A Wedding Wager (40 page)

Abigail raised her downcast eyes from the tabletop and whispered, “Yes.”

Jonas gave a great whoop of delight, seized her hands, and pulled her to her feet. “Yes, you will? Really … truly?”

She nodded. “Really … truly, I will, Jonas.”

He danced her around the table, laughing with relief. “You have made me the happiest man in the world … the luckiest man in London.” He caught her against him and impulsively kissed her.

“Jonas, you shouldn’t,” she murmured. “Not until we are wed.” But she made no effort to escape his hold.

“Oh, no, I’m sure I shouldn’t,” he said, kissing her again. “But I can’t help it, Abigail, my dearest Abigail. My love.”

He began to dance with her again, swinging her off her feet in his exultation.

“Oh … I almost forgot … I have a present for you.”
He released one hand and reached into his inner pocket. “I hope you like it.” He placed the little packet in her free hand and watched anxiously as she freed her other hand and unwrapped the locket.

“Oh, ’tis lovely, Jonas. So pretty.” She opened it up. “What should I put in it? Oh, a miniature of you … but that will take too long, and I want something
now.
” She frowned, then her expression cleared. “A lock of your hair.” She darted to the sideboard and took up the little pair of grape scissors in the fruit bowl.

Jonas submitted to the loss of a dark strand but then took the scissors from her and cut one of her own guinea-gold curls. He twisted the two locks together and inserted them into the locket, closing it gently. “There now … a promise of a lifetime together.” He turned her around and fastened the clasp at her nape.

Abigail stood on tiptoe to see her image in the mirror above the mantel. She lifted the locket and gazed at it in the mirror, her eyes shining. “Oh, ’tis exquisite, Jonas. Quite perfect.”

“Made by a silversmith in High Holborn,” he said with a touch of pride. “I’m told he is renowned throughout the city.”

She smiled at him in the mirror. “How did you know of him?”

“Oh, someone told me,” he answered vaguely with a careless wave of his hand. “Someone who knows about such matters.”

“Oh … I wonder who.” But to his relief, Abigail
didn’t press him further. He was reluctant to tell her that Sebastian had given him the information, even as Sullivan told him with a wry smile that he would be hard pressed to afford the silversmith’s work himself. It would be both inappropriate and vulgar to share that confidence with his beloved, Jonas felt.

“We should go back to Mama and Papa,” she said, slowly dropping the locket back to nestle in the hollow of her throat. “Before Mama sends Morrison to fetch us.”

“Yes … yes, of course.” He had no desire to find himself on the wrong side of redoubtable Mama again. He hurried to the door, opening it wide, bowing as Abigail went past him with a little curtsy of acknowledgment and a mischievous smile that quite spoiled the decorum.

William was pacing restlessly in the drawing room. He wanted to retreat to his private sanctum with a glass of brandy and his pipe before seeking his usual early bed, but he couldn’t leave his guest, and Marianne was showing signs of impatience at the lovers’ prolonged absence. He sighed with relief as the door opened and the young people returned. One glance at their faces told him all he needed to know.

“So, ’tis settled, then … all right and tight,” he declared, coming forward with hands outstretched. “Welcome to the family, dear boy.” He enclosed Jonas’s slender hands in his own giant paws. “You just make sure you make my little girl happy.”

“Oh, I will, sir. Indeed, I will.” Jonas was aware that his smile was probably somewhat fatuous. He turned to
Marianne, who was smiling, although with rather more restraint than her husband. “Ma’am, I will treasure Abigail,” he said earnestly.

She nodded, and a small smile lurked at the corners of her mouth. “See that you do.” She turned to her daughter, her sharp eyes missing nothing. “What is that around your neck, child?”

“’Tis a locket, Mama. A present from Jonas … Mr. Wedgwood. Is it not the prettiest thing?” She leaned over so that her mother could inspect the piece.

Marianne nodded her approval. “Most appropriate, very pretty, indeed.”

“We have twined two locks of hair together,” Abigail confessed, blushing a little. “I shall wear them close to my heart.”

Marianne looked a little askance but was willing to grant a degree of latitude to young love. “Well, that’s as may be, child. But ’tis time you sought your bed after all this excitement. Bid Mr. Wedgwood good night. You may call upon us tomorrow morning, Mr. Wedgwood. I daresay Mr. Sutton has various matters of business to discuss with you, and then you may sit with Abigail for half an hour.”

Abigail couldn’t help a little moue of disappointment. “But Mama, I am not in the least sleepy. ’Tis still early.”

“’Tis past nine.” Marianne set her needle firmly into her embroidery and laid the frame aside.

Abigail gave her father a pleading look, and he
laughed. “Oh, let the girl say good night to her betrothed, Mrs. Sutton. There can be no harm in a private word of farewell.” He winked at his wife. “I remember that you and I shared a few private good nights during our betrothal, eh, Mrs. Sutton?”

Marianne shot him a repressive look but couldn’t hide the sudden softness in her eyes.

William chuckled. “You may see him to the door, puss. I’m sure your mother has no objection to that.”

If she did have, Marianne was not about to articulate it. William had spoken. “Just to the door, then,” she agreed.

“Oh, thank you, Mama. You are the best mother.” Abigail flung her arms around her neck and kissed her cheek. “And I promise we shall be most discreet.”

“If I thought there was the slightest danger otherwise, child, you would walk no further than the drawing-room door with Mr. Wedgwood, betrothed or not,” Marianne pronounced, but her eyes were still soft.

Jonas made his bows, agreed to present himself at nine the following morning to discuss settlements with Mr. Sutton, and followed Abigail downstairs to the hall. She was dancing with exuberance, jumping off the last two steps, laughing up at him.

“Oh, I do so wish you didn’t have to leave, Jonas.”

“But you know that I must.” He smiled the smile that he didn’t think would ever leave him. It seemed to have become a permanent fixture of his features. “But only for a short while. Once we are wed …”

Her eyes narrowed, startling him with the sudden seductiveness
of their expression. “Once we are wed, we shall never be apart,” she stated, reaching for his hand.

Morrison watched indulgently from the shadows at the rear of the hall, moving forward to the front door only when the couple did. He unbolted the door, opening it onto the crisp, cool night air of late autumn. “Good night, sir.”

Jonas stepped past him onto the top step. “Good night, Morrison.”

Abigail darted out to stand beside him. “Oh, just close the door, Morrison … just for a minute. ’Tis too cold to leave it open.”

The butler regarded her with a raised eyebrow, then said, “I’ll pull it to just for a minute, Miss Abigail. You mustn’t catch cold.” He stepped back, allowing the door to close on the latch at his back.

Abigail chuckled, reaching to stand on tiptoe to circle Jonas’s neck with her arms. “Good night … oh, I wish we didn’t have to say it.”

Jonas put his hands at her waist, lifting her slightly against him as he bent his head to kiss her mouth. After a long minute, he let her feet touch the step again and reluctantly moved his mouth from hers. He held her face for a moment, and she looked up at him, something lurking in her wide blue eyes that startled him for a moment. It was hunger, even passion. He was inexperienced in the ways of love himself, but the need he saw in Abigail’s eyes matched the need that was now stirring his loins, setting his blood afire.

Hastily, he stepped away from her. “Go in, Abigail, ’tis cold.” He kissed his fingertips to her as he hurried down the steps to the street. “Until tomorrow, my darling.”

“Until tomorrow.” She blew him a kiss and stood watching as he almost ran down the street. Even after he’d rounded the corner, she stayed on the step, her fingers touching her lips, where the warmth of his mouth still seemed to linger. At last, she turned slowly back to the door.

As she did so, a small voice spoke in a whisper behind her. “Miss Sutton? You Miss Sutton, miss?”

She turned and saw a small urchin on the bottom step holding out a slim package. “Gen’leman gi’ me twopence to deliver this, miss. But only to Miss Sutton … you Miss Sutton, miss?”

Bewildered, Abigail nodded. “Yes … yes, I’m Miss Sutton, but I’m not expecting anything.”

“This ’ere’s fer you, miss.” The lad thrust the package at her, and she took it automatically. She looked down at it. Her name was certainly there, written in a bold, decisive script. Above it, in much larger letters, was written: “TO BE READ ONLY IN PRIVATE.”

Abigail was bewildered but also intrigued. There was something exciting about such a communication, about its method of delivery, the urgency that seemed to radiate from the sealed parchment. It had to be something from Jonas, some wicked love letter that he needed her to read in private. It was just like him to come up with
such a romantic idea. He would know that her mother wouldn’t allow her to receive a private correspondence, even from her betrothed. He could have written it earlier, brought it with him, and given it to the street urchin on the corner. These youngsters hung around on every corner and in every mews, looking for a way to earn a penny. But why hadn’t he just given it to her as he left?

Perhaps in the heat of the moment, he’d forgotten he had it and only remembered as he’d got to the corner.

Abigail smiled and tucked the document into her bosom. She would bid her parents good night and seek the privacy of her bedchamber to read her love letter.

Serena was barely aware of the passing of time throughout the evening. She was lively and entertaining, as always, moving gracefully through the salons, playing her part at the tables, supervising the staff, keeping a watchful eye on the supper tables, but she was not really there, not in essence. Her body went through the motions, but her spirit, her self, was on some other plane altogether.

Her mind sang with thoughts of Sebastian, with the knowledge of their future, waiting to begin. Nothing here could touch her anymore, not even the malevolent eye of her stepfather, who seemed to be watching her every move. Vaguely, she wondered if he could tell that something definitive had happened to her, but then she
dismissed the fancy. How could he? And even if he did, so what? He could do nothing to alter the fact. As soon as Jonas and Abigail were united, her part would be played, and she would be free.

She floated through the evening until the last player had gone, the doors bolted, the lamps sconced, and the night’s takings locked away in the safe. Her stepfather bade her a curt good night as she passed him on her way to the stairs. He seemed restless, pent up in a way that she knew of old boded ill. He was planning something … usually that mood presaged a midnight flit. Had Burford finally pushed him to the limit?

A prickle of anxiety disturbed her tranquility. Sir George Heyward in extremis would be like a cornered bear. But until he revealed his hand, nothing could be done beyond what she was doing. She made her way to her own chamber. She had sent her maid to bed much earlier and now undressed, tossing her gown carelessly over the daybed, and climbed into bed, sinking deep into the feather mattress, hugging her thoughts and memories tightly as she slid into sleep.

She awoke early the next morning, filled with a wonderful sense of well-being, and lay savoring the moment of warm relaxation as her body gradually surfaced and her mind dwelled pleasantly on thoughts of the coming day. She had arranged to meet Sebastian in Bruton Street at eleven o’clock. It was a perfectly reasonable coincidence that they should both decide to visit the Suttons at the same time. Sebastian was going to call upon
Jonas on his way and try to persuade him to go with him. Nature and circumstance would do the rest.

Serena reached for the bell beside the bed and rang for Bridget, who hurried in with a tray of hot chocolate and bread and butter. “Good morning, Lady Serena. And ’tis a frosty one. Winter’s comin’ on apace.” She set down the tray and drew back the curtains. Pale wintry sunshine filtered through a sparkling, frost-sprinkled window pane.

Serena sat up and drew the thick quilt up to her chin, sipping her hot chocolate while Bridget raked the embers and relit the fire in the hearth. Soon the comforting crackle of the logs made the room feel warmer, even though the tip of Serena’s nose still felt chill.

“I’ll wear the tawny velvet gown this morning, Bridget, with the heavy woolen petticoat and the brown damask underskirt. And I’ll need the dark cloak with the silver fox lining and woolen stockings.”

“You’ll be goin’ out, then, m’lady?”

“Yes, just a visit to friends. I won’t need you to accompany me, but before I go, I’ll talk with Cook about tonight’s supper.” She set down her cup and steeled herself before throwing the quilt aside. Bridget made haste to bring her a heavy wool dressing gown with a fur lining, and she huddled gratefully into its warmth. “I do not like winter,” she declared. “The cold gets into your bones.”