matters to attend to in the country.” He waved a hand dismissively. “Tiresome business, troublesome tenants, nothing to interest your pretty little head.” He put up his quizzing glass and examined Serena with an unmistakably proprietorial leer that made her scalp crawl.
“How tedious for you, my lord,” she responded blandly as she stepped aside, out of his immediate line of vision, and moved to the sideboard. “May I refill your glass?”
“Indeed, you may.” He watched her closely as shereturned with the decanter. She filled his glass carefully, aware of those strange, lightless eyes fixed upon her.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must take off my hat and pelisse.” Adroitly, she stepped past her stepfather, curtsied briefly to the earl, and slipped from the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Outside in the hall, she couldn’t help a reflexive shudder. Burford disturbed her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Her stepfather fawned on him, behaved as if they were the best of friends, and yet Serena knew that the general was more than a little afraid of the earl. Of course, the latter held the power of the creditor over him.
She hurried down the corridor to her own apartments. Once there, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. It was an automatic gesture. She had learned the hard way about leaving her door unlocked under her stepfather’s roof.
A fire burned a cheerful welcome in the grate in her boudoir, and, having cast aside her outer garments, she sat down in a low chair beside the fireplace, stretching her feet in their elegant half-boots to the andirons, and contemplated the events of the afternoon.
It was an extraordinary coincidence that Sebastian should have come to Abigail’s rescue in such fashion and at such a moment, but she supposed that their own reunion would have happened somewhere at some point, when her stepfather was not around to deflect it. Sebastian was right; they couldn’t live in the same fewsquare miles and not run into each other, even if she was generally barred from the drawing rooms that Sebastian would frequent. It struck her now as unutterably stupid of her to have imagined that such a meeting would not occur. She had somehow believed she could live in London, run her faro bank, make her own plans, and cast into outer darkness all memory of that passionate idyll three years earlier.
But of course, she couldn’t. The memories lived deep within her, an essential part of her. They framed her every thought for the future, her every expectation of how life should be. And she couldn’t endure dwelling on them when compared with the hopeless misery of her present existence.
Restless now, she got up from her chair and paced from window to door and back. Her existence was miserable, but it was not hopeless. Soon she would have enough funds of her own to make her escape. Every morning, she did the previous night’s accounts, cleverly diverting a little here, a little there. It all mounted up, and General Sir George Heyward, greedy though he was, was more than happy to leave such tedious work to his stepdaughter. He would not acknowledge that she was infinitely better at such intellectual intricacies than he, instead maintaining the useful fiction that women were trained to manage household accounts. Serena did not disabuse him.
He had robbed her of her mother’s jointure, a healthy sum that should have come to her when she attainedher majority. Instead, it had mysteriously disappeared. At first, she had blamed her mother’s gullibility, her inability to see the bad in anyone, but in her heart, she knew that Lady Elinor had lived in terror of her second husband. She would not have confronted him about anything, even if it meant leaving her daughter destitute and at the general’s mercy.
Serena ceased her pacing. Dwelling upon such bitter memories achieved nothing. Action was the only way to banish them. She put on her pelisse and hat again and
“How tedious for you, my lord,” she responded blandly as she stepped aside, out of his immediate line of vision, and moved to the sideboard. “May I refill your glass?”
“Indeed, you may.” He watched her closely as shereturned with the decanter. She filled his glass carefully, aware of those strange, lightless eyes fixed upon her.
“Now, if you will excuse me, I must take off my hat and pelisse.” Adroitly, she stepped past her stepfather, curtsied briefly to the earl, and slipped from the room, closing the door firmly behind her.
Outside in the hall, she couldn’t help a reflexive shudder. Burford disturbed her, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Her stepfather fawned on him, behaved as if they were the best of friends, and yet Serena knew that the general was more than a little afraid of the earl. Of course, the latter held the power of the creditor over him.
She hurried down the corridor to her own apartments. Once there, she closed the door and turned the key in the lock. It was an automatic gesture. She had learned the hard way about leaving her door unlocked under her stepfather’s roof.
A fire burned a cheerful welcome in the grate in her boudoir, and, having cast aside her outer garments, she sat down in a low chair beside the fireplace, stretching her feet in their elegant half-boots to the andirons, and contemplated the events of the afternoon.
It was an extraordinary coincidence that Sebastian should have come to Abigail’s rescue in such fashion and at such a moment, but she supposed that their own reunion would have happened somewhere at some point, when her stepfather was not around to deflect it. Sebastian was right; they couldn’t live in the same fewsquare miles and not run into each other, even if she was generally barred from the drawing rooms that Sebastian would frequent. It struck her now as unutterably stupid of her to have imagined that such a meeting would not occur. She had somehow believed she could live in London, run her faro bank, make her own plans, and cast into outer darkness all memory of that passionate idyll three years earlier.
But of course, she couldn’t. The memories lived deep within her, an essential part of her. They framed her every thought for the future, her every expectation of how life should be. And she couldn’t endure dwelling on them when compared with the hopeless misery of her present existence.
Restless now, she got up from her chair and paced from window to door and back. Her existence was miserable, but it was not hopeless. Soon she would have enough funds of her own to make her escape. Every morning, she did the previous night’s accounts, cleverly diverting a little here, a little there. It all mounted up, and General Sir George Heyward, greedy though he was, was more than happy to leave such tedious work to his stepdaughter. He would not acknowledge that she was infinitely better at such intellectual intricacies than he, instead maintaining the useful fiction that women were trained to manage household accounts. Serena did not disabuse him.
He had robbed her of her mother’s jointure, a healthy sum that should have come to her when she attainedher majority. Instead, it had mysteriously disappeared. At first, she had blamed her mother’s gullibility, her inability to see the bad in anyone, but in her heart, she knew that Lady Elinor had lived in terror of her second husband. She would not have confronted him about anything, even if it meant leaving her daughter destitute and at the general’s mercy.
Serena ceased her pacing. Dwelling upon such bitter memories achieved nothing. Action was the only way to banish them. She put on her pelisse and hat again and
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