Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  Cary had gotten under the covers. He looked at her curiously. “Story time?”

  Abigail sat on the edge of the bed with the book in her lap. “Cary, I must thank you.”

  “Must you thank me in a nightgown? I prefer to be thanked in the nude.”

  Abigail persevered. “I know you did not have to marry me. It was especially kind of you after I rejected you so many times. I was so foolish. Indeed, I don’t know what I would have done if you had not married me. Because I do want a home of my own, and children, someday.”

  “You left out husband,” he pointed out. “You want a husband, don’t you?”

  “Of course. One can’t very well have one without the other, can one?”

  “Not everyone is as conscientious as you, my dear Smith,” he said, smiling. “All in all, I’d rather be married for the purpose of creating legitimate issue than simply to cover up the fact that we took too much laudanum and behaved rather badly.”

  “Then you want children, too?”

  “Dozens. I want our nursery to look like an orphanage, in fact,” he replied. “Does that alarm you, Smith?”

  “Not at all,” she assured him. “I had no brothers and sisters myself. I was rather lonely.”

  “That you will never be again. I promise.”

  Almost unable to bear the warmth of his gaze, Abigail took a deep breath and held out the book she had removed from the wardrobe. “This is my wedding present to you, Cary. It’s not much, I know. But I didn’t know I was going to be married tonight, did I?”

  “Ah, the Blake,” he murmured, taking the book from her with a smile. “Indeed, it would have been cruel of you not to give it to me, when you are only waiting for it to appreciate, whereas I appreciate it already. But I’ve no Wordsworth or Coleridge for you,” he added, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. “What can I give you?”

  Abigail twisted the emerald on her hand. “You’ve given me so much already. This beautiful emerald. Really, it was so good of you to marry me at all.”

  “Nonsense,” he said roundly. “You caught me at just the right time in my life, Smith. I was withering away in exile when you found me. I was so starved for female companionship that Mrs. Grimstock was starting to look good to me.”

  “Is that what you mean by ‘withering away?’” she said angrily. “Lusting after poor Mrs. Grimstock? She’d leave your employ if she knew.”

  “That was only when I first came into Herts,” he explained. “By the third or fourth month, I gave up. I resigned myself to a cold bed. I bought a dog, sort of. Indeed, I was well on my way to turning into one of those crusty old bachelors who sit by the fire and talk to themselves when you burst into the scene. In another month or two, I’d not have been fit to marry anyone. Celibacy is not my natural state, you know. It was having a warping effect on me. I believe I even behaved rather badly when we first met.”

  “When were you ever celibate?” Abigail wanted to know. “Do you expect me to believe you don’t keep a mistress somewhere?” The moment she said the words, she wished she could have them back. She sounded like a shrew.

  Cary frowned. This was not exactly how he envisioned spending his wedding night, but perhaps it would be better to clear the air and give Abigail what reassurances she needed. “Where, for example? Cousin Wilfred watches me like a hawk.”

  “London, of course.”

  Cary snorted. “Alas, I can no longer afford to keep a mistress in London. So you see, Smith,” he went on playfully, “marriage was the only answer to my unhappy predicament. I couldn’t really see Grimstock putting up with any nonsense.”

  “But you might have married anyone,” Abigail said. “You need not have married me.”

  “True, true,” he agreed with his usual modesty. “But I could never make up my mind. Just as well you made it up for me.”

  “I did not mean to trap you,” Abigail said, distressed.

  “Not at all. You did me a favor coming through the wardrobe in your skin. It made choosing a wife so simple. No more lonely nights. No more talking to myself. No more involuntary celibacy.” He had thought she needed reassurance, but now it occurred to him she might have another reason for these inquiries. “You would not wish me to keep a mistress, surely?” he asked sharply. “Are you trying to put me off?”

  “No,” she answered, so loudly that the corgi uttered a faint woof of surprise. “I hope you will never be sorry you married me. I believe I can make you happy. I shall try.”

  “You may find it difficult,” he warned.

  She forced herself to look him in the eye. “Anything you want, Cary, whatever it is, I shall do it for you gladly. I will never deny you anything, I swear. If it is in my power to give you, it’s yours. I’m yours. I will always submit to your—your needs. I will never complain. I don’t want you to keep a mistress. I don’t want to share you with anyone. I will do anything you ask of me.”

  “Fascinating,” he murmured. “You can still blush while making the most indecent proposal ever made me by a woman. Well, Smith. Fortunately for your womanhood, I am a man of truly modest needs. Ten times a day is all I ask.”

  “T-t-ten times?” she echoed faintly, turning quite pale. “A day? Every day?”

  “Paltry, I know. But we must make allowances for the fact that you are a novice, my dear. In no time, I make sure, you will be servicing me twenty or thirty times a day. But ten will do me for now.” He grinned broadly.

  “Cary, I—”

  “Upside down to start, of course, before breakfast, usually, though not always. Then, right side up, just for a change. Then sideways, backwards, and forwards, in quick succession. What is that, five? Halfway there. Time for lunch.”

  “Oh, you’re not serious,” she breathed, turning bright pink.

  His eyes widened. “You seem disappointed, Smith. Now I’m blushing. Yes, of course I’m joking. I’m not a monster, Abigail.”

  “Don’t make fun of me,” she said softly.

  He seized her hands. “I can’t help it, Abby. I’m an ass, and you might as well know it now. When I’m nervous, I make stupid, flip, impertinent remarks that probably make you want to slap me. I blame Eton.”

  Abigail stared at him in astonishment. “Why?”

  “Why? Well, I was rather small for my age. The other boys—”

  “No,” she impatiently interrupted. “Why on earth would you be nervous?”

  “For that I blame you,” he explained. “You’re obviously nervous, and that in turn makes me nervous. I try to make you laugh, but that only seems to make it worse for you. You’re so tightly wound up I fear there’s no unwinding you. You’re different from any other woman I’ve ever known. I never know where I am with you.”

  “I don’t mean to be different,” Abigail cried, horrified. “I can change.”

  “I don’t want you to change, you maddening little baggage,” he explained. “I just want us to get to a place where I don’t frighten you to death. Don’t draw away from me when I touch you,” he added softly. “I can’t bear it.”

  “Do I do that? I don’t mean to, Cary. I’m just so nervous.”

  “After my behavior in the carriage, I can’t say I blame you,” he said ruefully. “Indeed, I wouldn’t blame you if you sent me packing.”

  “The carriage?” Just thinking of that passionate encounter made Abigail breathless. If only she had not been so worried about the coachman overhearing them, she might have succeeded in pleasing him. “You were wonderful in the carriage,” she told him humbly, and made a silent vow never to shrink from him again, no matter how nervous she felt. It was stupid and selfish, and, she was beginning to understand, it made Cary think she did not want him.

  He grinned sheepishly. “You should see me in bed.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Abigail replied. “Someday.”

  “God in heaven,” he said, grinning. “Smith has made a joke.” He held the covers up for her as she quickly joined him, then they were together in the warm nest.

&nb
sp; His hands claimed her instantly, but unhurriedly. There was no doubt of his arousal, but, clearly, there would be no repeat of the quick, hard onslaught she had enjoyed in the carriage. A lazy, teasing pleasure began building up in Abigail’s blood. In money matters, he might be hopelessly impractical, but he was a diligent and masterful lover. One can’t have everything. Indeed, truth be told, she was glad he had at least one imperfection. Snuggled safe under the covers, she reached for him.

  “It’s always the quiet ones,” Cary chuckled, cupping her small breasts, enjoying the rose-pink nipples that hardened under the thin material of her gown. When Abigail lost her shyness she became the most responsive woman he had ever bedded. She awakened and then fulfilled his most powerful desires in a way no other woman ever had. Socially awkward and self-effacing she might be, but in bed at least she was the perfect partner.

  He murmured playfully as he began rolling up the hem of her nightgown, “He comes and passeth through sphere after sphere; First her sheets, then her arms, then anywhere.”

  He put his hand on “anywhere,” and she marveled that her body did not even flinch as he probed and explored. Just hours ago she would have thought such intimacy too shocking to be contemplated, let alone endured. Now she merely opened herself as wide as she could, drawing him on with a greed that took her own breath away. This wanton lady could not be Abigail Ritchie. Abigail Wayborn was quite a different matter, however. She reminded herself that there was no sin in joining with the man who was now and forever her husband, but parts of her refused to believe it. It felt sinful to let go so utterly.

  “Was that Shakespeare?” she asked him idly, trailing her nails across his brown skin.

  “Donne,” he corrected.

  Abigail giggled. “Surely we are just getting started?”

  “It is a bit early in the evening for Donne,” he agreed, laughing aloud.

  Her gossamer gown, which was bunched up around her thighs, was soon rendered entirely transparent by his sweat mingled with hers. “Are you sure you are not too tired?” he asked once, but when she shook her head, he did not ask again, marveling at the way her small body took him in a second time with the same thrilled response. “You will suffer for it in the morning,” he warned, but she would not let him go. A temporary ache of the womb seemed a small price to pay for this incomprehensible bliss. She actually would have consented to a third encounter, but Cary refused. “I should be sore in the morning,” he murmured, making her laugh.

  Afterwards, as he slept, she stroked his rich black hair, wondering if it would ever turn gray. Surely not, she decided, as she floated into sleep. Surely she had married an immortal.

  The corgi woke her before dawn by jumping on the bed. The fire had died down, and Cary was moving about in the dark, hunting for his clothes. “See with what simplicity this nymph begins her golden days,” he greeted her poetically.

  “Hmmm?”

  “That’s Marvell, you marvellous creature.”

  “Cary, what are you talking about?”

  “Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter, in sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter,” he recited, smiling down at her. “Except, of course, this time I am still a king, and you are still mine.”

  The words thrilled her. Whatever else troubled their fledgling marriage, she had no doubt of his desire for her. They were as compatible in the bedchamber as they seemed to be incompatible out of it. “Was that more Marvell?” she asked teasingly. “Or Donne?”

  “Well, I’m finished, if that’s what you mean. No, monkey, it’s Shakespeare. Sonnet Eighty-seven. Don’t you Presbyterians read the classics?”

  Abigail sat up in bed and stretched. “What time is it?”

  Cary sighed, pulling on his breeches. “But at my back I always hear Time’s winged chariot hurrying near,” he complained, pushing the rest of his attire through the wardrobe. “The girl will be here any moment to build up your fire. I swear, when the world knows I am your husband, I shall keep you between those sheets for five straight days, but for now…” He knelt over her on the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing.”

  Abigail had no Shakespeare to give him in return, so she kissed his mouth, pulling at his lower lip with her teeth. He did not seem disappointed.

  The morning passed in a blur. Mrs. Spurgeon appeared at breakfast in a lace cap and iron-gray curls, complaining of numerous ailments, to which Vera murmured sympathetically. Abigail scarcely heard them until Mrs. Spurgeon’s voice suddenly intruded upon her thoughts.

  “I sometimes think I hear his voice, his dear sweet voice.”

  Abigail was startled. “Whose voice do you mean, Mrs. Spurgeon?”

  “Why, Cato’s, of course,” the older woman replied. “Haven’t you been listening? I see him in my dreams, and when I wake I think I see him there on his perch, just for a second. But it is just a dream. Is the window open, Vera?”

  “Of course,” Vera said soothingly.

  “The window must always be open, in case he should return. I do not think I can leave this place on Monday, not without my darling boy.”

  “But you must!” said Abigail, before Vera’s signal silenced her.

  “My poor, darling boy,” Mrs. Spurgeon murmured disconsolately, as if she had not heard Abigail’s outburst. Abigail felt a stab of pity for the woman. She hardly seemed the same robust, domineering harridan who had driven poor Paggles out of the carriage on the day they had met. The loss of her bird had hit the lady very hard.

  “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Spurgeon,” she said guiltily.

  “You never liked him,” she spitefully replied. “It’s all your fault he flew away!”

  “There, there, madam,” Vera interceded, patting Mrs. Spurgeon’s hand and soothing her agitation. “It is no one’s fault, I’m sure.” She whispered to Abigail, “Perhaps it would be best if you went for one of your walks, dear. There’s no sense in antagonizing her.”

  Stung, Abigail went upstairs to put on her cloak and gloves. Before coming into Hertfordshire, she had never thought of herself as being capable of inspiring strong feelings in her fellow creatures, but Mrs. Spurgeon had been shaking with rage. For her part in Cato’s untimely demise, Abigail felt horribly guilty. Angel, however, suffered from no such complexity of feeling; he was eager for a walk. As she stepped onto the porch, she saw Cary coming up the path, his purple coat more neatly brushed than his dark hair, which was falling into his eyes.

  He stopped to pat the dog on the head, a difficult operation as the dog’s head was continually moving as he jumped up and down excitedly.

  “Going for a walk?” he greeted Abigail. “You’ve anticipated me. I was just coming to invite you for a chaste little stroll in the woods.” Abruptly, his face changed. “What’s the matter? I thought you were happy when I left you.”

  “I was,” Abigail said quickly. “I still am. It’s Mrs. Spurgeon. She misses her bird frightfully. Sometimes I think—Do you think we ought to tell her the truth?”

  “Certainly not,” he answered, taking her arm and leading her away from the house. “Unless, of course, you wish to cause her more pain. Believe me, it is far kinder to let her believe Cato merely flew away, than to tell her the truth.” He kicked a clod of half-melted snow mixed with mud in Angel’s direction. “Disgusting beast. He wasn’t even sick. That bird went down his gullet as smoothly as a warm bowl of milk, beak and all.”

  Abigail, remembering the bird’s shrieking voice, shuddered involuntarily.

  Angel blundered off in the direction of the woods. “Let him go,” Cary instructed, steering her across the muddy lawn to a stand of birches. “There’s a little private path I would like to show you.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they were standing at the back door of the stone gatehouse. Abigail was more flattered than surprised. “You know why I brought you here,” he said, tilting back her head so that she was forced to look at him. It wasn’t really a question.

  “Yes,”
she said happily.

  “Good,” he grunted, fitting his key in the lock. “I don’t usually bring young ladies here in the middle of the day, but, since you are my wife, I will make an exception in your case.”

  Abigail went in before him. “I am not in the least interested in what you usually do,” she told him primly as she stood in the cold hall.

  Cary chuckled as he closed the door. “Hang your cloak on the peg,” he invited her, helping her out of it. “Nothing borrowed from Vera, I see,” he said approvingly as he eyed her blue dress. “Everything present and correct.”

  The hall opened into a poky room dominated by a brick fireplace. In the center of the room, which served as both kitchen and sitting room, was a long deal table and two chairs. To one side of the fireplace was a ladder leading up to a loft. The fire had been built up, Abigail guessed, in anticipation of her arrival.

  Her eyes went to the ladder. “Do you expect me to climb up there with you?”

  “If you insist,” he answered, herding her towards the loft with his body. “I was going to offer you a cup of tea, but if madam is inclined towards another lesson in wifely conduct…”

  Abigail started up the ladder, giggling. At the top she was obliged to crouch down to avoid banging her head on the low ceiling, but the narrow bed had a real eiderdown mattress and a quilt lovingly pieced together from tiny, vibrantly colored squares of satin.

  True to form, Cary threw aside his clothes and arranged himself on the bed in readiness. “Usually,” he drawled, “the lady gives me a moment to gather my thoughts before she pounces on me. But I suppose a wife must be permitted a few liberties. Pounce if you must. I shall bear it as best I can. Incidentally, I think you’ll find that removing all clothing will greatly increase our mutual satisfaction.”

  Abigail tossed her head as best she could while bending almost in half. “I told you I don’t care what you usually do with your tarts,” she said smartly, hauling up her skirts and climbing onto the narrow bed. In a moment she was straddling him. “I mean to institute a few reforms.”

  “Such as no drawers, perhaps?” he said, finding the nest of hairs between her thighs. It felt to his curious fingers like a ripe peach drenched in honey. “Now that was a necessary reform indeed, my queen. You are exactly right to remove all obstacles from the path of progress.”