A Wedding Wager (23 page)

“My lord.” She curtsied. “Your message was rather importunate. I trust nothing grave has occurred.”

“No … no, indeed not, Lady Serena.” He bowed low, but his eyes devoured her. “Forgive me if I sounded importunate, but I have been wishing for a private word for several weeks now, and it seems that whenever I call, you are already engaged. And, of course, in the evening, you are so occupied at the tables ’tis impossible to catch you alone.”

“I rather think, sir, that
catching me alone,
as you put it, is hardly a gentlemanly objective.” A chilly smile hovered on her lips, but her violet eyes had taken on a glacial hue.

A faint flush darkened his lordship’s already florid complexion, and he made a visible effort to control his temper. “I’m sorry you should think that, ma’am. But the proposition I have to put to you can only be made in private, and I am most anxious to make it.”

“I see. Did it occur to you, my lord, that perhaps I may not be anxious to receive it?” She remained standing by the door and did not invite her visitor to take a seat.

His flush deepened. “Your stepfather desires that you hear me, ma’am.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgment. There was no point in denying the truth. “Maybe so, and in courtesy,
I will hear you out. But no one can compel me to accept your proposition. And I tell you now, my lord, that I will not.”

He sighed, took a turn about the room, then faced her. “Let us leave your stepfather out of this. This matter is between just us, Lady Serena. In a word, I wish you to become my mistress. I will make handsome provision for you; you will want for nothing. And when our liaison is over, as inevitably will happen, I will make provision for your future.” He held out his hands. “I am a wealthy man. What could be fairer than that?”

“I find your proposition insulting, my lord.”

“Oh, come now, girl. There’s nothing insulting about such an arrangement. Women of every situation enter into such arrangements every day. What makes you too good for such offers? You are one of faro’s daughters. Oh, I accept that your father was a nobleman, but your situation has changed since then, my dear girl. You need to face realities.”

It could have been her stepfather speaking. Serena regarded the earl with open distaste. “I believe there is nothing further to say, my lord.” She turned back to the door, but he moved quickly, catching her arm.

She whirled on him, pure anger now ablaze in her eyes. “Take your hand off me, sir.” She raised her free hand, prepared to strike him if he didn’t instantly comply. He looked at first startled, then laughed, dropping her arm.

“Oh, you do look particularly ravishing when your
eyes flash, my dear.” He was standing very close to her still. “Now, listen to me for a little while longer. I hold the mortgages on this house, and if I call them in, you and your stepfather will be ruined. Do you fancy a sojourn in the Marshalsea or the Fleet? Life in a debtors’ prison is not overly pleasant, I should warn you.”

“Blackmail, my lord?” Her eyebrows rose as her voice took on a tone of derisive amusement.

For a moment, she thought he was going to strike her, but he mastered himself with an effort. “Merely a plain and simple truth, my dear. Now, your stepfather has promised you to me in exchange for those mortgages.”

“I am not my stepfather’s to promise,” she responded coldly.

“No, I begin to see that.” He made his tone reasonable, conversational, all confrontation banished, but his small, pale eyes held a calculating look. “But what would you say if I were to give you the mortgages … make them over to you as part of our arrangement? You would hold your stepfather’s future in the palm of that pretty little hand.” He made a move to take her hand, but she jerked it behind her. “What d’you say?” he pressed.

Serena was momentarily at a loss, as the prospect of such a gift, or payment, to be exact, grew in dazzling glory. What a glorious prospect that would be. To have the upper hand over the general, after the years of dancing to his tune. To own the gaming house herself. The profits would be hers. Her future would be secure. Oh,
not a reputable future, indubitably, but so what? She didn’t exactly lead a reputable existence now. But she would be her own mistress. The decisions would be hers and hers alone.

And then she thought of Sebastian.

“What say you?” Burford repeated, a greedy look in his eyes as he saw her hesitation for what it was. She was tempted.

“Good day, Lord Burford.” Serena turned on her heel and had slipped through the door before he could recover from his surprise.

“You will think about it?” he called after her as she flitted across the hall to the stairs.

“Good day, sir,” she repeated, flying up the stairs to the sanctuary of her own parlor.

Had she been a fool? Was she just utterly unrealistic about her prospects? She went to the window, looking down on the street as the Earl of Burford emerged from the house. He stood for a moment, looking up at the house, and she stepped sideways into the shadow of the curtains. He had a puzzled, uncertain air, and Serena realized that he still thought she had not refused him outright. And of course, she had not.
Not outright.

Lord Burford did not appear at the gaming tables in Pickering Place for several nights, and Serena’s stepfather gave no indication that he had heard of her refusal from the earl. He certainly would have confronted her if Burford had told him. She knew her relief would be shortlived, but she guessed that the earl was giving her time to think about his offer. When the general remarked on his lordship’s continued absence she said lightly, “Perhaps he is playing somewhere else for a few evenings.” He had frowned at the thought of the competition but knew it was a fact of life so made no argument.

Serena played her part as the perfect hostess, and no one looking at her would imagine how night after night, she longed for Sebastian to walk into the salon with that languid grace, the long stride, the easy smile, those brilliant blue eyes alight when they saw her. He would not come, not when it would mean a confrontation with Heyward, but her heart yearned for the sight of him. She bitterly regretted walking away from him in the park, wanted more than anything to curl up in his embrace,
the abrasiveness of their last encounter forgotten. In his arms, somehow the rest of the world seemed to retreat. But he would not come, and she heard nothing from him, not so much as a note.

On the third night after their argument, as she was leaving the supper room after checking arrangements for the second supper, the door knocker sounded, and Flanagan, ever present, moved to open it. “Message for Lady Serena Carmichael,” a very young voice piped.

Serena’s heart jumped. She knew that voice. It belonged to the lad who worked for Sebastian and his brother in Stratton Street. She hurried forward, anxious to take it before her stepfather could appear and wonder who was delivering messages in the early hours of the morning.

“Is that for me, Flanagan?”

“Yes, Lady Serena.” He handed it to her, eschewing the regulation silver tray delivery.

She took it, glancing only once at the handwriting on the folded sheet, and hurried to the stairs. “If anyone asks for me, Flanagan, I’m making a minor repair to my gown.” She flew up the stairs, her wide panniers swinging with the speed of her ascent. She went into her parlor and closed the door with a sigh of relief, leaning against it as she slit the wafer with her thumbnail, too impatient to fetch the paper knife from the secretaire.

It was one sheet with Sebastian’s distinctive script:
Come to Stratton Street as early as you can tomorrow. I will
be waiting for you. It is imperative that you ensure you can be away at least until the evening. My love. S.S.

Serena frowned a little. Except for the valediction, the tone of the note was distinctly peremptory. She reread the sheet. Why was it imperative that she be away all day? It seemed he had some kind of plan, a scheme of some sort. After their last parting, she’d wondered when, or even whether, he would get in touch. A slow smile lit up her eyes. It didn’t matter what he had in mind, what mattered was that they would be together for a while. At this point, she would trust Sebastian to make whatever plans he deemed necessary to make that happen. So much of her life was spent finding solutions, dodging pitfalls, anticipating traps and dangers, negotiating her way through the obstacle course that was her present existence, that the idea of letting Sebastian find a way out of their own maze was a cool balm smoothing away all the accumulated aggravations of her daily life.

She slipped the note into a drawer in her secretaire and went back to her duty in the gaming rooms.

The rest of the night seemed interminable, but they finally closed the doors at four o’clock. She undressed and sent Bridget to her bed, then knelt on the window seat in her bedchamber, opening the window onto the cold night air. It helped to clear her head after the stuffiness of the candles, the heat from the well-stoked fires, the odor of hot, overdressed bodies mingling with the
heavy perfumes that failed to disguise the smell of unwashed flesh.

The moon was low in the sky now, and the city sounds were muted, although an occasional shout or the iron wheels of a dray on an early-morning delivery could still be heard from the streets. A clock chimed the half-hour. Goose bumps lifted on her arms, and she reluctantly pulled the window closed. Suddenly, she was no longer tired. A new energy coursed through her veins. She and Sebastian would be together again in a few short hours. She couldn’t imagine that he would send such a note if he intended to continue their quarrel, and if it was passion he had in mind, then she was determined that this time, nothing would disturb the loving interlude.

Finally, Serena climbed into bed, sinking into the deep hollows of the feather mattress with a luxurious stretch. She would sleep for a few hours and then go straight to Stratton Street. She wouldn’t need to leave an explanation for her absence as long as she was back in plenty of time for the evening’s entertainment.

She awoke at eight and rang the bell for Bridget, who came in with a tray of hot chocolate and bread and butter, looking surprised. “You’re up early, m’lady. You don’t usually stir till nine at least.” She set the tray down on the coverlet. “Oh, you slept with the curtains open … no wonder you woke early. I made sure I closed them last night.”

“You did, Bridget. But I opened them when I came
to bed. It was a lovely night, and the moon was very pretty.” Serena poured chocolate into the cup.

Bridget looked doubtful. “Maybe it was, ma’am, but ’tis bad to let the night humors in. You didn’t open the windows?”

“Only a little,” Serena confessed with a smile. “And believe me, Bridget, the air was too cold and clear for any malign humors.”

Bridget looked as if she didn’t understood a word her mistress had said. “I dunno, m’lady. Mam says the air’s too bad t’breathe at night.”

Serena chuckled. “If you didn’t breathe, Bridget, you’d not be alive in the morning.”

“I suppose so, m’lady. But I still covers my nose an’ mouth with a blanket and keeps the windows tight shut.” Bridget went to the armoire. “What’ll you wear this mornin’, ma’am?”

Serena sat back against the pillows for a moment and gave the question due consideration. Without knowing what Sebastian had in mind for the day, it was a difficult question. Were they to be riding? Walking? Lounging in sybaritic nakedness in some secluded paradise? Typical male, she thought. They never considered such issues.

“The rose velvet with the pink-striped underskirt,” she decided. “And a very small hoop.” She couldn’t ride in such an outfit, but she could do anything else, and if her last scenario was the right one, it wouldn’t matter a damn what she wore. That same smile, again without volition, found its way to her lips.

Serena was ready by nine o’clock. It was very early for visiting, but Sebastian’s note had said as early as possible. She toyed with the prospect of a proper breakfast but dismissed the idea. The last thing that interested her was food. “Ask Flanagan to summon a chair, Bridget. I won’t need you to accompany me this morning.”

Bridget looked surprised but curtsied and went off to instruct the butler. A quarter of an hour later, Serena, a dark velvet hooded cloak over her shoulders, came downstairs.

A sedan chair waited at the door, and she stepped in, murmuring the address to the chairmen, anxious that no one in Pickering Place should overhear her destination. The chairmen picked up the poles and trotted off in the direction of Stratton Street.

They set her down at Sebastian’s door, but she had barely raised a hand to the knocker before the door was opened. Sebastian pulled her in, wrapping her in a tight embrace. “I was watching for you from the window.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “Would you believe I’ve been standing there since seven?”

Serena smiled as he cupped her chin in the palm of his hand, lifting her face for his kiss.

“I’ve missed you so … I didn’t think it was possible to miss someone so much,” he murmured against her mouth.

“I know,” she agreed. “I was afraid I had angered you so much you had given up on me.”