Surrender To Sin. Tamara Lejeune

that Cary would think Mr. Leighton responsible for the rent. Of course, he had no way of knowing the truth. She was no longer Miss Ritchie, the Scotch heiress who had jilted Lord Dulwich; she was now the anonymous Miss Smith, ward of Mrs. Spurgeon.

      They hurried inside out of the blowing snow. The entrance hall was lit by a huge fire blazing in the massive stone hearth. Abigail set Angel on the floor and looked around, idly brushing at the short red hairs the dog had left on her cloak.

      Angel ran straight to the fire where two well-worn tapestry chairs had been arranged with a large footstool littered with newspapers set between them. A few crewel-work cushions had been placed on the deep wooden sills beneath the tall windows, but the room offered no other seating. Only one or two carpets had been put down on the floor, which was stone in some places and in others composed of odds and ends of timbers laid out in a hound’s tooth pattern. The walls were of beautiful linenfold paneling, darkened by smoke and age, and the coffered ceiling, which was rather low, featured the double rose of the Tudors.

      Abigail, who had always lived in the most modern, convenient London houses, instantly fell in love with it, musty smell, smoking chimney, and all. She could imagine the place filled with sixteenth-century ladies and gentlemen, the ladies in rich brocade skirts and ruffs of starched white lace, the men in velvet doublets and hose. She imagined how Cary Wayborn might look in doublet and hose, and decided he would do very well. He already had the pointed goatee and golden earring favored by the young men of Queen Elizabeth’s court.

      “Mrs. Grimstock is making us tea,” said Cary, clearing away the newspapers. Abigail hurried to help Paggles into one of the chairs, while Evans went to find the housekeeper.

      Cary watched curiously as she removed her cloak and placed it over the old woman like a blanket. Though rather too sensible in its design to be fashionable, Abigail’s dark blue dress was of good quality. It fit her slim body very well, and the deep, rich color made her short, curly hair look more than ever like butterscotch. Even from behind, there could be no mistaking her for a child. Cary felt his blood grow warm. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a woman, and judging by this one’s reaction to him, it was not going to be a very long conquest. Though she was obviously a virgin, he was experienced enough to know the many ways they could enjoy themselves without spoiling the girl completely. All he needed was to get her alone.

      Cary disposed of his newspapers and returned as Abigail was pulling off her gloves. “He eats gloves,” he warned her, removing what proved to be a walnut from the dog’s mouth. “Shoes too—sometimes with the people still in them.”

      To Abigail’s enormous relief, she found that, when her handsome, unmarried cousin was at one end of the room, and she was at the other, her bashfulness remained under control. It was only when he got within arm’s reach that she turned into a stammering fool.

      “He’s still a puppy. I daresay he’ll grow out of it,” she said intelligibly, just as the housekeeper arrived with the tea tray. The folding table was in its collapsed state at one side of the fireplace, and, as Abigail was closer to it than anyone else, she set it up without thinking.

      “Mrs. Grimstock,” Cary said sharply. “This is my cousin, Miss Vaughn, from Dublin. She hasn’t come all this way to set up tables for us.”

      Mrs. Grimstock did not look like a Grimstock at all, but was rather a plump, middle-aged woman with a pleasing scent of candied ginger. “I beg your pardon, Miss Vaughn,” she cried.

      “Smith,” said Abigail, confused to suddenly have two names that were not her own. “I’m perfectly capable of setting up a tea table, Mr. Wayborn. But my name is Smith.”

      Cary frowned slightly, but accepted the correction gracefully. “Yes, of course,” he said smoothly. “My cousin, Miss Vaughn-Smith. Or is it Smith-Vaughn? I quite forgot you were hyphenated.”

      “I am not in the least hyphenated,” said Abigail, staring at him. “I am simply Miss Smith. And I’m not from Dublin. Whatever made you think so? I’m from London.”

      “Yes, of course,” he agreed, beginning to laugh. “I must be drunk! Mrs. Grimstock, this, of course, is my cousin, Miss Smith, from London. She is not my cousin Miss Vaughn from Dublin, after all. I hope that’s clear. Will you do me the honor, cousin?” he added, as Mrs. Grimstock withdrew.

      “Do you the honor, sir?” For a moment Abigail stared, confused. “Oh, the tea! Yes, of course,” she said quickly. “How do you take yours, Mr. Wayborn?”

      He grinned at her audaciously. “With a spot of whisky, generally,” he said, waiting for her gasp of ladylike dismay.

      “There doesn’t seem to be any,” she said, dismayed, to be sure, but not gasping. “Shall I ring for the servant?”

      “Here,” he said, pulling out his flask, wondering how far she would take the joke.

      To his astonishment, she quietly took the whisky and poured it with a liberal hand into both cups. “Sugar?”

      “Two, please,” said Cary. As he came forward to take his laced cup, he could scarcely keep a straight face. He fully expected her to choke on her own tea-and-whisky, but to his astonishment, it seemed to slip quietly down her throat, as if by long-established custom.

      “One doesn’t often get such quality here,” Abigail remarked, unaware she had done anything controversial. “The Irish like to keep the best for themselves.”

      “My groom’s an Irishman,” Cary explained. “He can get me anything.”

      “I do like a little Irish in my tea. Though it’s not good for you at all. Not like scotch.”

      Cary choked.

      “Have I put too much in your cup?” she asked, concerned. “It does take getting used to.”

      “I’m all right,” Cary said with dignity. “Is…Is scotch good for you, do you think?”

      “Oh, yes,” Abigail said seriously. “A quaich a day is absolutely essential for the blood.”

      “What in God’s name is a quake?” Cary wanted to know.

      “About this much.” With her thumb and index finger, Abigail measured two inches.

      “I wouldn’t know what a quake does for the blood,” said Cary, laughing. “But I can tell you from experience that a bottle is very bad for the head. I brought a case of scotch up here when I first moved in, drank it out of sheer boredom, and it nearly killed me.”

      Abigail smiled to herself. Her Glaswegian father had always told her that Englishmen could not hold their liquor, so she did not think any less of her cousin for his admission. “This is a beautiful house,” she said presently.

      “Is it?” he replied, shrugging. “If you like drafty old piles. It started out as a cow byre.”

      She seemed deeply interested, so he went on, “As the Cary family prospered, they started adding on rooms. Things really got going for them when Henry VIII granted them a few thousand acres belonging to some stubborn Catholic neighbors, and by the time Elizabeth came to the throne, they were pretty well-established. In honor of the Virgin Queen, they built the house in the shape of an E.” He set his cup on the mantel. “Shall I give you the tour?”

      Abigail glanced at her old nurse, but Cary said quickly, “Let her rest. The servants will look after her.”

      “But Mrs. Spurgeon and Mrs. Nashe must be at the inn by now.”

      “It’s very likely they will have to stay the night,” he told her. “It’s been snowing all afternoon. I don’t know that a carriage could get through. You don’t mind being trapped here with me, do you?” He held out his hand to her, and smiled.

      “But you will be at the gatehouse, surely,” she objected nervously.

      “Yes, of course,” he said, pulling her to her feet. “Though I really think you ought to ask me to stay for dinner. I hate dining alone.