid? I don’t think so, my girl.”

  “I hate you!” was her considered and intelligent response, at which he took out his flask and slung back a mouthful of whisky. “You’re drunk,” she accused.

  “Want some?”

  The carriage came to a sudden stop and a splash of whisky flew out of the flask and landed on Abigail’s borrowed oranges. “Perfect!” she cried. “Now I smell like a distillery.”

  Cary was profuse in apologies and handkerchiefs, all of which Abigail pushed away.

  “Married in whisky. Sounds pretty risky.”

  “At least I can now get away from you,” she answered, flinging open the door and jumping out. The footman leaped back just in time.

  Abigail plunged blindly down the path, oblivious to her surroundings. She heard Cary walking behind her, whistling, and then she heard the carriage rolling away. She came to an abrupt stop. She had reached the covered gate of a long stone wall. A square stone house loomed on the other side, set in what appeared to be a country garden. There was a single candle burning in the lower window. Otherwise, the house was dark.

  She had never been to Gooseneck Hall, but she was certain this was not it. For one thing, it would have been ablaze with light and music if a party were underway.

  “What is this place?” she demanded. “Where has the carriage gone?”

  He answered her questions in reverse order. “The carriage will return shortly. This is the manse at Little Straythorne.” He went past her and opened the gate for her. “It’s the rector’s house. Sorry, I don’t know the Presbyterian word for it.”

  “I know what a manse is. Why have you brought me here?”

  “Because it was no good asking Cousin Wilfred to marry us,” he patiently answered. “He thinks Presbyterians are cannibals or witches, or, possibly, cannibal witches. But this fellow here will marry us for a mere ten guineas, which I have in my pocket, in actual guineas.”

  “I told you, I’m not marrying you,” she repeated. “Cary, you can’t just kidnap me and force me to marry you. This is England, after all.”

  “No, I can’t force you to marry me. I know that. But you must admit that I have succeeded in kidnaping you. Look at you. You’re completely kidnaped.”

  Abigail’s mouth tightened. “You had better recall your carriage, sir. I am expected at Gooseneck Hall. When I am missed—”

  He grinned at her. “What sort of a kidnaper do you think I am? Naturally, I sent your regrets to Gooseneck Hall. I’ve thought of everything. Gooseneck thinks you’re at Tanglewood, and Tanglewood thinks you’re at Gooseneck. We’re in the ether, Smith. We can do anything.”

  “It’s not funny!” she lashed out at him.

  “No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “It’s deadly serious, and you had better make up your mind to be reasonable, my girl. We made love, Abigail. There are consequences. I’m sorry if you don’t like it, but we must marry. You can’t marry anyone else. If you don’t marry me, what will become of you? An old maid, my arse! You could be pregnant. Have you thought of that? There’s nothing else to be done.”

 
; She turned her face away from him. “Do you think I don’t know that? But must you be so horrid about it? So unfeeling?”

  He grasped her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. “Unfeeling? I am being practical, Abigail,” he told her harshly. “Reasonable. Sensible. Responsible. In short, all the things you complain I’m not. Here I am, being practical, and you don’t like it. Too bad!”

  “You’re not practical, Cary Wayborn,” she sobbed. “You’re a complete cabbagehead! If you were practical, which you are not, you’d know we can’t be married here. It’s not our parish, and we haven’t had the banns called.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, monkey,” he retorted. “I’ve got an Archbishop’s license in my pocket, and I’ve got your ring, too. It’s the Cary emerald. I got it out of the family vault when I was lately in London.”

  Abigail stared at him. “But that was last week,” she said in a small voice. “That was before—before—Oh!”

  “You may well say, ‘Oh,’ you ungrateful little baggage.” He pulled a small leather box out of his pocket and opened it. The large, square-cut emerald gleamed in the moonlight.

  “You wanted to marry me then?” Abigail cautiously inquired.

  “I did think about it,” he admitted, “but you weren’t exactly nice to me upon my return. You said a lot of hurtful things. You called me foolish and irresponsible. I decided to cut line.”

  Abigail’s heart sank. Once he had wanted to marry her, and she had spoiled everything by hurling insults at him. “And now?” she asked quietly, afraid of the answer.

  He looked away. “Now we have no choice,” he said flatly. “We must marry. Unless, of course, you mean to be foolish and irresponsible? You must admit, it is the only practical solution. God knows, I don’t want you on my conscience.”

  Abigail felt sick, but at the same time, she knew that he was right. She could not return home to her father as if nothing had happened. She could not play the part of a marriageable young lady ever again. It would be a ghastly fraud.

  The door of the manse opened and a tall, gaunt figure appeared, holding a candlestick aloft. “Hurry,” said Cary grumpily. “Before I change my mind.”