Summerset Abbey: Spring Awakening (Summerset Abbey Trilogy) (3 page)

R
owena stared out the dormer window of her bedroom, watching the lights from the house splashing out onto the garden. The Coterie must have managed to extricate themselves from the card games because Rowena could hear low echoes of illicit laughter as it spilled out into the night from the billiards room.

Earlier, music from the drawing room had wafted up to her open bedroom windows—sweet classical airs drawn from the masters that had little in common with the music now pulsing out of the gramophone’s lily-shaped speaker. Ragtime’s primal rhythms filled her with a restlessness that pulled on her heart and tugged low in her belly. Music that made her think of stolen hours spent in a London hotel room with a man she could never have and would never forget.

The room, already warm, seemed unbearably stuffy, and the dark softness of Summerset’s manicured grounds looked cool and inviting. Restless, Rowena snatched up her light lawn dressing gown and, after tying the ribbon at her throat, padded across the room in her bare feet. Once she’d made sure the coast was clear, she hurried like a wraith down the dim, deserted hallway, her pulse racing. She hadn’t felt this good since the last time she’d taken her plane in the air. Slipping out through the conservatory,
she ran across the lawn, her nightclothes billowing out behind her.

She ran past the rose garden her father had redesigned as a young man and through a gap in the hedge that boxed in the kitchen garden and the cutting garden. Out of the sight of the house, she slowed, catching her breath. The grass pathway was velvety soft beneath her feet, and the scent of fresh flowers perfumed the air. She followed the footpath past the massive kitchen garden, which provided the family and the staff of Summerset Abbey with fresh fruits and vegetables during the spring and summer and root vegetables during the autumn.

Taking a right, she moved away from the garden toward the lily pond. The frogs croaked a summer’s hymn in the night, and a sense of peace washed over her as she took a seat on a small knoll overlooking the inky, moon-splashed water.

Chilled, she pulled her legs up under her nightgown and rested her arms on her knees. Purposefully, she kept her mind away from Jonathon and focused on Sebastian, whom she would be marrying in weeks. They had originally planned to wed the first of July, but had moved the date to mid-September to make sure Victoria had recovered enough to be Rowena’s attendant.

She’d avoided thinking about the wedding, even though everyone around her could talk of little else. To escape, she’d employed tricks such as staring off into the distance as if considering something important and then agreeing to everything with a little “Mhmm.” This led to her having orange blossoms in her hair instead of her father’s favorite lilies, six bridesmaids instead of three, and beef Wellington for her wedding supper instead of the game hen that was her and Sebastian’s favorite.

She let herself be carried upon the wedding wave because the less she thought of it, the less real it seemed. Now she brought it
into sharp focus. Not the wedding. She could not care any less about the actual ceremony; it was the marriage she needed to think about.

Marriage to Sebastian. Not Jonathon. Her chest ached and she clenched her fist. Sebastian. She pushed the image of Jonathon away and let Sebastian fill her mind. Sebastian, who was so handsome and kind. When gossip about Rowena’s behavior with Jonathon reached her aunt, Lady Summerset had automatically assumed the man in question was Sebastian. Sebastian gallantly agreed to go along with a false engagement to save Rowena’s reputation. He was a good man with heartache of his own, and when he asked her to make their engagement a real one, there was no reason not to. After all, Jonathon wasn’t coming back. Her uncle had stolen land from Jonathon’s family, thereby setting into motion the events partially responsible for the death of his father. Her name and her fortune and everything that they implied were, in the end, too much for Jonathon.

But she had neglected to think about giving herself to Sebastian the way she had given herself to Jonathon. Could she do that?

A warm breeze ruffled her hair and she closed her eyes imagining what it would be like to kiss Sebastian the way she had Jonathon.

“Rowena,” a man’s voice said softly.

She jumped and glanced behind her, red staining her cheeks when she realized that Sebastian stood there as if she had conjured him. “You alarmed me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said, joining her on the bench. “There was no way to let you know I was here without startling you.”

“It’s all right.” She knew she should be ashamed—sitting with a man in her nightclothes all alone—but she wasn’t. She
also knew she should be concerned about being alone with Sebastian, but she wasn’t worried about that either. The night was made for lovers, but her lover had gone away. The man who was to be her husband was here instead, and she needed to make her peace with it, once and for all.

But what if she couldn’t fulfill her physical responsibilities to her husband? What would happen then? Shouldn’t she find out before they were wed? Butterflies circled in her stomach. She should. “It’s a beautiful night,” she finally said. “It’s hard to believe how quickly summer is passing.”

“It was an interesting spring.” His voice sounded neutral and she wondered what he was thinking.

She put her knees down and turned to look at his profile in the darkness. Like her, Sebastian Billingsly was the product of hundreds of years of good breeding. In contrast to some of the other young lords of their generation, his features were even and strong. His jaw was firm and his nose and teeth were both straight. The darkness of his hair and eyes reflected the light of the moon.

He turned to look at her and she smiled. Resolutely, she moved closer to his side, and though his eyes widened, he said nothing. She leaned against him until he slipped his arm around her shoulders.

It was strange being pressed so close to a man who wasn’t Jonathon, but it wasn’t unpleasant. She laid her head against his shoulder, and his arm reflexively tightened about her. The longing, aching need she felt with Jonathon wasn’t there, but warmth nonetheless spread through her body at Sebastian’s proximity.

She closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her courage before turning her face up to his. He looked down at her, a smile curving his well-formed lips.

“By the time autumn comes, we’ll be married,” she said, her voice quavering. She cleared her throat.
Courage
, she told herself.

He nodded, his face thoughtful in the darkness. “Are you still satisfied with our arrangement?”

She searched his face wondering if he still was, but he had turned away and didn’t meet her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

His eyes were distant. “You’re very guarded. I wanted to make sure you weren’t having second thoughts. So when I saw you running across the lawn, I decided to gird my loins and just ask.”

Her pulse increased. She knew he would let her out of their arrangement if she wanted. She only had to say the word. But was being alone and pining away for a man who had walked away from her any way to live? Was it any better? At least she and Sebastian were honest about their feelings. They could make a good marriage, she knew they could. If only she could get past her hesitation about making love to him. Impulsively, she reached up and pulled his head down, pressing her lips hard against his. Startled, he didn’t move, but then his hesitation disappeared and he pulled her close.

Their kiss deepened, and for a moment Rowena almost pulled away, but then she focused. If she could just get to know him, get to know the way his mouth felt against hers, she wouldn’t feel so strange in his arms. Already her lips were matching his, and a hesitant, buttery warmth invaded her lower belly. She pressed her hands experimentally against his chest, feeling the hard muscles underneath. He pulled away and buried his face in her hair, his breath ragged.

“Rowena?” His voice was a question. In answer, she moved until she was in his lap and resumed kissing him. She pushed off his light summer jacket and linked her arms around his neck.
His kisses were slow and languorous, almost chaste, as if he was holding back. Then she realized why. He thought she was a virgin. She stiffened in his arms, but when he tried to pull away, she drew his head back down.

He was going to find out sooner or later for they already had too many strikes against their marriage to play games. If they had any hope of making a real partnership, they would have to be honest with one another. So, her heart in her throat, she untied her dressing gown and slipped it off her shoulders. Then in one smooth movement, she pulled her nightdress over her head and discarded it on the grass next to the bench. Without waiting for an answer, he picked her up in his arms and lay her down in the soft grass.

“Rowena,” Sebastian groaned “What are you doing?”

She shivered as the cool summer air hit her body. She let herself fall on top of him, burrowing into his warmth. No, the body she lay against wasn’t Jonathon’s, but the lingering pulses of the music, the exultation of her flight from the house, and the feeling of his skin against hers had broken through her reserve. It had been so long, so very long, since someone had held her like this, wanting her. “I’m not an innocent,” she murmured against the base of his throat. He groaned as she unbuttoned his shirt and pressed herself against him.

He ran his hands down the velvety length of her back and she held her breath. He rolled them over until he was on top, and she could feel him fumbling with the front of his trousers. She arched against him, willing him to hurry. “Please,” she whispered, “please . . .” But it was Jonathon’s name that suddenly came to her mind.

Shock, like a bucket of cold water, washed over her. Suddenly, she was aware of the strangeness of the body on top of
her. The feeling of a twig poking her back. What was she doing? How had this gotten so out of hand? “No. Please stop.”

She reached out her hand and grabbed her discarded nightclothes and pulled them against her chest.

Groaning, Sebastian fell alongside her. She could hear the sound of his labored breathing, and tears stung her eyes. She was simply hopeless.

He put his arm over his eyes and she hurriedly dragged her nightgown over her head and pulled her dressing gown on. He didn’t move. Taking a deep breath, she touched his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” He sat up next to her. Handing him his shirt, she looked away until he had pulled it on. “But I don’t know if I understand what . . . what just happened . . .”

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small. “I don’t know what came over me. I just wanted to . . .”

“Don’t.” He put a finger to her lips. “Don’t apologize. We got out of hand and you rightfully stopped us. We should wait until our marriage.”

She wanted to tell him the truth. Tell him she had wanted him, but was confused. That she still ached for Jonathon every night. But looking at his kind, handsome face, she knew she wouldn’t. He’d suffered enough heartache. She wasn’t going to add to it.

But underneath her confusion and her disappointment in herself was relief. If nothing else, she knew from the intensity of their embrace that she could one day share a marriage bed with Sebastian . . . just not yet.

Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth. “Now, my dear future husband, how are you going to sneak me back into the house?”

*  *  *

Prudence Wilkes hurried up the stairs of her Camden Town flat, wondering how time had gotten away from her. She liked to have dinner already cooking when her husband got home from the docks. Hauling pallets tired him out so much that he could barely keep his eyes open through dinner as it was. If she didn’t have his food on the table early, he barely made it through his meal.

He’d been working steadily ever since he had passed the examinations for the Royal Veterinary College. He didn’t say it, but she knew it rankled him to live off her money. He was working hard and saving so that when he started school in the fall, they wouldn’t have to lean so hard on her small inheritance.

She put her key in the lock, entered the stuffy flat, and hurried to turn on the fan she had splurged on. All it really did was move the hot air around, but it helped. A little. She had left all the windows open, but Andrew didn’t like her leaving the door open while he was gone. The flat was so long and narrow that the air never seemed to circulate from the front room to their back bedroom, and the windows didn’t help at all.

She had gone down to St. Pancras Gardens and sat in the shade to read. At least hearing the water in the fountains made her feel as if she should be cool, even if she wasn’t. It was better than sitting in the sweltering flat all day. She tried not to think about the cool, spacious rooms of the Mayfair house where she’d grown up. That way of life had died when Sir Philip had. This was her life now, and for all intents and purposes, it wasn’t a bad life. Just a different life.

Prudence went to the small counter next to the sink and set the block of ice she had just purchased into it. Pulling up a corner of the burlap, she chipped off a chunk of ice and put it in a
glass before wrapping the burlap tightly around the block and placing it in the small icebox. She filled her glass with water and drank deeply before refilling it and starting supper. There was no way she was going to light the oven. Andrew would have to be grateful for the bangers she had bought and would serve with a small, and blessedly cool, plate of fresh, sliced tomatoes.

While she worked, she remembered that Victoria’s letter was still in her pocket. She put the bangers in the pan, sliced the tomatoes, and then arranged them prettily on a plate. She wasn’t much of a housekeeper or cook, but at least she tried.

Taking her cool glass of water, she sat at the kitchen table and opened her letter. She could almost hear Victoria’s impudent, breezy voice as she read the scrawling words.

My dearest Pru,

How I wish I were sleeping on your tiny window seat rather than living in a place where everyone watches me as if I am going to collapse at any given moment, regardless of how fine a mansion it is! The doctor has given me a clean bill of health, my asthma is better thanks to Nanny Iris’s concoctions, and still everyone fusses over me so!