by Burnett, May
“Then we would still be talking of curtains and fringes by breakfast time.” She sighed. “Forgive my babbling, when half the night is already gone. Normally I am fast asleep at this hour.”
“Are you feeling sleepy by any chance?”
“How could I?” Her gaze wandered to the huge bed, quickly veered off in a more innocuous direction. “Merely a little tense.”
“Very understandable. Let me see if I can help you relax.” He sat down in the huge leather armchair, with Abigail on his lap, and kissed her.
She responded, a little clumsily, but with enthusiasm. With their mouths busy he began to caress her arms, shoulders, and back through the fabric that hid her curves from his sight. At dinner her gown had displayed her white breasts, and his memory supplied the picture, even as his hands began a daring raid on that part of her body.
“Oh,” she said. “I like it when you touch me.”
A good sign. He dropped a small kiss on her neck, and began to nuzzle her pretty ears. Why had he never before appreciated that part of Abigail? At least he had discovered them now. The silky softness of her hair was also a revelation. He opened the fat braid and separated the three strands with his hand, careful not to tug. That she allowed these liberties was encouraging. Maybe this would work after all. His own body was already straining upwards.
“Abigail, sweetheart, say my name.” She had to remember who was doing this to her, and not confuse him with anyone else. If he could keep her focus on him, how different he was from her past experience, maybe they could get through this more or less smoothly.
“Jeremy.” Abigail sounded a little dazed. “I feel warmer than before.”
“Ah, that’s good.” Her soft hands were disarranging his own hair, stroking over his shoulder blades. “Keep touching me.”
“All this is new to me,” she said presently, sounding more rational and like herself.
“Well, naturally.” What they were doing had nothing at all to do with her previous, disastrous experience. As long as they kept that fact front and centre, all would go well.
“You are strong,” she said, squeezing the muscles on his arm. A note of doubt had crept into her voice. “Very big and strong.” It did not sound like a compliment.
“Abigail, you have known me for years, this should not come as any surprise. I am a head taller than you, but this is still me, your friend.” He kissed her again, tried to distract her from that line of reasoning. She was so sweet and vulnerable. Not only he, most men were far stronger than a girl of average height. He would never hurt her for the world; that made all the difference, surely?
Taking his time, he slowly moved her towards the bed, and relaxed her enough to resume their kissing and touching there; she even permitted him to raise the hem of her nightgown and run his hand up her firm, deliciously smooth leg. When it approached the juncture on top, however, she stiffened apprehensively and he switched back to her nipples.
Maybe he could distract her enough to let go of her instinctive fear by talking. He began a light, teasing conversation, and she responded, with only slight hesitation.
When Jeremy had made love to a mistress in the past, time flew by unheeded. This time it passed as slowly as molasses, even though he focused all his attention on Abigail, soothing and arousing her with carefully guarded passion.
After more than an hour he judged that she was ready for the next step. She now tolerated his light touch in her most intimate places. Her body had begun to respond to his assiduous caresses, producing enough slickness that entry should not be painful – there would be no hymen to tear. Her sighs and sweet kisses indicated that she was softened, prepared.
“Do it,” she said, relieving his last hesitation. “Your own body must be mortified with waiting and frustration.” She was not wrong, though he would never have admitted to it. Positioning her legs and body at an angle that should minimise any discomfort, and kissing her deeply at the same time, he guided his member towards its sweet destination. It slipped in the first inch without resistance.
His own pleasure made him slow to realise the sudden change. Abigail’s whole body tensed, turned stiff as a marble statue; her breathing turned choppy and irregular. Alarmed, he drew back, though it cost him. Her eyes looked strange, not seeing him at all, and she panted frantically – it sounded as though she were gasping for air, air that was all around them in abundance. When he tried to put a comforting arm around her, she shrank away, and the desperate panting intensified.
What to do?
Jeremy put a warm blanket on top of her, leaving only the head outside, and removed himself to the other side of the large bed. Could he snap her out of whatever fears she was reliving with cold water, or a loud noise? But that might be cruel. The way she had looked, or rather, not looked at him in the dim candlelight broke his heart.
He talked to her, softly called, but it took a several endless minutes until she responded. Finally she blinked, and stared at him with horror.
“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, “it seems we will need more time. It would have been optimistic to expect the very first trial to succeed.” He was not sure he himself could endure more trials like that, however. He felt flayed, hollow.
Abigail’s mouth trembled and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “I should have known it would not work. It is not your fault in any way – that part of me is too broken, not that it matters if I cannot have children.” Her voice was too rigid, almost monotone. She stood up, smoothed the nightgown around her with unsteady hands.
“Abigail – please don’t leave looking like this. I am disappointed that my efforts fell short, but we cannot give up so quickly.”
“It is for the best.” She sounded more resolute, but then her voice wobbled as she said, “I shall never try again, never marry. As soon as feasible I shall free you from our engagement. Thank you for trying to save me, Jeremy – Lord Barton – but I already had doubts that we would suit. You merely need a bride to appease your father, and there are so many in England alone who can give you what I cannot.”
That she used his title, putting distance between them, cut him to the quick. “Don’t renounce me so easily, Abigail.”
Her blue eyes stared at him. “If we had succeeded, and I came to like it – to like doing this with you – would it not be worse, when we cannot marry anyway? It would just leave me with more regrets to live with.”
He wanted to contradict her, to tell her she was mistaken, but could not find the right words. How in God’s name had he ever put himself in such a false position, when his intentions had been nothing but good? Where had he gone wrong? The sense of failure was paralysing his tongue. He felt a stupid impulse to gather her in his arms and kiss away all doubts, but just minutes earlier she had shied away from him.
“I am going back to my own room.” Abigail pulled on the velvet wrapper with jerky movements.
He nodded tersely, and escorted her through the dark corridors, holding the candle aloft. Its weak light caressed her silhouette, teasing him with glimpses of what he could not have. He wanted to curse and break something, fight someone with his fists, but her silence, the reproach of her stiff back were beyond fighting.
What should he do now? He could not let her leave like that. The guilt would dog his steps forever.
Gritting his teeth, he bowed as she slipped back into her own room. He heard the key turn on the inside, standing there like a fool with his flickering candle.
Was there any way at all to put this right?
Chapter 21
Abigail awoke with a dry mouth and a headache, and an ominous sense that her life had taken a drastic turn for the worse. Within seconds she remembered the humiliating scene in Jeremy’s bedroom, and the headache intensified, now accompanied by shame and misery. What must he have thought of her! Jeremy would be relieved to be rid of such an irrational shrew as she had been, if not right away, then soon enough.
Leaving her to live out her life as a spinster. No need to obtai
n another doctor’s opinion now. How long would they have to go on with this farce of an engagement? Perhaps only a few more weeks, particularly if Milla left London or took up with some other man.
In the meantime, having to pretend that all was well, fending off wedding plans and suggestions for their joint future, was going to be torture. Abigail had stupidly allowed her heart to attach itself to Jeremy, again. Not some youthful infatuation from afar as in her younger years, when he had been her friend’s splendid but unattainable older brother. This time she knew him better, his good humour, his unselfishness, and she would miss Jeremy for a long time. For the rest of her life.
She rose later than usual and dressed with little care. What did it matter now what she wore, what did anything matter? As she brushed the hair he had undone during the night she remembered how his big hands had felt in it, caressing the strands so carefully, and broke down for a bout of crying. When her self-pity finally abated she washed her eyes, but it would take a while for the slight redness to diffuse.
He had tried so hard, so patiently. She had felt warm, tingling with excitement, and full of affection for this handsome, attentive man in her bed. Until the end she had truly believed they would succeed.
Then, from one moment to the next, Abigail had been cast back to that horrible time when she had been rudely woken from her sleep by a rough hand across her mouth and nostrils, cutting off her air, and the searing pain, the utter helplessness of that night. She had struggled when she had comprehended what was happening, but against that big brute – a noted sportsman, hah! – Abigail had not had the slightest chance, especially as he’d had the element of surprise on his side.
Last night, she had known that it was Jeremy and not Fenton; until her mind betrayed her with those horrible memories she had been enjoying and reciprocating Jeremy’s ministrations. Caresses and kisses that she would never enjoy again, due to her weakness and stupidity.
At that dismal thought she nearly cried again, but pulled herself together. There would be more than enough time to mourn later. Years and years and years.
She had sent her maid away, but presently a knock at the door reminded her that time was passing – from the direction of the sun’s rays it would be lunchtime soon.
“Come in,” she said loudly.
The maid looked at her worriedly. “Is everything all right, Miss?”
Abigail shrugged. “I awoke with a headache.” That was true enough, albeit rather unusual for her. It was not as though she had overindulged in alcohol the previous evening, though she had been nervous. With good reason, as it had turned out.
When Abigail left her room she would have to see him again. She would sink into the floor with embarrassment and regret.
“Ah, then that is why you did not appear at breakfast, Miss. Shall I ask the cook to prepare a tisane for your headache?”
“Please do.” Should she pretend to be truly sick? But hiding in her room was cowardly, and no solution. If she made a habit of it, where would it end?
“I was sent to tell you, from Lady Cirrell, that your parents have arrived.”
She could not have heard right. Abigail shook her head, which only made the headache worse. “My … parents? If only it were possible. My mother is dead, and my father is at sea.”
“Not any longer, Miss. Captain Trevelyan arrived some fifteen minutes ago, with his wife, demanding to see you. And also to see Lord Barton, but he went out riding since eight in the morning.”
How typically tactful of Jeremy to take himself out of the way when she felt so awkward, though it would not serve for long. Abigail looked into her mirror – the white of her eyes still showed a faint pink tinge.
“Please tell Lady Cirrell and my father that I shall join everyone as soon as my headache is a little better. Bring me that tisane and some dry toast in the meantime.”
“Right away, Miss. Sometimes food is best, if you can keep it down, I mean.”
Did the woman imply she had a hangover, or even morning sickness? Surely not the latter, since her engagement was so new. She had suffered from it moderately that time …. The only time in her life, it turned out. That was one affliction she would not miss.
Her thoughts were flitting about, clinging to irrelevancies, shying away from the catastrophe of the previous night. Yet she needed to focus if she was to face her father and stepmother so soon. Maybe put on another dress after all, a more careful coiffure … she must not show weakness. With luck Jeremy would not return from his ride until she had recovered her equanimity.
Had Abigail foreseen how utterly wretched she would feel the next morning, she never would have suggested that disastrous experiment. Jeremy had not been enthusiastic – time and again he had asked if she really wanted to do this, to go through with it. She only had herself to blame for the outcome, and her current despair.
When Abigail emerged from her room nearly an hour later Jeremy still had not returned. According to her maid, he had sent a message that some problem with a tenant was delaying him.
She stopped on the threshold of the parlour before any of the four older people saw her, breathing deeply in and out, bracing herself.
“I don’t understand why my son thinks he needs to deal with tenants when he has his fiancée to entertain,” Lord Branscombe grumbled. “I have sent word that you are here; he should arrive any moment.”
“A devotion to duty is not a bad quality.” That was her father’s deep rumble. “I just want to know if he will make my daughter happy.”
No chance of that, alas. Abigail cleared her throat.
“Ah, there she is now. All recovered from your headache?” Mrs. Trevelyan beamed at her as though there had never been a cross word between them.
Abigail ignored her, and went to kiss her father on both cheeks.
He hugged her like a friendly bear. No matter how often he shaved, his face always felt rough. “Abigail, my dear, you look lovely. All grown up! And engaged! I was surprised indeed when I learned that you were betrothed to Lord Barton after burying yourself in the country for all this time.”
She did not immediately reply, as her throat felt a little constricted. “Papa–,” she swallowed convulsively, “it is good to see you. I am happy you made it safely back home.” She was glad, though did he have to arrive on this of all days?
“You have lost weight.” Her father scrutinized her more thoroughly than she liked. “You are not consumptive, I hope?”
“No, not consumptive, I assure you.” She had lost her excess pounds in those weeks after the miscarriage, and kept them off afterwards. It had not required any conscious effort. The flesh in her face as well as on her body had firmed and tightened, and her overall energy had greatly increased. Too bad that all this improvement was for naught; her life and health were no longer important to anyone.
“As you can see, your father and stepmother thoroughly approve of your engagement.” Lady Cirrell smiled at her kindly. “I for one am greatly pleased that the Captain has returned at this opportune moment. He will be able to give you away, as is only proper. Do you know how long you will be staying on land this time, Captain Trevelyan?”
“He may not be just a captain soon,” Mrs. Trevelyan said proudly.
“Ah, then you are on top of the list?” Lord Branscombe asked. “Have you any indications from the Admiralty yet?”
“It would be premature to say anything.” Abigail’s father sent an admonishing look at his simpering wife. How long would it take him to discover just how irritating the woman was?
“I want to talk to my daughter, just the two of us,” Captain Trevelyan declared. “If your headache is better, Abigail, let us walk out there on the terrace, and maybe in the rose garden I see down yonder. I have not enjoyed roses much these past two years.”
She nodded her excuses to the others, and went to accompany her father, as bidden. In the bright outdoor light he looked a little heavier and greyer, but not too greatly changed since his last visit.
; “An excellent family, the Winthrops,” he began as soon as they were private. “I am happy to see you so comfortably situated. I did worry, you know, so far away and not knowing what was happening in your life.”
But you chose this profession and love it, she wanted to say. You were at the other side of the globe when I was in deadly trouble. Her father would never know how close he had come to receiving notice of her suicide.
She wanted to warn him that the engagement was not a sure thing, that she had doubts, but why destroy his happiness so soon after his return? No need to burden her father ahead of time. He would inevitably blame either Jeremy or her, when the real culprit was long dead, or make misguided attempts to patch things up between them.
“You will meet Jeremy soon enough, Father. I feel certain you will like him.”
“I already like him for having the good taste to fall in love with my daughter, and recognizing your worth despite the modest dowry and disparity in rank.”
Love? She had never realised her father was such a romantic. While she was looking for a tactful way to disabuse him of his illusions, he continued, “As for the dowry, I already told Lord Branscombe that I am increasing it to fifteen thousand. With the prize money from this last tour that is easily affordable.”
“Thank you, Papa.” He sounded so pleased and proud. That dowry would never be required, alas. At least she had her grandfather’s inheritance, when she turned twenty-one.
His look turned grave. “Now, Megan has told me that the two of you did not always see eye to eye while I was gone. I am sorry to hear it. Your own letters were not very informative.”
Abigail hesitated. How often she had wanted to pour a long, detailed list of Mrs. Trevelyan’s petty tyrannies into his ear! But at this juncture, what was the use? He had to live with the woman, and she – what would she do, when her engagement was dissolved? Live with Milla again? Milla would remarry soon, with her wealth and beauty it was a near-certainty. Maybe she could settle into a cottage near her friend Susan’s estate, as they had planned before the miscarriage.