Surrender to Sin

by Tamara Lejeune

  Cary did not wait long. Before the second scene was done, a servant brought a note to the Duke’s box on a silver salver. The Duke snatched it before Abigail could move. “‘Meet me at the top of the stairs. Yours, etc.,’” he read contemptuously, and tossed it into the nearest basket. “Not bloody likely! As though I should be taken in by such an obvious trick. Trying to get your brother to lure me away, so that you can throw your roses behind my back, eh?” His voice rose as he called to Juliet across the theater. “You’ll have to do better than that, my dear!”

  Cary pointed at Abigail, then walked his gloved fingers across his open palm.

  “Perhaps I should go and see what he wants,” Abigail said slowly.

  “Good idea,” said the crafty Duke. “Keep him occupied. Don’t let him out of your sight. I’ll watch her. But be careful, Abigail. She’s up to something. I know it. I can feel it in the air. And that brother of hers could very well be in on it. He never liked me.”

  “I’ll be very careful, sir,” Abigail assured him, picking her way out of the box.

  It was all she could do not to cry out when she saw Cary coming towards her from the other end of the corridor. A servant passed them carrying a tray of wineglasses, but she did not care. She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. Relief flooded through her body as he embraced her. She held him as tightly as she could. His coat, which she could now see was not black but a very dark aubergine, smelled strongly of roses. She could only hope she did not smell of decaying spuds.

  “Oh, my poor darling,” Cary murmured in her hair. “What you must be suffering with that oaf.” Behind her back, she could feel him peeling off his gloves. In the next moment his warm hands slipped around the nape of her neck. Guiding her face up to his, he began to kiss her very softly, as if afraid of injuring her. Abigail shivered at the barest contact between his skin and hers.

  “He’s filled the box with onion skins and rotting cabbages and black potatoes,” she complained. “It’s unspeakably foul. And your sister is an absolute menace.”

  “Well, it’s all right, now,” he said, covering her mouth with his own and working her back into the curtains lining the wall, which he proceeded to pull around them as he continued kissing her. At first Abigail kissed him back passionately, but as the kiss deepened and she felt his hands stray to her breasts, she began to pull away. Blinded to everything else in his pursuit of pleasure, Cary trailed fiery kisses down her neck and his hands moved firmly down the front of her belly, drawing up her linen skirts in his fists. “I’ve missed you, Smith,” he murmured huskily. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.” He caught her hand and drew it to the front of his trousers. “Look what you’ve done to me.”

  Abigail snatched her hands away.

  This Cary could not fail to notice.

  “I thought perhaps you might want to talk to me,” she said tartly, pushing her way out of the velvet curtains. Fortunately, at that moment, the corridor was empty. “Remember talking? It seems to me that all you ever want to do is…is maul me. I should like to think we might have some conversation sometime.”

  “What shall we discuss?” he asked. His voice was light but he was frowning. “How do you like the play so far? Do you think it will rain?”

  Abigail was suddenly very angry. It seemed to her that she had been enduring abuse all day, from his sister, from her father, and from the Duke. From him she had expected comfort. But theirs, she reminded herself, was purely a physical relationship, at least on his side. Suddenly, she couldn’t bear to be just a desirable body to him.

  “Am I supposed to forget that you called me a thief?” she snapped. “Just because you kissed me? Well, you are not quite so fascinating as you seem to think.”

  “I was working up to an apology,” he said in an injured voice.

  “Oh, yes?”

  “You threw your arms around me, Smith,” he pointed out. “You started it. I was simply minding my own business. I had a lovely apology all worked out, in fact, and then you…you ruined it by attacking me with your amazingly soft little—”

  “Augh!” said Abigail.

  “Easy for you to say,” he observed without rancor. “Here,” he added, pulling a flat blue velvet jewel box out of his pocket. “I brought you something.”

  Abigail thought she would burst into tears. This was her father’s way of making amends, and she detested it. “Cary, you can’t just buy me a present and think all will be forgiven.”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “Why on earth would I buy you a present? They’re yours, I think.”

  Puzzled, and suspecting a trick, Abigail opened the box. “My pearls!” she exclaimed. “What on earth are you doing with them?”

  “I’m returning them to you, of course. Didn’t you know they’d been stolen?” he asked, with considerable amusement.

  “I’ve got a lot of pearls,” she said defensively. “I don’t actually like the clasp on these ones. Did I leave them at your house, then? Why do you say they were stolen?”

  “Because, Smith, they were stolen, along with my grandmama’s punch bowl and an assortment of other plunder, which has also been recovered. Would you like me to mind them for you?” he asked presently, observing her rather ostentatious set of Italian cameos. “Your neck seems pretty well decorated at the moment.”

  “Does this mean you caught the thief, and got it all back?” she asked as he pocketed her pearls again. “That’s wonderful, Cary. It is. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

  He laughed. “No, monkey. The thief remains at large. But when I went back to Bow Street, there was Mr. Leighton, turning in all my silver and your silly-clasped pearls.”

  “Mr. Leighton! My Mr. Leighton?”

  “I hadn’t realized he was your own personal Mr. Leighton, but, yes. Apparently, the thief was a member of the unhappy man’s household. Namely, one Evans.”

  “Good heavens!” cried Abigail.

  His mouth twitched. “That’s just what I said.”

  “Mrs. Spurgeon’s maid? How dreadful! And she took my pearls from my room? How very impertinent.”

  “Never mind your pearls, Smith. You’ve got them back. What about my miniatures? They easily discovered my silver and your pearls in the culprit’s room. But they didn’t know about my missing miniatures, and she was allowed to pack her trunk and leave the house.”

  “They let her get away?” Abigail said incredulously. “A proven thief?”

  “Naturally, they turned her off without a character. I’m sure your personal Mr. Leighton didn’t want to go through the trouble and expense of a trial. I certainly don’t. And I wouldn’t care to see the old girl hanged either. Would you?”

  “No, of course not. But she might be transported to Australia! Your miniatures, Cary,” she said unhappily. “They were worth so much money.”

  “I don’t care three straws for those miniatures,” he declared. “I never even looked at them before you came to Tanglewood.”

  “I’m surprised you even bothered to come to London to report them missing!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What are you talking about?” she said impatiently. “Of course you did. You went to Bow Street and hired the Runners, didn’t you?”

  “Not to find my bloody miniatures, you silly woman. I hired them to find you.” He leaned against the wall and casually examined his fingernails. “When I thought you’d cleaned me out and you weren’t coming back, it was the not coming back part that upset me. I thought I was never going to see you again, Smith. It’s been a pretty rough couple of days for me, in fact, what with you appearing and disappearing like a mirage in the desert.”

  Abigail’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Of course,” he went on, “the instant I saw you in Hatchard’s, I realized you couldn’t possibly have stolen my silver. My only excuse is that I’ve never been in love before, not really, and it’s hard to think clearly when one is in love. What I thought was up, seems to be down, and all the rest
of it is just topsy-turvy. All I knew for certain was that, if there was the slightest possibility you meant to leave me forever, I had to do something desperate.”

  “Cary,” she gasped. “Are you saying that you love me?”

  “Without much success, apparently. It’s bloody hard to say, isn’t it? When one means it, that is. When one doesn’t mean it, it just sort of rolls off the tongue. Have you noticed that?”

  “No,” she said. “Are you in the habit of saying it when you don’t mean it?”

  “I shouldn’t call it a habit,” he said defensively. “But I admit there have been occasions when I have said it merely to avoid the appearance of being a complete cad.”

  “I see,” said Abigail, biting her lip. “I wish you wouldn’t say it then.”

  “What? I love you?”

  Abigail shuddered. “Don’t say it again, please. It’s not something I care to hear.”

  “Really?” He seemed amused. “Most people seem to like hearing it. I certainly do. Let me be sure I understand you. You don’t want me to say that I love you ever again?”

  “Yes,” she said firmly.

  “Yes, you do want me to say that I love you?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, of course you don’t want me to say I love you now. That would be repetitive. But, perhaps, at some later date? On Thursday, if you are not otherwise engaged?”

  “No, Cary. Never,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “All right, Smith. I solemnly swear never to tell you I love you on a Thursday. But, wait. What if your birthday falls on a Thursday? Surely I may tell you I love you on your birthday?”

  He was actually laughing at her.

  “You are never to say you love me again,” she said furiously. “Ever. Not on any day of the week. Not on my birthday. Not on your birthday either,” she added as he opened his mouth. “Never again, Cary. If you do, I shall hit you!”

  “What about…je t’adore? Te amo?”

  “Not in any language!”

  “Then you ought to have said jamais. When one is determined to talk rubbish, one should always do so in French.”

  “Don’t you dare say I am talking rubbish. You’re the one talking rubbish.”

  Abigail turned on her heel and walked away. She did not get very far. He was suddenly in front of her. “Tell me, Smith. Have you ever stood your ground in a fight? Or do you always run away?”

  “I don’t want to fight with you,” she said, forcing herself to stand still.

  “No, indeed,” he murmured. “You merely want absolute power over my vocabulary. So far, you wish to strike ‘I love you’ and ‘rubbish’ from the lexicon, the two mainstays of any civilized conversation between married people.”

  “It’s all a joke to you, isn’t it?” she said angrily.

  He folded his arms and looked at her with mocking gravity. “I’ll tell you what, Smith. If you can give me one good reason why I shouldn’t tell you I love you whenever I please, I’ll consider it. I don’t take commands, but I like to think I can always be persuaded by a rational argument. If you’ve got one, let’s hear it.”

  Abigail lifted her chin. “Because you don’t.”

  “I don’t what? Come now, Smith. You wanted to talk. Let’s talk.”

  “You don’t love me, Cary,” she said, forcing the words out. “It hurts me to hear you say it when I know you don’t mean it. It rolls off your tongue, I know, but I’d rather not hear it, if you don’t mind. And I don’t need to hear it, if that is what you think. I know that ours is not that sort of marriage.”

  He drew back. “I see. And ‘rubbish’?”

  “What?” she said sharply.

  “As I understand it, your primary objection to my saying ‘I love you’ is that I don’t mean it. Is your objection to my saying rubbish also that I don’t mean it?”

  “No, that I think you mean. I’m sure everything I say is rubbish to you.”

  “You can’t have it both ways, Smith. You can’t object to my saying one thing because I don’t mean it, then turn around and object to my saying something else because I do. It leaves me nowhere to go, if you see what I mean.”

  “Very well!” she said crossly. “I don’t care if you say ‘rubbish.’ Say it as much as you please. But you will not tell me you love me when you don’t mean it.”

  “My dear Smith, that gives me leave to say it whenever I like,” he said, laughing. “Is that not what you hoped to avoid?”

  A young man suddenly appeared in the corridor and hailed Cary in good-natured, affable, slurring speech of little sense and long duration. “That Cleopatra woman has got her bubbies half out, so Mama has sent me to fetch lemonade,” he concluded. “May I get you some, Wayborn? Some for your lady friend?”

  “Not now, Budgie,” Cary growled at him. “I’m telling the woman I love that she is, in fact, the woman I love. It’s what you might call a private moment.”

  “Oh, well done,” the young man murmured, studying Abigail with interest. “Would you like some lemonade, miss? I’m just going now to fetch some for my mama, so it’s no trouble.”

  Abigail was staring at Cary and did not hear him.

  “I say! I know you, don’t I?” Budgie slurred, scratching his head.

  Abigail glanced at him. “Certainly not,” she said sharply. “Do go away.”

  “You heard her,” said Cary. “Biff off!”

  “Oh, right. I’m just getting lemonade,” he explained, biffing off with surprising skill and speed, almost as if he had biffed before.

  “Cary, do you mean it?” she asked carefully. “You’re not just teasing me?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “That would be rather cruel, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, it would be.”

  “I love you,” he repeated, looking down at her. “You believe me, don’t you, monkey?”

  Abigail felt her insides melting and tears welling up in her eyes. “Yes, monkey, I do.”

  “Good,” he said curtly. “Because I’m never going to say it again as long as I live. It’s too bloody hard on my nerves.” A smattering of applause from inside the theater distracted him. “Look here, that’s the end of Act One. I’d better take you back to Auckland.”

  The Duke spared Cary and Abigail only a very cursory glance. “You’re in the enemy camp now, Cary,” he grunted as Abigail took her seat. “Are you a spy or a traitor? Julie seems to think you are a traitor,” he added a little gleefully as, across the way, Miss Wayborn turned her jeweled head away with an angry toss.

  “I am neither, sir,” Cary replied, covering his nose with his handkerchief to ward off the heavy odor of rotting cabbages. “I am remaining neutral in the quarrel between my charming sister and yourself. To that end, I think it only fair that I divide my time evenly between you.”

  “Are you going to watch the second act with us?” The Duke rubbed his hands together. “That ought to roast her pride nicely.”

  Abigail turned in her seat to look at Cary. “Yes, do stay.”

  “Perhaps a trade?” Cary suggested. “I’ll sit here with Abigail and you have a go at Julie.”

  The Duke snorted. “Oh, yes! And whilst I am making my way over there, she blows kisses at Mr. Rourke! I didn’t come down with the last shower, you know. Besides, my vegetables are here. You’re welcome to stay, Cary, but I’m not moving.”

  Cary’s eyes were laughing. “I cannot leave my sister alone. There’s no telling what she’ll do. But I will see you again very soon, Smith,” he added, bowing over Abigail’s hand. “Perhaps I might procure you a glass of lemonade at intermission?”

  She had to be content with that.

  “Well?” said the Duke, when he had gone. “What did he want?”

  “I could not find it out, sir,” she answered. “Perhaps if I met him again…”

  Anxiously, she watched the opposite box until Cary appeared in it. Juliet turned away from the traitor with a ferocious scowl. On the stage, the prodigal Antony made his ex
cuses to Caesar in Rome, and some of the play seemed to penetrate the Duke’s intense concentration on his estranged lady. “Listen to that pretty fellow, Annabel! ‘I am not married, Caesar.’ You see what a lover he is! He’s perfectly willing to give up Cleopatra and marry that wretched Octavia creature, just to grease his path with Caesar. That’s an Irishman for you.”

  “You mustn’t confuse Mr. Rourke with the character he is playing,” Abigail protested. “They are not one and the same, you know. For one thing, Antony is not Irish.”

  “It’s Cleopatra I feel sorry for. She thinks he loves her, poor little mite.”

  Abigail suddenly jumped to her feet, upsetting a basket of potatoes.

  “Mind the garbage, if you please!” he said, annoyed.

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said breathlessly, scooting for the exit. “But Mr. Wayborn has just left the box.”

  “Has he? Go and see if you can find out what Julie means to do at intermission.”

  They met in almost the same place and dove into the curtains immediately. “I’ve missed you so much,” he whispered, pressing her against the corridor wall.

  “It’s only been two scenes,” she protested, laughing. “Antony hasn’t even met Octavia.”

  “It’s not me,” he explained. “It’s the prime minister. He needs to see the Queen on a matter of great national interest.”

  Abigail squirmed as his tongue tickled her ear. “Is that not perhaps an exaggeration, sir?”

  “You tell me,” he muttered, placing himself in her hands.

  Abigail was as shocked as ever by the intimacy, but her hand closed around the stiff warm flesh instinctively. The madness of unbridled lust welled up in her. It was useless to resist it. “Not here, please,” she begged. “Anyone passing by would know what we’re doing.”

  “What do you have in mind?” he said in a strained voice.

  “My carriage is outside,” she said shyly. “The seats fold down.”

  Cary burst out laughing. “Very civilized, I’m sure. But we’d never make it. Come with me,” he said, grabbing her hand. Holding up his trousers with the other, he burst out of the curtains with her and they took off running down the hall, to the considerable surprise of a small conclave of theater attendants who were throwing dice on the landing.