Surrender to Sin (23 page)

Abigail could not bear the thought of his leaving her. “Oh, no,” she moaned, tightening around him instinctively. “Love me again. Don’t stop.”

His dark head suddenly lifted, and she saw the gleam in his eye. It no longer frightened her. “You asked for it,” he said roughly.

The voice was very difficult to hear because there was a terrible droning roar reverberating in Abigail’s skull; nonetheless, she recognized that it was Cary’s voice, telling her to wake up. “Cary,” she murmured weakly, fighting her way back to consciousness. The closer she came to waking, the more she was aware that her body felt bruised all over. It would have been easy to slip back into sleep if he hadn’t been calling her. He sounded panicked. Something was wrong. They were back at the river. She had to help him.

“Cary, don’t,” she moaned. “You’ll fall!”

“
Wake up
,” he commanded, hauling her to the side of the bed and planting her feet on the floor. Abigail started to fall backwards, but he seized her by her hands, flinging her arms over his back. She thought he meant to carry her away from the river, but instead he began wrapping her in a sheet. She was in a bed somewhere. “Abigail, you must get back to your own room before we are discovered,” he said, rapidly slapping her cheek. “Do you understand?”

She blinked at him. He seemed to be weaving before her eyes. His dark hair was rumpled. “Do please stop moving about,” she whined. “My head aches so.”

“Yes, darling, I’m sure it does,” he said, taking her face in his hands. She suddenly realized that she had been the one weaving, not him. Now that he was holding her still, her eyes could focus. She could see that he was naked to the waist. She was also naked under the linen sheet, and there was a suspicious pain between her legs.

“Listen to me, Abby,” he said urgently.

“What are you doing in my room?” she demanded suddenly.

“It’s not our fault,” he said. “Do you understand? We thought it was a dream.”

“Get out of my room!” she said, panicking.

“It’s my room,” he told her gently. “You came to me, Abigail.”

Abigail turned white. She suddenly remembered things that could not possibly have happened. Not in England. Certainly not to her. “It’s not what you think!” she protested wildly. “There was something in my room. I was frightened. My door was locked. I had to come through the wardrobe. I didn’t mean…I don’t remember what happened after that,” she said so fiercely that he knew she was lying.

“I’m afraid amnesia isn’t going to answer,” he said gravely. “It’s pretty damned obvious what we’ve been up to. You must be in some considerable discomfort.”

Involuntarily her hands pressed into her abdomen. His member had penetrated her up to the navel, and she had the pain to prove it. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“It’s not your fault, monkey,” he told her gently. “It was the opium.”

“What opium?” she cried in horror.

“There’s opium in laudanum. It can have a strange effect on the mind. The lines between fantasy and reality become blurred. People have been known to behave in ways they might not ordinarily. I think we meet the case.” He smiled at her. “Surely it wasn’t all bad?”

“I told you I don’t remember,” she said stubbornly.

“Of course not. Neither do I.” Incredibly, he chuckled.

“I don’t see anything amusing in our present situation!” she said angrily. “You’re a man. You can do what you like. No one censures you. But I am ruined!”

He tried to appear sober, but failed. “Don’t worry, Smith. I’ll marry you.”

Abigail felt nauseous. Yesterday she would have been elated by an offer of marriage. But this was hardly an offer. More of an off-hand remark. He was actually laughing.

“What choice do we have?” he went on. “You’re ruined now. It’s not our fault, but the fact remains: you are ruined. We should be married at once.”

“I must go,” said Abigail. “I cannot be found here.”

“You’re right about that,” he agreed. “Allow me,” he said, opening the wardrobe door for her. Carefully averting her face, Abigail pushed her way through the clothing to the other side. As she stepped out, she felt a sharp tug on the end of the sheet in which she was wrapped. “I’m going to need the sheet back, if you don’t mind,” he said cheerfully.

She let him have it, and hurriedly found something else to put on. “Not that horrible green plaid again,” he said, poking his head through the clothes. “This one.”

Abigail snatched the blue dress he pushed toward her and yanked it over her head.

“Miss Smith?” Vera Nashe was standing in the doorway. She sounded surprised.

Abigail slammed the wardrobe shut.

“I’m surprised to see you out of bed,” said Vera, hurrying over to her.

“I was just getting dressed,” said Abigail, unable to look the other woman in the eye.

Vera felt her forehead. “The fever’s broken. That is excellent. The doctor is here to see you. He’ll be pleased with your progress, I think.”

Abigail blushed. Her chief physical complaint at the moment was a raw pain that began between her legs and extended up through her womb. “I’m rather tired, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Could he return later, do you think? I–I have a dreadful headache.”

Vera chuckled. “Are you trying to say you are not
well
enough to see the doctor? But, Miss Smith, that is precisely when you
ought
to see the doctor.”

Abigail had no answer for this. She was obliged to sit on the edge of the bed while the doctor felt her pulse and listened to her heart. Kindly Mr. Carmichael reminded her of every other doctor whom she had ever met. He checked the whites of her eyes. He made her stick out her tongue while he looked down her throat. The soreness in her belly seemed to intensify. What if Cary Wayborn had done her a permanent injury? It seemed possible, even likely, given the amount of pain, and the very strange things they had done together like two frenzied animals. Mr. Carmichael might be able to allay her fears, but, of course, confiding in him was entirely out of the question. She would die of shame if anyone knew.

“Young woman, you are in the pink of health,” he told her at last. “A few bumps and bruises, but those will heal. Next time, stay out of the river.”

The doctor collected the bottle of laudanum from the bedside table. “Good heavens, Mrs. Nashe!” he cried, aghast. “How much did you give the young person?”

“Five drops, five times,” said Mrs. Nashe. “Just as you said, sir.”

“I said one drop five times, five drops in total!” cried the doctor. He looked at Abigail in astonishment. “We are very fortunate the young lady suffered no ill effects.”

“Yes,” Abigail agreed faintly. “Very fortunate indeed.”

Cary was judged well enough to return to the gatehouse, and, for the next several days, Abigail kept to her room. However, she could not remain cloistered forever. By the week’s end, she was persuaded to go downstairs and receive visitors from Gooseneck Hall.

Hector Mickleby had little to say for himself, but Mrs. Mickleby and her eldest daughter more than made up for his silence. After eliciting from Abigail every detail of her near drowning, they turned to the happier subject of Rhoda’s impending removal to London. Rhoda had clearly been given instructions upon pain of death to mind her manners.

“Where shall I go first, Miss Smith—Astley’s Amphitheater or Covent Garden?” she asked Abigail, with every appearance of being interested in the latter’s opinion.

Abigail gave a distracted answer, her attention divided by the sudden appearance of Angel, who came bounding into the room ahead of his master. Knowing that Abigail could scarcely avoid him in such a setting, Cary went straight to her and took her hand. “He insisted on coming to see you,” he explained as the corgi hopped onto Abigail’s lap and began gnawing the lace at the edge of her sleeve.

Cary stood back and looked at her in amusement. “He’s really your dog now,” he said. “After all, you saved his life. I would certainly have let him drown.”

Rhoda giggled. “And
you
saved Miss Smith’s life. Does she belong to you now, sir?”

Cary’s teeth flashed. “She does indeed. And I belong to Nathaniel Brisby, for it was he who hauled me off the bottom step of the Cascades.”

“Only think, Mama,” cried Rhoda. “If Miss Smith hadn’t stopped me, I might have gone down the Cascades with that silly Maddox boy, and been horribly drowned. It was too bad of Mr. Maddox to suggest such a thing! Why, if I had drowned, I should never have been able to go to London. And
that
would have been a great pity.”

“For
you
perhaps,” Hector said sullenly. “Miss Smith, I should like you to know that if
I
had been at the river on that fateful day,
I
would have been the one to rescue you. And I should not have fallen over doing it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mickleby. When do you go to London, Miss Rhoda?” Abigail asked, doing her best to ignore Cary, who stood nearby, teacup in hand, a sardonic smile on his lips.

“Week after next, Miss Smith,” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“Then I shall be at home, too,” said Abigail. “I’m going back to London. I’ve already written to my father. He’s sending a chaise for me next Monday.”

“Oh!” said Mrs. Mickleby, leaning forward eagerly. “Is Sir William back from Brazil?”

“Yes,” said Abigail, after a small hesitation. “He is back, and I am going home.”

Rhoda’s brow furrowed. “You’re still coming to my party tomorrow, aren’t you?”

“Of course she’s coming,” said Hector. “She’s promised me the first two dances.”

Rhoda’s face fell. “You hadn’t forgotten?”

“No, of course not,” said Abigail quickly. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Cary set down his cup. “If you do intend to go, Abigail, I insist that you get plenty of rest. You look tired.”

“Yes,” Rhoda agreed very sweetly. “You don’t look rested at all, Miss Smith. I’m sure I shall never appear so haggard in company until I am ten years married.”

Mrs. Mickleby took Cary’s hint. “Do be quiet, children,” she said, climbing to her feet. “It is high time we were going. Miss Smith, we leave you to your rest.”

“Yes, you must rest,” Rhoda said kindly. “And I shall send you a cucumber from Gooseneck Hall. If you place two slices over your eyes for an hour, I’m sure those unsightly pouches will be quite carried away!”

“Thank you, Miss Rhoda.”

“Do please give my best regards to Mrs. Spurgeon,” said Mrs. Mickleby on her way out. “I hope she will be well enough to attend, though I understand she has not been the same since the disappearance of her marvelous bird.”

Cary went out with them, but returned a moment later.

“So Mrs. Spurgeon keeps to her room, does she?” he said, chuckling. “I have an aunt who is the same. Whenever anyone has the temerity to acquire a real illness, my Aunt Elkins suffers all the torments of a jealous heart and must prove herself sicker still by keeping to her room.”

Abigail was busy poking the stuffing back into a hole in her upholstered chair.

“Now, Angel,” Cary said sternly.

“He didn’t mean to eat the cushion,” said Abigail. “I must have dropped some crumbs.”

“I meant you,” he said, parting his coat tails and taking a seat. “What’s all this nonsense about you going home? This is your home now, or it soon will be.”

“I’m returning to London,” she said. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

“Don’t be a fool, Abigail,” he said impatiently. “What will you do in London? Meet some nice young man and deceive him into marrying you? What will you tell him on your wedding night when he discovers your secret?”

Abigail gasped. She had not thought him capable of such cruelty.

“Do you expect Mr. Husband to be delighted to discover that he is not your first lover?”

Abigail covered her ears with her hands. “Shut up!”

“But perhaps he will be more understanding when you tell him how you crawled into my room, naked as a savage, and threw yourself into my arms.”

Abigail jumped to her feet, startling the corgi. “It was the laudanum,” she said, balling up her fists. “I should never have—it would never have happened otherwise.”

“Ah, yes,” he laughed. “The laudanum defense. And what of our revels in the gatehouse? The linen closet? And, don’t forget, under the stairs. Were you also taking laudanum on those occasions?”

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.