Surrender to Sin (10 page)

“Good boy,” Abigail murmured lovingly to the corgi, stopping to pick up her plate. “Be so good as to serve me a little more veal,” she told an obliging servant.

Outside, the moonlight on the snow was so beautiful that she scarcely felt the cold. The stillness reminded her of one of Mr. Coleridge’s early poems, “Frost at Midnight.” Content with her lot, she sat down on the bench in the shelter of the portico and shared her “veal” with Angel. “You are the best dog in the whole world,” she told him very sincerely as he licked the plate.

Her guardian angel did not remain faithful to her for long. He soon caught sight of a rabbit in the distance and shot out of the portico like a cannonball, his short legs barely able to keep his head out of the snow. From the back end, he looked rather like a rabbit himself, Abigail thought, as the front door swung open.

“Cato’s been captured,” Cary announced, pressing a handkerchief to his badly scratched hand. “We’ve reached a compromise. Cato will not be caged, but he will be confined to my study. He’ll be in no one’s way there, and Mrs. Spurgeon can use it for a sitting room, if she likes. If you would like to come back in, I think I can vouch for your safety.”

“Thank you, but I don’t mind the cold. I’m quite happy where I am.”

He looked out towards the woodlands beyond his lawn. Icicles hung in the branches, chased in silver by the moonlight. “The Frost performs its secret ministry, unhelped by any wind,” he murmured.

“I didn’t think you liked Coleridge,” she said, surprised.

He sat down on the bench across from her and leaned forward. He hadn’t come out to talk poetry with the girl. “Look here,” he said abruptly. “What would you do if the Spurgeon sent you away? Where would you go?”

“What do you mean?” she asked, puzzled. “How could she send me away?”

“She’s awfully fond of that bloody bird, and he certainly hates you, my dear. I think it very likely she’ll be sending you back to London as soon as the roads are cleared up.”

“You seem to think Mrs. Spurgeon has some power over me.”

He looked at her sharply. “Is she not your employer?”

Abigail’s mouth fell open.

“There’s no shame in finding employment as a companion. Mrs. Spurgeon is a waking nightmare, but she
is
respectable. Come, come, Miss Smith,” he said impatiently. “Now is not the time for false pride. We’re cousins, after all. I know you don’t have much money. I know your father is the rudest man in Dublin. Are you running away from him? Is that it?”

“My father is not the rudest man in Dublin,” Abigail exclaimed, startled.

“I expect the title is passed from man to man with great frequency.”

“My father is the best man I know!” she said. “I am not a servant, sir. I am not in danger of—of losing my place. I don’t require any assistance from you. And I’m not Irish.”

“You are—forgive me—socially awkward, sexually backward, and a glutton for whisky. But if you tell me you’re not Irish, naturally, I take your word for it,” he said, shrugging.

“That is very good of you, I’m sure!” said Abigail, climbing to her feet.

“Don’t go on my account,” he said pleasantly, “unless, of course, it’s time for Mrs. Spurgeon’s foot-bath.”

“I told you, I’m not her servant,” said Abigail, growing red in the face.

“Then stay,” he invited her. “I think we ought to be friends, don’t you? You’re not still sulking because I kissed you? I said I was sorry. Can’t you get over it?”

Abigail bristled. “No, you didn’t. You never said you were sorry. You were stupid and rude. Just the sort of rude, stupid person who’d put French windows in a house like this!”

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “you really ought to be thanking me.”

“Indeed?”

“I seem to have cured you of your stammer,” he pointed out.

Abigail looked away angrily. He
still
had not apologized.

“Tell you what, cousin. I’ll let you make it up to me tomorrow. There’s going to be ice skating down at the Tudor Rose. Go and fetch your second best pair of boots.”

“And why would I do that?” she snapped.

“I couldn’t ask you to spoil your best boots,” he patiently explained. “The blacksmith’s going to put skating blades on them. Go on. Hurry up. I’ll wait for you here.”

“You actually expect me to go to a skating party with you?” she said incredulously.

“Yes, of course. You couldn’t possibly go to the inn without an escort. Run and get your boots, there’s a good girl. I haven’t got all night.”

“I am not going skating with you,” said Abigail. “I don’t even like skating. Or you!”

“I’ll teach you to like both,” he said kindly. “It’ll be fun. And I promise not to kiss you, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”

Angel suddenly bounded into the portico and dropped a dead rabbit at Abigail’s feet. “Augh!” she said. Angel looked up at her, puzzled by this strange reaction to his handsome gift.

“I hope you like rabbit stew, cousin.”

“You can always tell Mrs. Spurgeon it’s veal,” she said tartly.

No doubt insulted by their lack of enthusiasm, the proud little corgi picked up his rabbit and dragged it away, leaving a bloody trail in the snow.

Cary sighed. “Would you like to buy a dog, Miss Smith?”

“Good night, Mr. Wayborn.”

She was gone. Feeling underappreciated, Cary started for the gatehouse. He had scarcely progressed ten feet in the knee-deep snow when he heard a window opening behind him, followed by a piercing whistle that elicited a sympathetic howl from the corgi.

Cary nearly laughed aloud as a pair of leather boots with their laces tied together came flying out of the open window, landing at his feet in the snow. Angel abandoned his grisly prize to investigate the new arrival. By the time Cary retrieved Abigail’s boots, the window had closed and there was no sign of Miss Smith.

“She can’t resist me,” he explained to Angel, who had been thoroughly unhinged by the girl’s flying shoes and was rushing here and there in the snow, barking, in case other shoes got similar ideas. “No woman can.”

Cary awoke the next morning in such a cheerful, springtime mood that the sight of snow outside his window startled him. The sagging bed had left him with a stiff neck, the fire had died of damp in the night, and the stone walls of the gatehouse were like blocks of rough-hewn ice, but nothing could shake his sense of well-being. He put it down to the excellent dream he’d had, in which Miss Smith had been made to admit, from the church pulpit, no less, that his kisses in no way reminded her of the nocturnal order of Chiroptera. She’d then apologized to him privately and in the most delightful manner. Her contrition was so touching that he generously had allowed her to make amends. She’d proved to be surprisingly good at making amends.

One handsome concession deserves another, he decided. He went outside for a bowl of fresh snow. After melting it over his smoking fire, he resolutely took up his razor. Miss Smith had tossed her shoes out of the window to him, and the least he could do was shave off the beard she found so offensive. Then they could go skating, and this time, when he kissed her, there would be no talk of bats.

In walking to the village, he discovered that the worst of the snow had been cleared from the road. This was good; he’d be able to drive Miss Smith to the Tudor Rose, giving his cousin the opportunity to admire his horses as well as his own skill in handling them. He whistled all the way to the blacksmith’s, then strolled to the Tudor Rose to order his breakfast while the smith modified Miss Smith’s boots with skating blades. The inn’s back garden, which went down to the banks of the frozen river, was already filling up with skaters. Cary took a seat at one of the planked tables outside and watched a group of children skate. Mr. Temple, the well-meaning young curate, seemed to be in a position of authority over the energetic youngsters. He greeted Cary with deference; when the Vicar of Tanglewood Green shuffled off the mortal coil, the living at the parsonage would be in Mr. Wayborn’s gift.

When Cary had eaten, he collected Miss Smith’s skates at the smithy, hung them about his neck by their laces, and headed home. As he crossed the stone bridge that marked the edge of his property, he was surprised to see Miss Smith herself on the riverbank. She was sitting on a rock that had been hewn into a rough bench, a red horse blanket spread underneath her skirts, and she appeared to be drawing or painting on a lap desk. Though she had only apologized to him in a dream, he found he had quite forgiven her. He waved to her, but she pretended to ignore him, a useless subterfuge as she obviously was painting the bridge under his feet. As he crossed the bridge and trotted closer, his own short-legged dog bounded out of the snow and barked at him.

Miss Smith could no longer ignore Mr. Wayborn’s approach. Indeed, the way she stared at his clean-shaven face was very gratifying to his male pride. He walked straight over to her, bent at the waist, and planted a firm kiss on her mouth before she knew what was what. He just couldn’t resist. Predictably, she blushed.

“Good morning, Cousin!” He grinned at her, doffing his hat for good measure. “I see your guardian Angel has been with you all this time.”

The kiss had happened so fast that Abigail couldn’t be sure it had actually happened at all. He would have to be a madman to simply walk over to her and kiss her, she decided. Then again, she would have to be mad to imagine such a thing. As she could scarcely ask him to clarify matters—“I beg your pardon, sir, but did you by any chance just kiss me?”—she decided her best course of action was to ignore the entire disgraceful episode, real or imagined.

“He…was waiting for me when I came out,” she stammered.

“There’s something different about me,” he prompted her. “The old ornament of my cheek hath already stuff’d tennis balls, to paraphrase Shakespeare.”

“What?” she said, unable to comprehend him.

“I have shaved my beard.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, resolutely returning her attention to her work. She was painting in watercolors and melted snow. The paintbox set on her lap was very new and clever. The lid was designed to convert into a miniature easel, and there were tiny china dishes for water and for mixing colors. She wore gloves with the fingertips snipped off, the better to grip her brushes.

He looked over her shoulder at the picture she was painting. She tilted her head instinctively, as though afraid to leave her neck exposed to him. “Not going very well, is it?” he said compassionately. “Your bridge is in grave danger of falling down, cousin. Had I seen your picture beforehand, I should never have used said bridge to cross yon river.”

Painting a winter-white landscape was certainly a challenge, but Abigail felt she had a good command of the problem she had set for herself. “But I’m not trying to paint the bridge, Mr. Wayborn,” she told him.

“In that case, you have succeeded handsomely, and I withdraw all criticism.”

Abigail tried to explain. “I’ve given myself a test. I’m trying to capture the light by painting only colors and shapes, not things. The bridge is of no interest to me.”

“Well, it’s of interest to me,” he said. “It’s my bridge. As for colors, it’s all white today, even the sun and the sky. Perfect day for a skating party,” he hinted.

“No, you’re wrong,” said Abigail. “There’s scarcely any white at all, when you look carefully. There are grays and blues, violets, and purples, and even yellows.”

“Purple snow? My dear Miss Smith, have you been out here tippling whisky?”

Abigail angrily put her brushes away and closed up her paintbox, not caring that her picture was still wet. Why was it she had such difficulty explaining even simple things to him? She hated explanations, anyway; she would much rather be left alone. “It’s time I went back to the house,” she announced. “I’ve not had my breakfast.”

“I’ve had mine already,” he said. “Have yours while I look for my skates. I think they must be in the cupboard under the back stairs, with the fishing tackle. We’ve not had a hard freeze like this in five years.”

“Your skates are hanging around your neck,” said Abigail, dropping her paintbox. The lid fell open, spilling tubes of paint onto the snow. She hastily began shoving everything back in.

“These are not my skates,” he told her, kneeling down to help her. “They’re yours.”

Abigail gulped. His face was just inches from hers and she was now certain she must have imagined that kiss. There was no possible way this beautiful man would ever kiss her again after her absurd behavior on the previous day. She imagined it would be quite a different experience if he did, now that his beard was gone. She could actually see his lips.

“
My
skates?” she stammered. “I haven’t any skates.”

He scowled at her. “You haven’t changed your mind about going skating with me? Look here, I deliberately postponed my morning business to take you skating.”

She stared at him in surprise. “I can’t think why. I never agreed to go skating with you.”

Cary began to laugh; the girl’s pretense was so outrageous. “You certainly did!”

Abigail summoned her dignity. Handsome or not, he wasn’t going to get away with lying and bullying. He was not her father, after all. “I said no, Mr. Wayborn,” she said, employing more icy civility than he thought strictly necessary. “By that I meant absolutely not, under no circumstances, and out of the question.”

“You may have said no, absolutely not, under no circumstances, and out of the question,” he conceded. “But then you whistled for my attention and tossed your shoes to me from the window! This is what’s known in the Royal Academy of Science as a contradiction.”

Abigail gaped at him, infuriated. “I think perhaps your vanity has caused you to hallucinate, Mr. Wayborn! You know perfectly well I did no such thing.”

Cary grimaced; in his dream, she’d been nothing but sweet, rational, and compliant. “I have the shoes to prove it,” he pointed out. “They hang about me like Mr. Coleridge’s albatross!”

“My shoes!” Abigail exclaimed in dismay. “You’ve put blades on them, too. How dare you go into my room and take my shoes! Who do you think you are?”

“Go into your room?” he repeated, his face growing hot. “You tossed them out of the window at me, you little…” He caught himself in time. “You led me to believe we had an appointment, then you dash all my hopes with buckets of cold water.”

“I daresay you will find someone else to go skating with you!”

“But I want
you
, cousin,” he said, in his best sincere manner.

“You’d be just as happy to escort Mrs. Nashe,” she accused him.

The justness of the charge caused him to lose his temper. “Possibly even happier,” he said coolly. “But I shouldn’t mind taking you instead.”

Abigail’s face turned red as a broiled tomato. She began to stammer. “You insufferable…conceited…vile…Shall I tell you what I really think of you?”

“Don’t I look interested?”

“If you were a painting,” said Abigail, her eyes flashing, “I could sit and stare at you all day long with the greatest of pleasure.”

“Thank you, Cousin. That is most gratifying.”

“But you are not a painting!”

“No, I’m not,” he politely agreed. “I never was.”

Silently fuming, Abigail grabbed her paintbox and stalked towards the house as fast as her long skirts and the snow would permit her to go, leaving her blanket behind on the rock. Cary did not deign to pick it up. Nor did he open the door for her when she achieved the portico; but he did whistle a pleasant tune as he waited for her to do so. Abigail tucked her box under one arm and stormed inside.

“I did not invite you in, sir,” said Abigail, already halfway to the staircase door as he made his way to the big fireplace in the entrance hall.

His lip curled. “I’m paying a morning call to my tenant, Mrs. Spurgeon. Besides,” he added, pointing to Angel as the corgi hopped onto one of the fireside chairs, “I have to collect my dog. Don’t let me keep you, Cousin.”

She didn’t. She closed the door firmly behind her and he could hear her heavy boots on the stairs. He sighed. Why he should want to kiss a girl who walked like a gouty Cumberland carriage horse was beyond him, but he could not deny that it was so.

He was joined shortly thereafter by Vera Nashe. The widow was looking extremely fetching in a clinging gown of sheer black muslin layered over white. He wanted to kiss her, too. She so graciously returned his pleasantries that he even entertained a short-lived hope of renewing their flirtation.

“Do please forgive my unseemly outburst of last night,” she said, looking at him through her dark lashes as he bent over her hand. “I’m quite ashamed of myself.”

“My dear Mrs. Nashe,” he began fervently.

She did not allow him to finish. “I’ll tell Miss Smith you’re here to take her skating,” she said, snatching her hand away. “She will be delighted, I’m sure.”

Cary grimaced. “I’ve already informed her myself, Mrs. Nashe. But she says she will not go. Could I not persuade you to go in her place?” He gave her his most charming smile.

Mrs. Nashe’s injured eyes reminded him that it was neither politic nor polite to ask one female to take the place of another, and he silently cursed himself. “I don’t mean to imply that you and Miss Smith are interchangeable,” he said, stumbling from one blunder into another.

She gave him an inscrutable smile. “No?”

“Rather, I would be as glad of your company as I would be of hers. Gladder still.”

The compliment seemed lost on Vera Nashe. “Can you not persuade
Miss Smith
to go?” she gently inquired. “It would do her good, I think, to be amongst other young people. She is shy, of course, but not timid. We cannot allow her to live like a hermit crab. I depend upon you, sir, to draw her out of her shell.”

No woman had ever fobbed Cary Wayborn off onto another, and he didn’t like it. His glorious morning was fast becoming a grim nightmare.

“I don’t know how to draw our hermit from her shell without being snapped in two by her claws,” he said, trying not to show Vera how much her rejection had stung his pride.

“I daresay you’ll manage,” Vera told him. “I quite consider I’ve done my part by tossing her shoes out of the window. I see you had blades put on. The rest is up to you, sir.”

Cary stared at her. “
You
tossed the shoes?”

Vera laughed softly. “Forgive me. I heard the two of you talking outside. I could tell the poor girl wanted to go skating with you, but she was determined to allow her pride to get in the way of a good thing. Poor Miss Smith. When she met you in London, I’m afraid she mistook you for Sir Galahad, the most gentle, perfect knight of the Round Table! It was quite a blow to her when she discovered her idol had feet of clay.”

“I perceive that Miss Smith has been confiding in you, madam,” Cary said stiffly.

She raised an eyebrow. “The kiss? Yes, she told me. Do go easy on the poor child, Mr. Wayborn! I daresay all she knows of men could be fitted into a nutshell, and when a girl is in a state of helpless innocence, a kiss is quite enough to sweep her away. As I’m sure you know.”

Cary frowned. If word got out that his kiss had been mistaken for a bat’s clumsy attack, he would very quickly become a laughingstock. Months of cursed celibacy would stretch into years, until, out of sheer desperation, he would be forced to wed one of the plump Mickleby girls.

Vera left him with a friendly warning. “You have about twenty minutes to make your escape, Mr. Wayborn, if you wish to do so without meeting my mistress. Mrs. Spurgeon is a puzzle Evans and I put together twice a day, and it takes us precisely twenty minutes to do it. She’s just getting out of bed now.”

The image of the Spurgeon’s Herculean proportions climbing out of his bed caused Cary to shudder uncontrollably. He doubted he’d ever be able to sleep in that bed again without thinking of the lady’s manly shoulders and sweaty, powdered cleavage. Quickly, he rang the bell for a servant, and issued a summons for Miss Smith.

Once it was revealed that Mrs. Nashe was the shoe-throwing culprit, Miss Smith would be forced to ask his forgiveness for accusing him of taking her shoes. It would then be child’s play to convince her to go out with him. An inexperienced skater, she would naturally be forced to cling to him on the ice, which would afford him ample opportunity to make himself agreeable. In any case, he infinitely preferred Miss Smith’s scorn to Mrs. Spurgeon’s disgusting familiarity.