A Wedding Wager (27 page)

She made to move past him, but he grabbed her arm, swinging her back towards him. “No, I will not excuse you, girl. I promised you to Burford, and you will do as I bid you.”

She thought she could detect a note of desperation beneath the fury, and it gave her courage. She repeated quietly, “I will not be bought and sold, sir.”

He struck her across the face, his flat palm moving so fast she didn’t see it coming. She reeled, her hand
pressed to her cheek, staring at him in shock through a sudden veil of tears.

“You will do as I bid you,
daughter.
Make no mistake.” His voice was almost a hiss as he stepped so close to her that she could feel his breath on her cheek now, smell its sourness. “You will give the earl what he wants, and you will give it with all the appearance of willingness. And he will give me the mortgages. Is that understood?”

She tried to move away, but he still held her arm and jerked her hard towards him. “I broke your mother, and I will break you. And when I am wed, you will be out on your ear. I’ll have no further need of you, and you can get your bread on the streets. It’ll be all you’ll be good for, by the time I’ve finished with you.”

She thought of her pistol, no use to her now, locked away as it was in a drawer abovestairs. He took her wrist between both hands and twisted it so that she cried out in pain. This was new, this overt violence. It had always been there, beneath the surface, but she had never really believed it would be directed at her. And she suddenly had a vivid memory of hearing anguished cries from her mother’s bedchamber.

It was soon after the wedding, just after they had reached Paris, ostensibly on a wedding trip. It had become clear soon enough that this was no pleasure jaunt but the beginning of the general’s elaborate schemes to make his fortune using his wife’s money to open a gaming house. One afternoon, her mother had demurred
at taking her place in the gaming salon, had objected to the kind of social intercourse that was required of her there. Her husband had said nothing then, in front of Serena, but that night, she had heard her mother scream. And from then on, the general’s wife had been all compliance, and she kept her daughter at arm’s length.

“Do you understand,
daughter
?” He twisted again, and she bit her lip hard to keep from crying out.

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she said. “But you should understand, sir, that I am not my mother. I cannot be coerced into doing your dirty work. Now, if you wish me to appear in the salons this evening, you had better release me.”

He seemed to deflate, completely at a loss when his tried and true methods failed to work. “You
will
do as I bid you,” was his final shot, and she shook her arm free, conscious of the stinging burn in her wrist.

Deliberately, she touched the place on her cheek where he had struck her, then walked to the door. There she turned with her hand on the latch and delivered what she hoped would be the coup de grace. She didn’t stop at this point to wonder if it was wise to provoke him further; she was far too angry to weigh the consequences.

“You should know, sir, that Lord Burford has been playing his own cards in this matter. He has promised to make the mortgages over to me if I agree to become his mistress. If I do decide to sell myself to him, it will be
in exchange for the mortgages. I’m sure you can understand how that is an infinitely more appealing prospect than the one you have in mind. I should tell you that I’m quite tempted. To own this house and all that’s in it would be an interesting enterprise. But you might wish to reconsider your insistence that I become Lord Burford’s mistress. Your position might be less than comfortable in such a situation.”

She thought for a moment that he would succumb to an apoplexy. His face was an alarming crimson, bulging veins pulsed in his temples, and he was deprived of speech. Serena walked out then, closing the door with a firm click. She had no idea whether it had been wise to reveal the earl’s offer at that point, but the satisfaction was worth anything.

She hurried to her bedchamber and locked the door. She didn’t think he would come after her, but there was no point risking it. He was a bully, and bullies could be faced down, but she didn’t relish another such encounter so soon. The incident made it clear that she couldn’t wait much longer to put a stop to her stepfather’s courtship of Abigail. Balked in his plan with Burford, the general would inevitably step up his pursuit. Abigail was still a child in many ways, easily influenced, and she had none of Serena’s strength.

She examined her reflection in the glass. The slap had left an imprint, but, touching it gingerly, she didn’t think the mark would last. Her wrist, on the other hand, was scarlet and showed the beginnings of bruising. She
would have to wear long sleeves and long gloves at the tables that evening.

Except that she was not going downstairs again. The decision seemed to make itself. She had the perfect excuse. His violence had marked her. She could not possibly show herself in public until the bruises had faded. He wouldn’t be able to dispute that. He knew what he had done. The fact that she could disguise them if she chose was one she would keep to herself. No, the general would have to manage the salons himself.

A tap at the door made her jump, but she relaxed when she heard Bridget’s voice. “Is everything all right, Lady Serena? Should I help you dress?”

Serena unlocked the door. “Come in, Bridget. I would like you to bring up a bath for me. I won’t be going downstairs for dinner tonight. Could you ask Flanagan to have it brought upstairs to my parlor, please, after my bath?”

Bridget regarded her in surprise. Lady Serena never dined alone abovestairs, not when the house was to open for the night. Her jaw dropped as she took in Serena’s appearance. “Lor’! What happened to your face, ma’am? Oh, and your poor wrist.”

“An accident while I was out. I tripped and stumbled against some railings. ’Tis nothing serious … nothing that arnica and witch hazel can’t put right. But it has given me the headache, and I would remain quiet tonight. Ask Flanagan to inform Sir George.”

“Yes, ma’am … I’ll fetch up that bath straightway,
ma’am, and bring the arnica and witch hazel from the stillroom.”

Bridget hurried from the room, and Serena sat at her dressing table, leaning in to look more closely at the mark on her face. It had been a hard slap. She would make the most of it. This evening would be all hers.

“Nice young man, that Jonas Wedgwood,” Mr. Sutton announced at dinner, nodding benignly at his wife and daughter. “I’ve a mind to invite him to dinner the day after tomorrow. ’Tis a Wednesday, and we usually dine rather well on Wednesdays. Will that suit, Mrs. Sutton?”

“Oh, Mr. Sutton, you’ve quite forgotten, haven’t you?” his lady exclaimed. “I have told you I don’t know how many times that we are to have our own dinner party that evening. All the guests have been invited, and Lady Serena has been most helpful. That charming Mr. Sullivan has accepted, and six other couples, all carefully selected by Lady Serena.”

“Oh, then we can make room for one more. Invite young Wedgwood, madam. I like him.” Mr. Sutton helped himself liberally to the roast sirloin, beaming in his usual fashion.

“But it will throw the numbers out, Mr. Sutton,” his lady protested. “I cannot have an odd man at the table.”

“Oh, there must be plenty of single ladies about who would be glad of a good dinner. What about that
relative of mine, the one who was companion to some querulous lady in Kensington? I’m sure she’d be glad of an invitation.”

His wife closed her lips tightly, knowing that if she hinted to her husband that the relative in question was not in a position to advance Abigail’s social position, he would become even more stubborn. For all his wish to see his daughter respectably established, he had a most unfortunate disinclination towards understanding the realities of his wife’s mission.

“I believe ’tis too late to issue invitations, Mr. Sutton. It would be apparent they were an afterthought and considered most discourteous.”

He looked puzzled. “That so? In my experience, no one’s ever offended by an invitation to a good dinner and a convivial evening.” He looked at Abigail. “What d’you say, puss, should we invite Mr. Wedgwood? ’Tis your party, after all.”

Abigail was torn. There was something about Jonas that made her instantly comfortable, happy to chatter away about whatever popped into her head. On the other hand, she knew that all her attention during the evening should be devoted to the handsome Mr. Sullivan. She knew he was her mother’s choice, and she couldn’t deny that she felt strangely tingly in his presence, a little hot and giggly, but despite that, she had to admit he also made her feel tongue-tied and awkward, and that was not in the least comfortable. It would be comforting to have someone at the party with whom she felt so at ease.

She temporized, anxious not to annoy her mother. “I think it would be nice to invite him, Papa. But I wonder if it wouldn’t be pleasanter to invite him to a family dinner one evening. Then you and he can have a comfortable time over the port.”

He chuckled. “Well, let us do both. You send him an invitation for this dinner, and I’ll invite him myself to take his pot luck with us one other evening. How would that be, Mrs. Sutton?”

Marianne looked less than pleased, but her husband had spoken. “As you wish, Mr. Sutton.” She dabbed at her lips with her handkerchief and took a genteel sip of her watered wine before saying, “Abigail, we will repair to the drawing room now.”

Abigail rose obediently, curtsied to her father, and followed her mother out of the dining salon to the drawing room, where the parlor maid was just setting down the tea tray.

She sat down and took up her embroidery while her mother fussed with the tea, handing a cup to the parlor maid to deliver to Abigail. When the maid had left, Marianne said, “Abigail, my dear, I think it is not advisable to invite Mr. Wedgwood, but if your father wishes it, then it must be so. But after that, while he will no doubt come to call upon your father, there is no need for him to be received abovestairs.”

“He seems a pleasant gentleman, Mama,” Abigail murmured.

“Yes, indeed, he does … I’m sure he is. Perfectly
pleasant, perfectly respectable, and he will find himself a suitable wife among the better families in the Potteries.”

“I was always under the impression that
we
were among the better families in the Potteries, Mama,” Abigail said, her demure tone masking the wicked gleam in her eye. “Are we not suitable for the Wedgwoods?”

Marianne regarded her daughter with displeasure. “The Wedgwoods, daughter, are not suitable for us. You are a beautiful girl, although I shouldn’t say so, I don’t wish you to become puffed up, and you are a considerable heiress. You can look higher than the Wedgwoods.”

“As high as an earl’s family?” Abigail questioned, gazing at her mother with wide-eyed innocence. “You mean Mr. Sullivan, do you not?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean,” her mother said crossly. “Don’t play the simpleton, child. Your father and I want only the best for you. Just think what it would mean. A Society wedding in St. George’s, Hanover Square, I expect, and a presentation at court. You will be invited everywhere. And I intend to see that happen. Your father must be …”

She paused, looking for words. “Sidestepped. He is not fully aware of the nuances of social standards among the aristocracy. Oh, make no mistake, he is a good man, a wonderful man. But …” She looked over at her daughter. “A little too set in his ways. He cannot fully see that what is right for him is not necessarily right for his only daughter.”

Abigail set her needle and held her tongue. And her
mother, after waiting a few moments for a response, leaned over and patted Abigail’s knee. “Now, my dear, you have to understand that gentlemen don’t see matters the way we do. And we have to learn how to achieve our objects while letting the gentlemen believe that everything is just as they wish it to be. ’Tis a lesson you would do well to learn before your marriage, my dear. All husbands are the same. And clever women learn how to manage them.”

She sat back with the smile of one who considered she had done her duty and took up her teacup. “Will you not play a little, my dear?”

“Of course, Mama.” Abigail set aside her embroidery and went to the harp that Marianne had insisted be provided in their London house. Every gentleman’s family must have a musical instrument, and every gentleman’s daughter must be proficient. Abigail had been taught both pianoforte and the harp, and she was an adequate performer on the pianoforte, with a pretty voice. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for her proficiency on the harp, and she detested the instrument. However, she could play to her mother, who would not hear the false notes, while she allowed her own thoughts to roam.

She felt annoyed, resentful at her mother’s dismissal of Jonas Wedgwood. He was a charming young man, beautifully dressed, well spoken, self-assured. What was the great difference between him and Sebastian Sullivan? Jonas was probably a year or two younger, but if you saw the two together on the street, you wouldn’t
think a social chasm existed between them. It did, of course. Abigail was not sufficiently naïve to ignore that reality, but her mother’s opposition to him made her more partisan in his favor than she might otherwise have been.