Born and educated in Scotland, MARGUERITE KAYE originally qualified as a lawyer but chose not to practise—a decision which was a relief both to her and the Scottish legal establishment. While carving out a successful career in IT, she occupied herself with her twin passions of studying history and reading, picking up a first-class honours and a Master’s degree along the way.

The course of her life changed dramatically when she found her soul mate. After an idyllic year out, spent travelling round the Mediterranean, Marguerite decided to take the plunge and pursue her life-long ambition to write for a living—a dream she had cherished ever since winning a national poetry competition at the age of nine.

Just like one of her fictional heroines, Marguerite’s fantasy has become reality. She has published history and travel articles, as well as short stories, but romances are her passion. Marguerite describes Georgette Heyer and Doris Day as her biggest early influences, and her partner as her inspiration.

When she is not writing, Marguerite enjoys cooking and hill walking. A confirmed Europhile, who spends much of the year in sunny climes, she returns regularly to the beautiful Highland scenery of her native Argyll, the place she still calls home.

Marguerite would love to hear from you. You can contact her on: Marguerite_Kaye@hotmail.co.uk

Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom
The Rake and the Heiress
Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem
Marguerite Kaye

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

The Rake and the Heiress

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Innocent in the Sheikh’s Harem

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Historical Note

Copyright

The Rake and the Heiress

For A, who makes all things,

especially me, possible. Just love.

Prologue

Paris—August 1815

The doctor closed the bedchamber door gently behind him and turned to the young woman waiting anxiously in the hallway. He noted with sadness that she was showing clear signs of strain following the trauma of the past few days. Her delicate beauty, while still intact, seemed fragile, as if frayed. The sparkle had gone from her cornflower-blue eyes, her creamy complexion was dull and ghostly pale, her blonde hair unkempt, confined carelessly under a bandeau. Despite his stern countenance and insistence on the timely settlement of bills, the doctor was a compassionate man at heart. He sighed deeply. At times like this he cursed his vocation.

The grave expression and resigned shake of his head told Serena all she needed to know. She fought to quell the tidal wave of despair that threatened to overwhelm her.

‘You must keep him comfortable, Mademoiselle Cachet, that is all you can do for him now. I will return in the morning, but…’ The doctor’s shrug was all too eloquent. It was obvious he didn’t expect Papa to survive the night.

Valiantly suppressing a sob—for what purpose would tears serve now?—Serena wearily forced herself upright from the support of the door frame she’d been leaning against. She tried to absorb the doctor’s instructions, but his clear, calm words barely penetrated the fog enveloping her shocked mind. His voice seemed faint, as if it were coming from a far distant shore. Clean dressings and sleeping draughts would ease Papa’s suffering, but not even a magic potion could save him now.

The doctor departed with an admonition to send for him if necessary, giving Serena a final comforting pat on the shoulder. As he opened the strong oak door at the foot of the stairwell which separated their living quarters from the gaming rooms, a sharp burst of drunken laughter pierced the air. With a steady supply of men returning from Waterloo the tables were always busy, but for once Serena cared naught. What use was a full purse without Papa to share its bounty?

Nothing mattered now save making the most of these last precious hours. Papa must see his daughter calm and loving, not tearful and dishevelled. Resolutely tucking a stray golden curl back under her bandeau, carefully straightening the neckline of her dress and taking a deep calming breath, Serena re-entered her father’s bedchamber with a heavy heart.

Velvet hangings pulled shut over the leaded windows contained the stifling heat of the room and muffled all noise from the busy street below. A huge mirror above the marble fireplace reflected the rich rugs, the polished wood, the bright gilt and glowing silver fittings of the opulent furnishings. Reflected too, the snowy white pile of linen torn for bandages and the collection of vials and bottles atop the bedside table on which a decanter usually sat. On the floor a mound of bloodied dressings paid testament to Serena’s hours of tender nursing. The scent of lavender water and laudanum lay heavy in the air.

Philip Cachet lay on a large tester bed, dwarfed by the mountains of pillows that had been arranged around his tall frame in an attempt to ease the flow of blood from his wound. Why had he not simply handed over his purse? For the hundredth time since Papa had staggered through the door clutching his chest, Serena cursed the cowardly footpad who had taken his valuables and now, it seemed, his life too. She was shocked to see how diminished her father looked, his shaven head bare and vulnerable without the wig he still insisted on wearing, despite it being out of fashion. His breath came in irregular, rasping sighs, and in the short time it had taken to confer with the doctor, his skin had assumed a waxen pallor.

Papa had been warned not to move lest the bleeding start again, but his eyes, the same vivid blue as her own, brightened when he saw her. As she closed the door softly, he raised his hand just a little from the silk counterpane in a frail gesture of welcome.

‘Ma belle, at last. I have something of great import to tell you, and it can wait no longer—I fear my time is almost come.’ Ignoring her protestations, he gestured for Serena to come closer. ‘No point in denial, chérie, I’ve lost too much blood. I need you to pay attention—you must listen.’ A cough racked him. A small droplet of blood appeared at the side of his mouth. He wiped it away impatiently with a trembling hand.

Even now, Serena could see faint traces of the handsome man her father had been in his prime. The strong, regular features, the familiar charming smile that had extricated him from many a tricky situation. He was a gambler, and good enough to win—for the most part. For nigh on thirty years, Philip had supported first himself, then she and Maman too, by his sharp wits and his skill with the cards. Skills he had practised in countless gaming houses, in countless towns and cities across Europe.

Pulling a chair closer to the bedside, Serena sat down with a rustle of her silk skirts, gently stroking the delicate white hand lying unresponsive on the counterpane. His life was draining away in front of her eyes, yet she had to be strong. ‘I’m here, Papa,’ she whispered.

‘Mignonne, I never meant to leave you like this. Your life was to have been very different. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t be sorry, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. We’ve had our share of fun, haven’t we?’ She smiled lovingly at him, the spark of humour in her eyes drawing the shadow of a response from his.

‘Yes, but as you know only too well, at the end of any game there is always a reckoning.’

Serena muffled a sob with her handkerchief.

His fingers trembled in her hand. ‘Ma fille, you must be brave. Listen now, and don’t interrupt, it’s vitally important. Please don’t judge me too harshly, for what I am about to tell you will shock you. It will also change your life for ever. Écoute, petite, I must go back to the beginning, thirty years ago…’

Chapter One

England—April 1816

Serena paused to catch her breath and admire the beautiful façade of the house. It was much grander and more imposing than she had expected, a classic Elizabethan country manor, the main body of the mellow brick building flanked by two elegant wings, which lent it a graceful symmetry. She had entered the grounds by a side gate, having decided, since it was such a pleasant morning, to walk the short distance from the village rather than take a carriage. It was very clement for the time of year and the spring bulbs were at their best. The grass by the side of the well-kept path was strewn with narcissi, banks of primroses and artfully placed clumps of iris just coming into bloom. The perfume of camellias and forsythia mingled with the fresh, damp smell of new-mown grass.

You must go to England, to Knightswood Hall, the home of my dear friend Nick Lytton. Papa’s dying words to her—and amazingly, here she was, in the country of his birth, standing in the very grounds of his friend’s home. It had been a wretched few months since her father’s death, making ready for the move from Paris, but at least the sheer volume of things that needed to be done were a welcome distraction from the aching pain of his loss. Closing down the gaming salons had realised a surprising amount of money, more than enough to cover the expenses of the next few months and to establish her in comfort if things did not turn out as her father had hoped.

Serena had never been one to plan for the future, having been too much in the habit, of necessity, of living in the present. Of course what she wanted was her own home and her own family, but she wished for this in the vague way of one who had had, until now, little control over her own destiny. She had not met—or been allowed to meet—any man who came close to inhabiting her dreams. And as to a home! She had spent most of the last two years in Paris, and that was the longest she had ever been in one place.

Papa’s revelations offered her wealth and position which, he vowed, would change her life completely. Change, she was ready to embrace, but the nature of it—in truth, she was not convinced that Papa’s vision for her future was her own. One step at a time, she reminded herself. No point in jumping too far ahead. Today was just the beginning.

As she turned her mind to the interview that lay ahead, a cloud of butterflies seemed to take up residence in her stomach. The imposing bulk of the house only served to increase her apprehension. Nick Lytton was obviously a man of some standing. She countered the urge to turn tail and return to her lodgings by making a final check on her appearance. Her dress of lavender calico was cut in the French fashion, high in the waist and belling out towards her feet with rows of tiny ruffles edging the hem and the long sleeves. The shape became her tall figure, as did the three-quarter pelisse with its high collar. Her gold hair was dressed simply on top of her head, also in the latest French style, with small tendrils allowed to frame her cheekbones, the rest confined under a straw bonnet tied with a large lavender ribbon beneath her chin. The kid half-boots she wore were perhaps more suited to a stroll round a city square than the rough terrain of the countryside, but they had survived the walk without becoming too muddied, as had the deep frill on her fine lawn petticoat. She would do.

The path she had taken ran round the side of the house and disappeared towards some outbuildings, presumably the stables. She was about to follow the fork to the right leading to the imposing main entrance of the Hall, when a roar of voices diverted her. Another roar and a gust of laughter followed, too intriguing to be ignored. Lifting her petticoat clear of a small puddle, Serena moved cautiously towards the source of the commotion.

As she had surmised, the path took her to the stable yard, a square of earth surrounded on three sides by horse boxes and outhouses. The arched entrance way in which she stood formed the fourth side. In front of her were not horses, however, but an animated circle of people, men and boys mostly, with a scattering of women standing apart in the shelter of a doorway which presumably led to the kitchens.

In the centre of the circle two men, stripped to the waist, were boxing. The crowd roared encouragement and advice, many people excitedly betting on the outcome. The scent of horse and hay was overlaid by a fresher, richer aroma, of wet wool, sweat and mud. Over the noise of the crowd, Serena could hear the panting breath of the two fighters, the dull thwack of fist on flesh, the soft thud of stocking-clad feet on the hard earth. Though she had witnessed the occasional drink-fuelled scuffle before, she had never seen a mill. Drawn in by a mixture of curiosity and an unfamiliar frisson of excitement, she edged cautiously closer.

Both men wore buckskins and woollen stockings, their torsos stripped naked. The larger of the two was a fine specimen of manhood, with a bull-like neck, huge shoulders and hands as large as shovels, but even Serena’s novice eye quickly saw that his weight and height hindered him. He was slow, his footwork stolid, and from the look of his left eye, which was closed and weeping, his opponent had already taken advantage of these shortcomings. He looked like a blacksmith, and in fact that is exactly what he was, his bulging biceps the product of long hours at the anvil.

It was the other combatant who captured Serena’s attention. Compared to the giant he was slighter, built along sleeker, finer lines, although he was still a tall man and muscular too, without the brawn of the smithy. Most likely he was a coachman, for he exuded a certain air of superiority. His were muscles honed by exercise, not labour. It was, she thought, eyeing his body with unexpected relish, like watching a race horse matched with a shire.

The man held himself well, showing little sign of fatigue. His body, although glistening with sweat, was virtually unmarked. His buckskin-clad legs were long, and as he teased his opponent, dancing forwards and back, landing light punches, then dodging neatly aside, Serena watched entranced. The muscles on his back, his shoulders, his arms, clenched and rippled, tautened and relaxed. Her pulses quickened. She felt the stirring deep within her of a strange, unsettlingly raw emotion.

The sweat that glistened on the man’s body accented his honed physique in the dappled sunlight. The control, the energy so economically expended, made her think of a coiled spring. A tiger ready to pounce, assured of dispatching his prey, but content to tease. The lumbering giant in front of him didn’t have a prayer.

Around her, the murmuring crowd seemed to agree. ‘Looks like Samuel’s done for again.’ ‘Land ’im one for us, Sam, come on, boy!’ But the encouragement was in vain. The blacksmith stumbled as a punch landed square and hard on his left shoulder. The crowd prevented him falling, pushing him back into the ring, but he was blown. He made a lunge for the coachman, a wild punch that caught only fresh air and threw him off balance into the bargain. He staggered forwards cursing, righting himself at the last minute.

The other man smiled, a sardonic smile that lit up his dark grey eyes, making Serena catch her breath. He was devilishly handsome, with his glossy black hair in disarray, those wicked grey eyes framed by heavy black brows, his perfectly sculpted mouth curled up in amusement.

The two combatants stood to for one last joust. They circled each other slowly, then Samuel lunged, taking his opponent by surprise for the first time and landing a powerful blow on his chest. The other man reeled, countering with a flurry of punches to Samuel’s stomach, the blood from his bare knuckles smearing itself on to the blacksmith’s skin, mingling with his sweat. Samuel bellowed in pain and turned to the side to shield himself, trying at the same time to use his hip to push the coachman away. It was a fatal mistake for he mistimed it, leaving his face exposed. A swift hard punch sent his head flying back, and a second under his jaw had him on the ground. It was over.

The crowd roared in approbation. Money changed hands. Samuel staggered to his feet. The victor stood, a triumphant smile adorning his face. His chest, covered in a fine matting of black hair that arrowed down to the top of his buckskin breeches, heaved as he regained his breath. He shook hands with Samuel, and when presented with the winner’s purse, to Serena’s surprise and the crowd’s evident approval, handed it to his opponent.

‘You deserve this more than I, Samuel, for you never know when you’re beaten.’ Laughter greeted this sally—they were obviously old rivals. Now Samuel was saying that in that case the victor deserved a prize too, and the crowd cheered. The coachman stood surveying the scene around him, shaking his head, denying the need for reward as he pulled a cambric shirt over his cooling body. That was when he spotted Serena.

She tried to turn away, but could find no passage through the circle of the crowd. A strong arm caught hers in an iron grip. ‘Well, well, what have we here?’ His voice was low, surprisingly cultured. His tone was teasing.

Serena coloured deeply, but remained where she was, transfixed by the look in those compelling grey eyes, restrained by his firm grip on her arm. The crowd waited silently, casting speculative looks towards her blushing countenance.

‘A kiss from the prettiest woman here will be my prize,’ the coachman announced.

He was standing directly in front of her. She could smell him. Fresh sweat, laundered linen, something else deeply masculine she couldn’t put a name to. He was tall; she had to look up to meet his eyes. Reluctantly Serena forced herself to hold his gaze, to counter his teasing smile with a haughty look of her own.

His eyebrow quirked. ‘Definitely the prettiest woman here. A kiss will be worth all the money in the winner’s purse and more.’The words were for her only, whispered in her ear as he pushed back her bonnet, tilting her chin with a firm but gentle finger. As if in a trance Serena complied, her breathing shallow. He hesitated for a tantalising moment, then with a slight shrug pulled her closer, confining the contact to his lips alone.

It was a teasing kiss, like his teasing smile, which lasted no more than a few seconds. His breath was warm and sweet. His lips were soft against her own. The reserve of power she had sensed in the boxing ring was there too in his kiss, daring her to respond.

The crowd cheered lustily, bringing Serena to her senses, reminding her of the reason for her visit. ‘Get off me, you ruffian!’ she said angrily, pushing him away. What had she been thinking?

The coachman who had taken such a liberty in kissing her eyed her quizzically. ‘Ruffian or not, you enjoyed that as much as me, I’ll wager,’he said, quite unflustered by her temper. ‘What are you doing here anyway? This is a private estate—have you lost your way?’

‘Are you employed here?’ Serena asked curtly.

‘You could say I have the honour of serving the estate, yes.’

‘Then I’m here to call on your master, Mr Lytton.’

‘Well, you’re not likely to find him round here, fraternising with tradesmen and servants and ruffians like me, now are you,’ he answered with a grin.

Serena gritted her teeth. He was insufferable.

‘If you care to call at the front door and present your card, I’m sure he’ll be delighted to receive you.’ Without a backward glance, the coachman turned on his heel and strode off.

Struggling to regain her rattled composure, Serena found her way back through the yard to the path that led to the main entrance. As she listened to the clang of the doorbell she put the episode firmly to the back of her mind, took a few calming breaths and tried to remember everything Papa had told her. Her heart fluttering with anticipation, she gave her name to the butler, following in his stately wake as he led her through what must have served as the great hall when the house was first built. It was an immense panelled space with a huge stone fireplace on one wall, the staircase leading to the upper floors at the far end. She was given no time to admire it, however, being ushered through a door in the panelling and deposited in a small sunny parlour, which faced on to the gardens at the front of the house. A fire crackled in the grate. A large arrangement of fresh spring flowers scented the room.

‘Mr Lytton will join you shortly, madam.’The butler bowed and departed.

Serena pressed her tightly gloved hands together in an effort to stop them from shaking and took stock. It was a cosy room, stylish but comfortable and obviously well used. The warm colours of the soft furnishings, russet-and-gold patterned rugs and deep red upholstery, contrasted with the dark wood panelling that covered the walls, all the way from the wainscoting to a decorative rail just above head height.

How would the owner of this enchanting house receive her? It was bound to be an awkward meeting. Though there had apparently been some letters in the early days, her father and Nick Lytton had not met for nigh on thirty years. Serena was not looking forward to breaking the news that Papa had passed away.

Serena paced the room nervously, noticing the detailing on the wooden panelling for the first time. A frieze of roses was worked into the wood, connected by leaves, briars and little carved animals. The last rose of summer left blooming alone. The secret code that Papa had confided in her on that dreadful night when he died of his wounds. The words he had her repeat over and over so that Nick Lytton could be sure of her identity. The phrase had seemed strange, but now she could see it was apt.

What would he be like, this man who held the key to her future? Papa’s age, obviously, and, it was clear from her surroundings, a man of wealth and status. A country squire run to fat, as men of that age were wont to do. Like as not he suffered also from the gout.

‘Nicholas Lytton at your service, madam.’

Serena jumped. She had not heard him come in. The tone of the voice was deep. Cultured. Supremely confident. And horribly familiar. The charming smile she had been composing froze upon her face as she turned around.

He had bathed and changed after his exertions in the boxing ring, standing before her elegantly attired in a pair of biscuit-coloured knitted pantaloons and a tailcoat of green superfine cut close across shoulders which had no need of buckram wadding to emphasise their breadth. A clean white shirt and a cravat tied simply, with a striped silk waistcoat and gleaming Hessians, completed the outfit. Raising her head, she saw a strong jaw line, a mouth curved into what could be a smile, glossy black hair combed forwards on to high cheekbones. And those grey eyes.

Nicholas bowed and moved towards Serena, an arm outstretched in greeting. A pink flush tinged her skin, which had little to do with the heat of the fire crackling away at her back. Amusement lurked as he watched her struggling to make sense of the situation, taking advantage of her confusion to usher her compliantly into a wing-backed chair beside the fire while he took the matching seat opposite. ‘Coffee will be here any moment. You look as if you could do with some, Miss Cachet.’

He was relishing her embarrassment. Serena sat up straight in her chair, forcing her countenance into a look of cool composure completely at odds with the mixture of humiliation and fury she was feeling. ‘Sir, you have already misled me once as to your identity. I beg you not to do so again.’

‘I did not mislead you, madam. I said I had the honour of serving the estate and I do. I rather fancy it was you who jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps your judgement was clouded by your alltoo-obvious enjoyment of the base spectacle on offer?’

‘There is no need to indulge in more jibes at my expense,’ Serena said icily. ‘I am here to meet Mr Nicholas Lytton on a matter of some import.’

‘As I said, I am Nicholas Lytton.’

‘But—you can’t be! No, no, that’s ridiculous. The man I have business with is an old friend of my father’s.’

‘Ah. I expect you refer to my father.’

‘Yes, that must be it. Of course, your father,’ Serena said with enormous relief. ‘May I speak with him?’

She leaned forwards eagerly. Her flushed cheeks blushed bright against the creamy smoothness of her skin. With her guinea-gold hair and cornflower-blue eyes framed by startlingly long dark lashes, she looked quite breathtakingly beautiful. Nicholas drank in the vision of loveliness she presented, regretfully shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that will be quite impossible. He’s dead these last ten years.’

‘Dead!’ Many times in the past few months she had pictured this scene, but this particular twist had never occurred to her. Serena sank back dejectedly in her chair. ‘Dead. I did not expect—that is, I’m sorry, but it’s rather a shock.’

What on earth was she to do now? Trying desperately to rally her thoughts, she took covert stock of the man opposite. She knew nothing of him save that he could box well and that he took outrageous liberties. Exactly the sort of man Papa would have taken great care to keep well away from his daughter. Perhaps because their life was somewhat unconventional, her father had always been very protective, almost overly so. Naturally, she was banned from the gaming salons. Since their somewhat ambiguous position in society made it impossible for her to socialise in more respectable circles, however, the opportunities to meet men—eligible or otherwise—were few and far between. In fact, Nicholas Lytton was the first man to have kissed her, though she wasn’t about to tell him that. He was insufferably arrogant enough as it was. Serena grappled for a solution to what appeared to be an insoluble problem. She was to trust no one save Nick Lytton. Yet Nick Lytton was dead. There seemed to be no way to avoid confiding in his son if she were not to leave empty-handed.

Still, instinct that had nothing at all to do with Papa’s urge to secrecy and everything to do with Nicholas Lytton himself made her reticent. That fight. That kiss. The unexpected effect the man himself was having on her. The watchfulness that lurked there, despite the nonchalant way he sat in the chair. Recalling the scene in the stable yard, a heat swept through her, which had naught to do with embarrassment. Shocking though it was to admit it, she had enjoyed the sight of Nicholas Lytton semi-naked, his muscles rippling. When he kissed her, her first instinct had not been to draw back as propriety demanded, but to pull him close, to feel for herself the warm skin, the crisply curling hair, the cord-like muscles and sinew. She had never had such lustful thoughts before. Now was certainly not the time to have them again. Looking up, she became aware of his close scrutiny.

Giving herself a mental shake, Serena sat up straight and licked her lips nervously. A raised brow encouraged her to speak. ‘Your father’s death makes my errand more problematic, but it does not make it any the less urgent. I believe I must enlist your help.’

‘Must? I sense a reluctance to confide, Miss Cachet. Don’t you trust me?’

He was toying with her. ‘Why? Would I be unwise to do so?’

‘That you must decide for yourself, when you are better acquainted with me.’

‘Sadly, I do not intend to spend long enough in your company to become so,’ Serena replied tartly. ‘I am come to reclaim some papers, which my papa entrusted to yours. They are personal documents that he did not want to risk losing on the Continent. You must know that we led a—well, an itinerant life there.’

‘You’ve just recently arrived in England then?’

‘Yes, from France. This is my first visit.’

‘Allow me to compliment you on your command of our language.’

‘I am, in fact, English, Mr Lytton,’Serena said stiffly. ‘My father was English, we always spoke that language at home. I can understand your being suspicious—my turning up here unannounced must give a strange appearance—but I assure you I am no fraud. Nor am I a French spy, if that is what you are worried about.’

‘Touché, mademoiselle. I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment, though, as I know nothing about your papers. I’ve been through all my father’s effects long since. If they were here, I think they’d have turned up by now.’

‘But they must be here! Are you sure he said nothing before he died—could he have perhaps lodged them with his lawyer?’

Nicholas frowned, puzzled by the earnest note in her voice. ‘No, I would have been informed if he had.’

‘You must remember something. Surely your father mentioned Papa’s name at some point?’

Her desperation aroused Nicholas’s curiosity. Whatever her tale, she had quite obviously not told him the whole of it. Her lovely face was fixed on him with such a look of entreaty as would melt all but the hardest of hearts. He could not but wonder what effect gratitude would have on her. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little more, it may prompt my memory.’

‘They are private papers, of no value to anyone else. My father’s name is on them.’

Her very reluctance to expand was intriguing. ‘Cachet?’

Serena bit her lip, more aware than ever of his too-penetrating grey eyes. Though he maintained his relaxed posture, she was under no illusions. Nicholas Lytton distrusted her, and she could not really blame him. ‘Not Cachet, Stamppe.’

‘Stamppe? Then Cachet is your married name? My apologies, I must have misread your card, madame.’

‘I’m not married. My name is also Stamppe.’

‘Yet your card says Cachet.’

‘Yes, because—oh dear, this is most awkward.’ Serena risked a fleeting glance up, caught her host’s sardonic expression, and looked quickly down again. Nicholas Lytton was smiling sceptically. In her lap, her fingers twined and intertwined, weaving a complex pattern of their own devising, which all too clearly betrayed her discomfort. She clasped them together and forced herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze properly. ‘Cachet means seal. My real name is Stamppe, though I did not find that out until my father informed me of it on his deathbed. He had a whimsical sense of humour.’

At this, Nicholas gave a twisted smile. ‘Amazing what facing mortality will do to a parent.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I sympathise, mademoiselle, that is all, having had a similar experience. It must have come as a surprise.’

‘A shock. Papa died very suddenly; he was the victim of a violent robbery. I find it difficult—I still find it hard to accept.’ She paused to dab her eyes with a handkerchief plucked from her reticule.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’Nicholas said more sympathetically. ‘Do you have other family?’

‘No. No one. At least—no. Maman died when I was ten, and since then it has always been just me and Papa. Now it is just me.’

‘I find it hard to believe that someone so very lovely as you is wholly unencumbered. Are Frenchmen quite blind?’

‘Perhaps it is just that I am quite choosy, Mr Lytton. We seem to have strayed some way from the point.’

‘Ah, yes, the point. Your papers, which have lain unclaimed with my father for—how long?’

‘Over twenty years.’

‘And you have known about them all this time?’

Serena inspected her gloves. ‘No. Only since…’

‘Don’t tell me, Papa told you about them on his deathbed.’

She laughed nervously. ‘I know, it sounds like a fairy story.’

‘Exactly like one.’

‘I see you don’t believe me.’ And no wonder, she thought, rising to leave. She would just have to face the lawyer without her documents. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time.’

Though he did not doubt that her papers, if they ever existed, were lost, Nicholas was not ready to allow Serena to leave just yet. He was bored beyond measure and she was quite the most beautiful creature he had clapped eyes on in a long time. With her air of assurance and her cultured voice she could pass for quality, but he was not fooled. No gently bred young woman came calling on a single gentleman unaccompanied. Of a certainty, none allowed themselves to be diverted from their call into watching a mill. The more he saw of her, the more certain he became that her gratitude would be worth earning.

‘Don’t be so hasty, mademoiselle, give me a moment to reflect. Your father’s name—his real name—does sound familiar. Is there nothing else you can tell me that would help?’ He was simply teasing her, drawing out her visit in order to while away the time, so her reply surprised him.

‘The last rose of summer left blooming alone. I was to say those words so that your father would not doubt my identity.’ She smiled in reluctant response to Nicholas’s crack of laughter. ‘I know, it sounds even more like a fairy tale now.’

‘Perhaps it’s a clue,’ Nicholas said, pointing to the panelling. He meant it as a joke, having no faith at all in his visitor’s story, but Serena’s reaction gave him pause.

‘Of course,’ she said excitedly, clapping her hands together. ‘A hiding place. How clever of you to think of that.’

A long curl of hair the colour of ripe corn tangled with her lashes and lay charmingly on her cheek. Her vivid blue eyes sparkled like turquoise. She smiled at him quite without guile and he remembered the feel of her soft lips beneath his own. Delicious. She was really quite delicious and he was really very, very bored. ‘Of course,’Nicholas agreed lightly, ‘a clue. Why not? This house is Tudor, after all, it’s absolutely strewn with roses. There are roses on the panelling in almost every room, to say nothing of the ones worked into the stone on the fireplaces, and even hidden away on some of the original furnishings. What’s more, when it was built the family were Catholic. We’ve priest holes, secret passages, concealed doors, the whole kit and caboodle. It could take weeks to search it thoroughly.’

‘Weeks!’

Chasing rainbows seasoned with a little light dalliance would pass the time most agreeably, he decided. He had planned to quit the Hall within the week for London or, depending on the news he was awaiting, the Continent. He could not bring himself to care which. Why not indulge the so-charming mademoiselle with some tapping on panels in the meantime? Such enforced intimacy was bound to bear fruit. Delicious, forbidden fruit. ‘Perhaps just days, if you have someone to help you—someone who knows where to look,’ he said with an innocent look.

‘You mean you,’ Serena said cautiously.

‘Yes, who better? Though you should know that you’d be keeping company with a murderer.’

She could see from the tightening of his mouth and the frown that brought his heavy black brows together that he was no longer teasing her, yet she could not take him seriously. ‘I hope you jest, Mr Lytton.’

‘No jest, I assure you, although I am not quite a murderer yet. I fought a duel two weeks ago. A stupid thing, but I was in my cups, and my opponent was so very insulting I could not resist the challenge.’

‘My papa was given to saying that it is better for gentlemen to fight it out fairly and in cold blood than to resort to what he called fisticuffs in the height of a quarrel.’

‘A man of sense. That is exactly what we did. My opponent is a poor swordsman, whereas I am attributed somewhat better than average. I pinked him, a mere warning cut, a perfect lunge that caught his shoulder and disarmed him at the same time. Harry Angelo, my fencing master, would have approved, but my opponent, I am sorry to say, was merely angered. I turned away, assuming all was over. He picked up his sword and lunged at me. I had no option but to fight back, and, in being caught unawares, caused him an injury that may yet prove fatal. So here I am, rusticating and awaiting the outcome, ready to flee to the Continent from the hands of the law should he avenge himself upon me by dying, for duelling is become illegal now, you know. And so you see why I am quite happy to put myself at your disposal.’

The glint in his eye made her uncomfortable, for she could not help wondering what he might want in return. ‘That is very kind, but I can’t help thinking it would be an imposition. And in any case, it wouldn’t be proper for me to spend time here alone with you.’

‘Proper! No, indeed, I was very much hoping that it would be quite the opposite.’

Startled by his bluntness, Serena got hastily to her feet, blushing wildly. ‘I fear my coming here unaccompanied has misled you as to my character.’

He remained quite annoyingly unflustered. ‘That, and the way you kissed me.’

She wrestled with the fastening on her glove, and her flush deepened. ‘Well, Mr Lytton, let me put you to rights. Even if I agreed to accept your help—which I have not done—and accepted the risk to my reputation which being here alone with you would engender, I am not the type of female to reward you with kisses.’

‘Aren’t you? Then I am to assume the kiss after the fight was out of character?’ Nicholas took her wrist and dealt expertly with the recalcitrant button.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to it. His fingers were warm through the soft leather of her glove. They were long and slender, the nails trimmed and neat. His knuckles were grazed and bruised from the fight. His touch seemed to flicker from her hand up her arm, raising goose bumps on her skin under the long sleeve of her dress. Nervously, Serena gazed up at him, her hand still lying compliant, knowing she should move, yet caught as before in a trance of awareness. His intentions were unmistakable. He was going to kiss her again. ‘No,’ Serena said in that curiously breathy voice that did not belong to her. ‘I will not pay for your co-operation by allowing you to take liberties. You mistake me.’

‘You would kiss a ruffian in a stable yard, but not a gentleman in a parlour,’he teased. ‘I did not take anything from you that wasn’t freely given, and I won’t now.’

‘Then let me go.’

‘I will, just as soon as you persuade me you want me to, mademoiselle.’

That look of his again—it made her feel as if he could read her thoughts, which meant he would see all too plainly the war between ought and want going on her mind. It was just a kiss, nothing more. If he could treat it lightly, so surely could she.

‘It’s just a kiss, after all,’ Nicholas whispered persuasively, echoing her thoughts so precisely she wondered if she had spoken out loud. ‘A kiss to seal the beginning of our quest together.’

She opened her mouth to say no, but somehow the words did not come and he took it for an invitation. His lips were cool, exploring, gentle. Questioning. For a breathless moment she hesitated. His mouth stilled. Then she felt her free hand reach up of its own accord to stroke the silken hair at the back of his head. She opened her mouth like a flower to the sun. Softening her lips against his, she melted into his embrace, savouring the taste, the smell, the power. Lost in the newness, the strangeness of it all.

And then it was over. Nicholas took a step back. ‘Enough for now, I think; any more would be a liberty. I am a gentleman, despite my earlier appearance, and I meant what I said, I will never take anything you do not want to give.’

Serena shook her head, resisting with difficulty the urge to touch her hand to her lips, for they were tingling. ‘I have agreed to nothing.’

‘Come, come, mademoiselle, you cannot possibly be thinking of leaving without these precious papers of yours. What are you afraid of?’ Nicholas asked in a perturbingly confident voice. ‘Is it perhaps yourself you don’t trust?’

No, frankly, she didn’t! He was a wolf in wolf’s clothing from whom she should run as fast as she could. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Serena replied tartly, ‘I have every confidence in my ability to resist your charms.’

‘Then you’ll allow me to help you?’

It was simple really. Without his help she could not claim her inheritance. She could seek out her father’s lawyer, but unless she had the papers—it would be useless. She searched his face for reassurance. ‘I have your promise that you will behave properly?’

‘I have already given you one promise, mademoiselle. I see no need for another.’

They had reached an impasse, and he knew it! Serena fumed inwardly. ‘Oh, very well,’ she finally conceded rather ungraciously. ‘With such a knowledgeable guide as yourself, it can’t possibly take too long, after all.’

‘Very sensible. Do you wish to start immediately?’

She tried to collect her senses, which by now were utterly scrambled, not least by her own shocking responses to being kissed. And not once but twice! ‘Thank you, Mr Lytton, but, no, I have had quite enough excitement for one day,’ Serena responded drily. ‘I think it best that I return to my lodgings in the village for now. I’ll come back in the morning, if that is acceptable to you?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘My dear mademoiselle, I can think of little regarding you that wouldn’t be most acceptable to me. Until morning, then.’

‘Until morning, Mr Lytton.’

Chapter Two

Serena arrived at her rooms in the small village of High Knightswood, just over a mile’s distance from the Hall, to find Madame LeClerc awaiting her. Madame was a Parisian modiste anxious to make her fortune in London. On hearing that Serena was leaving for England, she had offered to accompany her. ‘To lend you countenance, chérie, as the bon papa would have wished. I want to set up my own establishment,’ Madame LeClerc had gone on to explain. ‘These wars have prevented the English ladies from enjoying the benefits of our French couture. Now that we are friends again, it is time for the rich mesdames to learn how to dress properly. Like yourself, mademoiselle,’ she added obsequiously.

Serena had accepted Madame’s offer gratefully, being well aware that Papa would not have expected her to travel unaccompanied. Sadly, she soon discovered that the price for Madame’s companionship was significantly higher than the generous salary and lodgings the modiste had demanded. Madame lent her countenance, but her company was tedious in the extreme.

The journey on the packet steamer made Madame heartily sick. She continued to be sick the entire road to High Knightswood, punctuating bouts of nausea with trembling complaints of everything from the carriage springs to the state of the post roads and the dampness of the sheets at the post houses. She spoke very little English, obliging her employer to intervene when things became difficult. With a shudder, Serena recalled a particular episode involving Madame, the land lady of the Red Lion, and an unemptied chamber pot. Nor could Madame come to terms with the English climate. ‘Il pleut à verse. Rain, rain, rain,’ she exclaimed every day, regardless of whether the weather was inclement or not.

As Serena divested herself of her bonnet and pelisse, Madame LeClerc subjected her to a lengthy diatribe on the subject of English food. ‘I am sick to my stomach with the rosbif. All this meat and no sauces, I am starving.’

Eyeing Madame LeClerc’s ample figure, hovering over her like a plump vulture, Serena found this last claim difficult to believe.

‘Look at this! Just look, Mademoiselle Serena! This débâcle is intended to be our dinner. Please to tell me how I, a good Frenchwoman, am meant to eat this?’ With a dramatic gesture, Madame indicated the serving dishes, which were set on the table.

Reluctantly, Serena lifted the covers. She had to acknowledge that their landlady’s cooking was somewhat basic, but after the day she’d had, she was in no mood to sympathise. ‘It’s pigeon, madame, with peas, and perfectly edible. Eat it or not, I don’t care, but please sit down, I have something to tell you.’

Serena served them both before embarking upon the tricky matter of informing Madame that they would of necessity be delayed in High Knightswood while she resolved a ‘personal matter’. Madame, chomping her way steadily through two whole pigeons, distaste writ large on her face, listened in sullen silence. As soon as her plate was cleared, however, she launched into a bitter tirade.

‘You promised me we would be headed straight for London. The Season has already started, I need to find my clientele now, before they have all their gowns. This delay will ruin me!’ A plump white hand fluttered against her impressive bosom. Serena’s companion was for some time loudly inconsolable.

The vague notion she had entertained, of asking Madame to accompany her on her visits to Knightswood Hall, faded from Serena’s mind as the modiste’s anguish grew. She tried to imagine what Nicholas Lytton would make of her companion. Like as not he would send Madame below stairs if he did not send her packing. Serena would then be responsible for the inevitable fracas between Madame and Nicholas’s chef, and no further forward in observing any of the proprieties.

She retired early to bed, but sleep eluded her. In the next chamber she could hear Madame LeClerc’s rhythmic snoring all too clearly through the thin walls. Loud enough to rattle the windowpanes, Serena thought grumpily, plumping the bolster in a vain effort to get comfortable. It had been a trying day. The news of Nick Lytton’s demise had been a shock, though she supposed it should not have been. She was annoyed at herself for having been so unprepared. His son’s promise to help was a mixed blessing. Nicholas Lytton had made it quite clear he did not think her at all respectable.

Nicholas Lytton was a man who gave off danger signals as he entered a room. It would be foolish indeed to ignore them. He carried about him an edge of excitement, as if always on the verge of committing some wild act, about to trespass the safe confines of conduct just for the sport of it. It was this, Serena realised with a start, that drew her too him, rather than the more basic tug of physical attraction. She must be on her guard with him at all times. Despite her unorthodox life, her reputation was spotless. She could not afford to tarnish it now, though it would be a lie to say she was not tempted. A fact of which, unfortunately, Nicholas Lytton was all too well aware.

Perhaps after all she should induce Madame LeClerc to act as her protector. A particularly loud snore came from next door, making Serena giggle. Not even Nicholas Lytton would be tempted to overstep the mark in Madame’s presence. But then he would simply get rid of her. Serena closed her eyes. She was going round in circles, far too tired to argue with herself any more. Surely Knightswood Hall was too remote from London for anyone to care what did—or did not—go on there?

As Serena finally dropped into slumber, Nicholas sat in splendid isolation in the small family dining room of Knightswood Hall, musing on the contentious topic of his father’s will. The table had been cleared and the covers removed. In front of him lay the latest update on the situation from his man of business. Frances Eldon was not optimistic.

The butler placed a decanter of port and a jar of snuff on the table before feeding another log on to the fire and reassuring himself that the curtains were perfectly drawn. ‘Will there be anything else, Mr Nicholas?’

‘No, thank you. Tell my man not to wait up, I’ll get myself to bed. Goodnight, Hughes.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’ The butler bowed and withdrew silently from the room.

Nicholas poured himself a small glass of port, idly swirling it around in the delicate crystal glass. His thoughts, like the wine, circled endlessly. He was tired, and no wonder—it had been a closer contest than usual with Samuel. They had been sparring partners since childhood. Ruefully, he examined his raw knuckles in the glow of the firelight. Hardly the hands of a gentleman. It was high time he stopped such foolishness. And yet—he never could resist a challenge.

But he was twenty-nine now, old enough to know better. In less than three months, as Frances Eldon so needlessly reminded him in his letter, Nicholas would be thirty. If they could not find a way to break the will before that date, his fortune would go to his cousin Jasper—unless Nicholas took Frances’s advice and married.

He had always been so carelessly certain that his lawyers would find a way to overturn the fateful clause, but as the deadline approached and every legal avenue turned into a dead end the decision loomed over him like a menacing black cloud of doom. He should have instructed them sooner. Dammit, there must be a way!

Nicholas rose to stir the fire, carelessly throwing on another log, stepping back hastily as the sparks flew out on to the hearth rug. He was not going to be forced down a path of another’s choosing. He would not be blackmailed into the bonds of matrimony, not even by his own dead father.

His parent had remarried late in life. Melissa was a malleable widgeon, a young woman content to play nursemaid to a man in failing health many years her senior. To the astonishment of all who knew him, Nick Lytton, after a lifetime of raking, settled contentedly into domestic bliss and became an advocate for the institution of marriage into the bargain. The present Nicholas Lytton sighed deeply. He should have seen it coming, after that last uncomfortable interview.

‘I hear you’ve been causing a scandal again, my boy.’ The chill which his father had caught while out hunting had taken hold of his lungs. It was obvious he had not long to live. Nicholas remembered each breath his father took as a painfully sharp intake, a long drawn-out rattling exhale. What he couldn’t remember now were the exact circumstances of the scandal the old man was so upset about. Some bit of muslin Nicholas had tried to pass off as one of the ton at a party, as he recalled. Yes, that was it, a bet, and he had lost when the lady told a rather warm story and had then been recognised by one of her previous protectors.

Before Melissa, his father would have laughed, but with his second marriage the old man had acquired a pompous righteousness. ‘You’ve shamed our name once too often, my boy,’ Nick Lytton wheezed.

‘For pity’s sake, Father,’ Nicholas retorted, ‘you talk as if I was a libertine. As you very well know, I am scrupulous about confining that sort of thing to the muslin company. As you used to,’ he said pointedly. ‘I never raise false expectations. I would have thought that was something more to be proud of than ashamed.’

His refusal to repent served only to bring down the full extent of his father’s wrath on his head. Nick Lytton had stormed, ranted, cursed and finally, when his son showed no signs of remorse, resorted to threats. ‘I’ll see to it that you can’t carry on this life for ever. You’re turning into a damned loose fish, Nicholas, and by God I’ll put a stop to it, you mark my words.’

The interview had ended then. Nicholas thought no more of it until after his father’s death, when he was informed of the significant change to the terms of his will. He’d laughed and refused to take it too seriously. Until now.

Not even in his salad days had Nicholas come close to being in love, finding that passion faded all too quickly once sated. His dashing looks and flamboyant generosity made him a highly sought-after catch, but not once in all his years on the ton had any lady managed to stake a claim. He was far too careful for that, unlike some of his peers. Poor Caroline Lamb’s latest attempt to avenge herself upon Byron, so it was rumoured, was a thinly disguised roman à clef. Nicholas shuddered at the very idea of encountering the spectre of a rejected lover hovering at a society party, never mind the iniquity of the details of any affaire being bandied about in the press.

No, he made a strict point of confining his amours to women from a different sphere who understood the rules of the game perfectly well. Over the years he had been fortunate in his mistresses, all of whom combined beauty with experience. When he grew bored it was a simple thing to pay them off. No sulks. No pain. No regrets. Just a few trinkets, a generous sum, a goodbye. It suited him. It was how he had chosen to live his life, and he enjoyed it. He saw no reason to change.

Dammit to hell, he would not change. Nicholas consigned Frances Eldon’s letter to the fire. When the lawyers had exhausted every possibility, then perhaps he would force himself to contemplate marriage. Right now he had better things to think about. Like the luscious Mademoiselle Serena Stamppe and her preposterous tale of hidden documents and long-lost friendship.

The friendship part could be true—his father had been wild in his youth. The wars with France favoured many a person wishing to hide their dirty laundry in the hustle-bustle of the Continent; no doubt that Serena’s dear papa was one such. An adventurer of some sort, of a certainty. She was obviously an adventuress herself—she had given herself away with that remark of hers—what was it—an itinerant life.

Stamppe. The name was definitely familiar. He would write to Frances in the morning, tell him to crack the whip over the will, and get him to find out what he could about the lovely Serena and her father. Yawning, Nicholas placed the guard over the fire, snuffed out the candles, and headed wearily for his bed.

In the end, Serena decided not to introduce Madame LeClerc to Nicholas unless it became absolutely necessary—and she refused to allow herself to contemplate just what she meant by that. She made an early start the next morning, leaving her lodgings long before her companion surfaced for breakfast. On the assumption that the search would be dusty work, she wore a simple dress of printed cotton and sturdy half-boots of jean. A short woollen cloak protected her from the early chill of the English spring, and her hair was looped on top of her head, a bandeau of the same material as her dress holding it in place.

Charming was the epithet with which Nicholas Lytton greeted her, himself simply attired in fitted buckskins that clung to his muscular legs, teemed with a dark blue waistcoat and plain dark coat. He clasped Serena’s gloved hands between his for a brief moment on greeting, but made no further attempt to touch her. She could not make up her mind whether to be relieved or not.

They sat together in the small morning room over a pot of coffee, discussing how best to tackle the search using the only clue they had. ‘I suppose it’s safe to assume that the hiding place really is here,’ Serena said. ‘You don’t have any other houses with rose panelling, do you?’

‘No. And both the London house and the hunting box post-date the time you said your father gave mine his papers—over twenty years ago, do I have that right?’

Serena nodded. ‘He told me he sent them not long after I was born.’

‘Where was that?’

‘La Bourgogne. Burgundy—it is where my mother comes from.’

‘So that is where you would call home?’

‘No, Maman’s family did not approve of the marriage. My parents would not talk about it. I don’t think there’s anywhere I’d call home, I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to put down roots.’

‘Why not?’

She thought for a moment, her lips pursed, a small frown drawing her fair brows together. ‘It’s strange, but I’ve never really questioned why. Papa said it was expedient for his—his business interests, but I’m not sure that’s wholly true. He just liked to travel. I’ve lived in some beautiful cities, Vienna, Rome, Strasbourg, and Paris of course, but I’ve always considered myself an outsider. We lived so much, my parents and I, in a little world of their making. I have any number of acquaintances, but I don’t really have any friends of my own.’

‘May one ask what precisely Papa’s business interests were?’

‘Oh, he dabbled in lots of things,’ Serena said vaguely. ‘He preferred me not to become involved in such matters.’

‘Whatever your father was involved with, it must have been lucrative. I could not fail to notice the quality, and expense, of that delightful outfit you wore yesterday. Assuming, of course, it was your father who provided the funds.’

He was looking at her with that curling half-smile that made her pulses flutter and raised her hackles at the same time. ‘You think I have a rich protector? A fat, elderly gentleman perhaps, on whom I bestow my affections in return for gifts?’

Nicholas felt a sudden and most unexpected pang of jealousy at the thought of anyone being in receipt of Serena’s affections. His smile hardened.

‘This is a ridiculous conversation,’ Serena said, sensing the change in his mood. ‘There are no skeletons in my closet, I assure you. Now, can we stop wasting time and start looking for my papers?’

Nicholas shrugged. ‘Oh, very well. There are a number of secret panels and a couple of priest holes that I know of, we can start with those. You don’t mind getting a little dusty, do you? Some of the places won’t have been opened for years. At the very least I suspect we’ll find a few spiders. Maybe even some rats.’

‘I’ve encountered much worse, believe me. I’m not fond of them, but they don’t scare me. Papa taught me never to be missish; you needn’t worry that I’ll be fainting into your arms.’ Serena looked up to see surprise writ on Nicholas’s face, and raised her brows. ‘Oh dear, were you wishing me to faint into your arms? I do beg your pardon. I suppose I could pretend to be afraid if you had your mind absolutely set on it?’

He laughed softly. ‘No, thank you. If I wish to have you in my arms, my intrepid Mademoiselle Stamppe, I can think of easier ways of managing it.’

Serena rose from her seat, shaking out her petticoats. ‘You take rather too much for granted, Mr Lytton.’

‘We shall see,’ was all he vouchsafed in return.

Three hours later they were both smudged with dirt, and Serena had a goodly amount of cobwebs trailing from her frilled petticoats, but of the papers they had found no trace.

In the first priest’s hole located beneath a cupboard at the side of a fireplace carved with a number of Tudor roses there had been only some mice droppings.

The second priest’s hole was a cunning little trapdoor in the upstairs drawing room operated by turning yet another rose in a nearby panel. When Nicholas lowered himself into it, he found a squashed shallow-crowned hat from a much earlier age. He emerged from the hiding place wearing it. Serena laughed, not so much at the absurd spectacle he presented—for the hat was much too big—but at the ring of dirt it left around his brow when he removed it. With the dusty halo and those gunmetal eyes he looked, she thought fancifully, like a dark angel. Or maybe a devil. She reached up to brush it away, drawing back immediately at his startled look. ‘I’m sorry, you have—if you look in the mirror, you have dust on your hair.’

In the large formal dining—once more panelled with a design of roses—a concealed door lifted away to reveal a space built into a hollow column. ‘My father was minded to keep his own papers here, until I informed him that the entire household, if not the whole countryside, knew of the place. After that he stuck to the rather more orthodox method of locking them in his desk.’ Once more the space was empty.

In the master bedchamber, where Nicholas pulled back one of the window shutters to reveal yet another ‘secret’ space, a piece of paper fluttered to the ground. He handed it to Serena, smiling at the look of anticipation on her face as she opened it, bursting into infectious laughter when it turned out to be an account for three pairs of evening gloves and six ostrich feathers.

‘This was my father’s room. I can only assume it was a bill he didn’t want my mother to see. Before he married my stepmother, my father was rather free with his favours.’

‘Was he? Well, so was my father after my mother died—and before he married her, I presume.’

‘Don’t you find that shocking?’

‘No, why should I? Papa was very much in love with Maman, and it was a long time after she died before he took an interest in any other woman. Why should I grudge him pleasant company?’

‘What a very enlightened attitude.’

Nicholas’s coolly ironic tone irked her. Remembering just in time, however, that it was not in her interests to quarrel with him, Serena took a calming breath before speaking. ‘It’s not enlightened, it’s just—honest. Why pretend the world works one way when it is obvious to anyone who cares to look that it works in quite another? I don’t mean that I approve of such choices, but to deny that they happen would be quite foolish.’

‘Foolish, I agree, but it’s what most of your sex claim to do none the less. And may I ask if Papa had the same enlightened attitude when it came to his daughter?’

‘Of course not. It’s different for a woman, as you very well know. I think you’re making fun of me.’

‘On the contrary, I must commend you for the candour of your outlook.’

Once again she struggled to contain the spark of temper his words ignited, for though he denied it she knew she was being deliberately riled. Biting back the riposte that sprang to her lips, Serena instead executed a mocking curtsy. ‘You are too kind, sir. I would that I could commend you for the same.’

‘Well done, mademoiselle. A hit, I acknowledge it.’

She was forced to laugh. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, please call me Serena. I can’t bear to be on formal terms. In any case, it’s absurd, to have been grovelling about amongst all this dirt and cobwebs and still to call each other Mr Lytton and Mademoiselle Stamppe, a name I find rather strange, even if it is my own.’

‘I’m honoured. Serena is a beautiful name, and I’d be flattered if you’d call me Nicholas.’

‘Papa named me for serenity, although I’m not sure he got it quite right. But thank you, Nicholas.’

She pronounced it in the French way, leaving off the last consonant, making awareness curl in the pit of his stomach. There was something inherently sensual about her, made more so because he could not make up his mind whether or not she intended it. Nicholas. It was like a caress.

‘I take it you don’t favour this room yourself,’ Serena said, looking around her, oblivious of his stare. ‘I’m not surprised, it’s quite depressing.’

‘I agree,’ Nicholas replied, dragging his mind back to their conversation. ‘To be honest, I’ve never been enamoured of the idea of taking over the room of a dead parent. Rather off-putting, I would imagine, especially if one had company. As if one was being watched at a time when one would particularly wish not to be observed.’

Serena gave a startled gasp. ‘There was no need to be so blunt! I thought only that the room was oppressive. What you do—or don’t do—in your own bedchamber is none of my business.’

‘Not yet.’ Giving her no time to respond to this challenge, Nicholas grasped Serena by the elbow and headed towards the door. ‘That’s the last of the hiding places I remember for the present. It has obviously escaped your notice, but it is long past noon, and I am ravenous. I asked Hughes to set out a luncheon for us downstairs, but before you sit down, my lovely Serena, you should know that you have smut on your nose, so I will direct you to a room where you can clean up, and I will see you as soon as you have done so. Don’t keep me waiting lest I faint from hunger.’

Turning her by the shoulders, he pointed Serena in the direction of a doorway down the long corridor and strode effortlessly down the stairs towards the breakfast parlour.

After lunch they engaged in a few more hours of fruitless searching before Nicholas judged it time to call it a day. ‘There’s always tomorrow,’ he said brightly. ‘Rest assured I’ll rack my brain for more ideas to occupy us then.’

‘You don’t sound overly disappointed by our lack of progress,’ Serena said suspiciously. ‘In fact, you sound quite pleased.’

Nicholas flashed her a seductive smile. ‘The longer it takes, the more grateful you are liable to be.’

‘As I said earlier, Mr Lytton, you take far too much for granted. Right now, what I would be most grateful for is the comfort of my bed. It’s been a long and tiring day, I must return to my lodgings.’

‘Then I insist you let me send a servant to accompany you. After all, we wouldn’t want any aspersions to be cast on your reputation or intentions, now would we?’

‘No, Mr Lytton,’ Serena conceded with a smile, ‘we most certainly would not.’

‘If I never see another Tudor rose before I die I’ll be happy.’ Serena was perched precariously on a window seat in the formal dining room at Knightswood Hall the next day. ‘My fingers are aching from tapping and prodding and poking at panelling. I’m beginning to think this is a wild goose chase.’

After hours of searching they were no further forward, but although she knew she should be concerned, she was finding it very hard to fret. Her father had created this situation, giving her no option but to keep company with a man whom she was almost certain was a rake. The world would surely damn her if it ever found out, but she would make sure it didn’t, and in the meantime, provided the rake continued to behave, she was enjoying herself.

Nicholas smiled lazily up at Serena from the chair from which he had been watching, with relish, her attempts to reach a rose he had suggested—with no foundation whatsoever—looked particularly suspect. She had had to stretch, giving him a delightful view of her shapely ankles and a tantalising glimpse of her even more shapely rear as her dress was pulled tight. ‘Poor Serena, don’t give up yet, I’m sure I can think of lots more places to look.’

She turned round to face him, her hands on her hips. ‘I’m sure you can. And I expect most of them will involve me clambering up on to something or crawling about on my hands and knees.’

He stood to assist her down from the window. ‘It’s your own fault for having such a very charming derrière.’

‘A gentleman wouldn’t have looked.’

‘No, you’re wrong about that. No man, gentleman or other, could have resisted looking, but a gentleman would have pretended he had not.’

‘You told me you were a gentleman.’

‘I lied.’

‘You’re impossible,’ Serena said, trying desperately not to blush, for it only served to encourage him.

And you are adorable, Nicholas thought. A long tendril of hair had escaped its pins and curled down her back over the tender nape of her neck, giving her a charmingly dishevelled air. Not for the first time he found himself imagining what she would look like with all of the pins removed, her hair loosened and allowed to cascade down over her bare shoulders. It would brush teasingly over her breasts, causing the rosy buds of her nipples to stiffen and darken in delicious contrast to the creamy fullness of…

He dragged his eyes away. ‘Let’s go for a walk. We could both do with some fresh air.’ He picked up his coat, which was draped over a chair at the head of the long oak table. Serena was delightful, charming, and fun to be with into the bargain. A very heady and alluring combination. The evidence of that was pressing insistently at the fabric of his breeches. Adjusting the ruffles on his shirt sleeves, he pulled his waistcoat straight. ‘Come on, fetch your hat and shawl. It’s much too nice a day to stay cooped up in here. A stroll in the gardens is what we need. You’ll be relieved to know that it’s too early for the roses to be in bloom.’ Placing a hand firmly on the small of her back, he guided her from the room.

Outside, Serena raised her face towards the sun, luxuriating in the gentle caress of its warm rays on her skin. ‘You’re right…’ she sighed contentedly ‘…this is a lovely idea. Where shall we go?’

‘There’s a pleasant walk down through the gardens to the trout stream at the bottom,’ Nicholas replied. ‘It’s been dry for almost a week now, so the path shouldn’t be too muddy.’

‘I wish you’d tell Madame LeClerc so. According to her, it has been raining non-stop since we arrived.’

‘The good Madame—and how is her heroic snoring?’

Serena giggled. ‘I don’t know, thank goodness. I was so tired last night that I barely noticed. I should inform you, though, that her French sense of propriety is extremely offended at my spending so much time alone with you. She is for ever reminding me that my papa would strongly disapprove.’

‘And would he?’ Nicholas asked curiously.

‘That’s an impossible question since the only reason I am here with you in the first place is to do as he wishes. He would think our acquaintance—unwise.’

‘Perhaps he would be right. Most fathers would think the same way about me, I’ve a dreadful reputation. After all, I’ve already kissed you twice—who knows what else I have planned for you?’

Serena stumbled. ‘You said you would not take liberties.’

‘I said I would not take anything that is not given freely. That’s quite a different matter.’

‘Oh.’ She glanced up at him through her lashes. ‘You know, I considered bringing Madame LeClerc here with me to ensure that nothing improper occurred between us.’

‘Good God, I’m very glad you didn’t. I suspect I’d have resorted to murder.’

‘If I have to put up with her for much longer, I’ll resort to murder myself. Her dresses may be charming, but her disposition is rather less so. I find her company tedious, and she finds our delay here beyond bearing. I can’t wait to be rid of the woman.’

‘When will that be?’

‘When I get to London. Once I have Papa’s papers, I’m to take them to his lawyer there in the city.’

‘And then? Do you have plans?’

Serena frowned. ‘I thought I did, now I’m not so sure. You’ll think me fanciful, but I feel like—oh, I don’t know—a ship. All my life I’ve been safely anchored in a harbour, or becalmed, or tethered to another vessel. And now I’ve been cut free I can go where I want, do whatever I want to do. I don’t really want to make plans just yet. Don’t laugh.’

‘I’m not—far from it. I find the image of you unfurling your sails most distracting.’

She blushed at the intimacy of his tone, but ventured no reply. They were walking side by side along a small path lined with cherry trees, the blossom just beginning to come into flower. Serena’s hand was tucked into Nicholas’s arm, their paces matched, so perfectly in tune that neither had noticed.

The atmosphere over the last two days had been relaxed and lightly flirtatious. Until now, Nicholas had shown no sign of wishing to make more serious advances. Which was a good thing, Serena assured herself, and had indeed almost come to believe. Almost. Part of her was tempted to explore the attraction she felt between them, though it was a complication she could well do without. Every time he touched her, no matter how innocuous the circumstances—to hand her a book or her gloves, to seat her at the table or as now, to lend her an arm while they walked—a tiny shiver of awareness flickered inside her. Did he feel it too?

I find the image of you unfurling your sails most distracting. She wished she had not mentioned it, for now she found it distracting too. Unfurling. Why was it such a sensual word?

They continued strolling along the path, but their pace slowed. ‘There’s a seat by the stream and a pretty enough prospect from there over the fields,’ Nicholas said, pointing ahead. ‘We can rest there for a while in the sun, if you wish.’

There was indeed a charming view from the little wooden bench they made their way towards. ‘It’s lovely, really lovely,’ Serena said delightedly. ‘I wonder if my papa and yours spent time fishing here. He told me they knew each other as boys.’

‘Did he? Then perhaps they did.’ Though Nicholas thought it more likely that Serena’s papa poached than fished, he decided not to disillusion her. ‘I fish here myself sometimes. There’s not much sport, trout and carp merely, and to be honest I haven’t the patience for fly fishing. I haven’t been here in an age—I’d almost forgotten how pleasant it is.’ He wiped the bench with a large handkerchief. Serena sat obediently, but Nicholas continued to stand, gazing off into the distance.

‘Don’t you spend much time at the Hall?’ she enquired.

‘No, not really. I have a town house in London—that’s where Georgiana, my half-sister, and her mother are at present. Georgie’s seventeen now, and Melissa is launching her on to the unsuspecting world. She’s a bit of a hoyden, Melissa is quite unable to control her, but she’ll be a hit none the less, she’s a pretty little thing with a handsome portion. Between my hunting box, visiting friends, and trips to the races at Newmarket, I’m lucky if I spend more than a month or so in a year down here.’

‘That seems a shame. It’s such a lovely place.’

‘Well, the prospect is certainly breathtaking at the moment.’

He was not looking at the view. His meaning was unmistakable. Serena could think of no reply, only of what he would do next. She did not have to wait long.

‘Stand up, Serena, I mean to kiss you.’

Somehow she was on her feet. How did that happen? He was pulling her close into the warmth of his body. His arm was looped round her waist. She could feel the heat from his fingers through the thin muslin of her dress. Now he was untying the strings of her bonnet with his other hand, tossing it carelessly on to the bench.

‘I don’t intend to let you,’she finally managed to say.

Nicholas raised a quizzical brow. ‘I think you’ll find that you do.’ He moved closer, watching her all the while, his hold on her still loose, unrestraining, allowing her space and time to retreat. His fingers were on the nape of her neck now, gently exploring, stroking down to her collar bone, up to the shell of her ear. Her body hummed with anticipation, her nerves tingling, her skin, her whole being urging her towards him, as if invisible strings pulled her in, tangled her up, enmeshed the two of them together.

‘Serena?’ His voice was husky. His eyes, dark and disturbing, searched her face questioningly.

She hesitated as his fingers stilled their caress. His hold on her slackened. She knew she should resist, knew it with certainty.

Chapter Three

His lips were gentle, pulling her bottom lip between his own, moulding his mouth to hers, delicately flicking her mouth open with his tongue. Their bodies nestled, thigh to thigh, chest to chest. The buttons from his coat dug into her through the thin fabric of her dress. Still Nicholas teased, a determinedly slow onslaught on her mouth that licked and sipped and kissed with seemingly no intent but to tantalise.

She was suffused with a warm glow. A hotter flame flickered low in her abdomen, and yet she shivered too, goose bumps rising on her neck, her waist, her arms, everywhere their bodies touched. So different. So lovely. Unfurling.

His breath was warm on her cheek. She wanted to melt into him. To drink deeper of him. To feel more of him. Instinctively she returned his kiss, relishing the myriad of sensations flooding her senses, blocking out all thought, building so slowly from warmth to heat that she hardly registered the change in temperature, the intensifying ache becoming a need for more.

Nicholas’s hold on her tightened. The pressure of his mouth increased. His tongue touched hers, or hers touched his, and everything changed. He pulled her so close that even through their clothing there could be no mistaking his arousal. His hand left her waist, trailing lower, gripping the soft flesh of her thigh, cupping and moulding the rounded flesh of her bottom. A throbbing pulse inside her responded to his hardness. Heat sparked.

His mouth became demanding. His tongue penetrated deep, tangling with hers, his lips no longer gentle, no longer sipping, but drinking, driving her towards a place hotter and wilder than any she had been before. She was trembling. Would have fallen were it not for the strength of his grip on her. ‘Nicholas,’ she said, though what she meant she had no idea. Her voice sounded ragged.

He released her abruptly, breathing heavily, his lids hooded over eyes that were almost black with desire. Serena slumped down on to the bench, her head swirling.

‘If I’d known the response I’d get I would have waited until we were indoors,’ Nicholas said with a grim attempt at humour, taken aback by the strength of passion that had erupted between them.

‘You said you were going to kiss me, not ravish me,’ Serena flashed in return, desperately struggling for a modicum of composure. Just a kiss! Well, now she knew there was no such thing!

Nicholas turned away, taking his time to adjust his disarrayed neckcloth, allowing himself to be distracted by this small task in order to give them both time to compose themselves. He had intended no more than a teasing kiss, something to test the waters. That they had plunged immediately into the depths was most unsettling.

Serena sat on the damp wood of the seat, wrestling with the tangled strings of her bonnet. Desire and heat warred with shame and guilt as she realised what she had done. What must he think of her? What was she to think of herself? For even as she sat here, trying to compose herself, she was distracted by an unfulfilled yearning for more. She barely recognised herself. Perhaps she had become infected by Nicholas’s spirit of recklessness.

But it was done now, and she could not regret it. She would put it down to experience—at least, she would at some point, when she was gone from here, somewhere far from this man’s disturbing, bewildering presence. In the meantime the best thing she could do was protect her dignity. She was damned if she would let Nicholas Lytton see how easily his kisses overwhelmed her. Serena straightened her shawl and smoothed a wrinkle from her glove. ‘We should go back.’

Nicholas ran a hand through his hair, smoothing it into something resembling its former stylish disorder and tried to decide what to do. Apologise? No need, surely—he had given her every chance to repulse him. He had done nothing wrong, yet still he felt he had. But then why was she sitting there, looking annoyingly calm, when he was on fire with need, and just moments before he could have sworn she was too. Baffled, he helped her to her feet.

‘Thank you, Nicholas.’

Deliberately misunderstanding her meaning in an effort to rouse her out of her irritating self-possession, Nicholas bowed mockingly. ‘It’s more customary for the gentleman to thank the lady. It was a pleasure, I assure you.’

Serena blushed, and was annoyed at having done so. ‘I trust you are suitably refreshed,’ she said tartly.

‘You’re anxious to resume your search, I suppose. You know, Serena, the papers are just as likely to be lost as hidden.’

‘I’m perfectly well aware that you don’t believe in their existence,’ she snapped. ‘I am also perfectly well aware that I am simply a distraction for you. You’re helping me because you are bored. You kissed me for the same reason. Why the sudden need for honesty—are you feeling guilty? You needn’t, it was just a kiss, as you said. You need have no fear that it raised false expectations.’

‘If we are to talk of false expectations, I think you have raised a few of your own! Dammit, Serena, you said it yourself, that wasn’t a kiss, it was a ravishment.’

The implication made her temper soar, hot words pouring from her like lava from a volcano. ‘There is no need to take your frustrations out on me, Nicholas. You had the good grace to comment yesterday on my enlightened attitude. Would that you had the same. Instead you are behaving all too typically of your sex, happy to blame mine for arousing your desires, equally happy to berate us when they are not fulfilled.’

His voice was steely. ‘I think I am not the only one to be suffering from frustrated desire.’

They stood glaring at each other on the narrow track. Behind them the weak spring sunshine glittered, casting dappled shadows on the lush green verge. In the brief silence her temper abated as quickly as it had risen. ‘You are quite right, I beg your pardon.’

Her simple acknowledgement took the wind from his sails. Nicholas lifted her hand to his lips. ‘You are far more gracious than I. I accept your apology unreservedly, and offer my own in turn.’

She snatched her hand back. ‘Forget it, there is nothing more to be said. Let us return to the Hall, shall we?’

Nicholas nodded in grudging agreement and, linking Serena’s arm through his own, turned back on to the path and led them towards the house.

In London, Mr Mathew Stamppe entered the office in the city of Messrs Acton and Archer, attorneys at law. He was welcomed by the senior partner Mr Tobias Acton, and ushered into a comfortable room at the front of the premises facing out on to the bustle of Lombard Street.

Waving aside the offer of a glass of canary and ignoring Mr Acton’s polite enquiries as to the health of Mrs Stamppe and his son Mr Edwin Stamppe, Mathew cleared his throat and got straight to the point. ‘What is this urgent matter that requires my presence post-haste? It had better be good.’

Tobias Acton assessed the man sitting opposite him with a lawyer’s shrewd gaze. His client was a tall man with a spare frame. Eyes of washed-out blue peered at him testily above the aristocratic Stamppe nose, but overall his features were weak, giving him rather the look of a hunted hare. Mathew favoured the plain dress of the country squire he had been for the best part of the last twenty years, living on his brother’s estates in Hampshire. Under his careful stewardship the lands of the Earl of Vespian were in excellent heart. Mathew had looked after them as prudently as he would have done had they been his own. In fact, Tobias Acton thought, he had looked after them for so long that he probably thought of them as exactly that—his own.

And now they were. The lawyer composed his features into those of a man about to deliver ill tidings. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Stamppe, we have received the saddest of news. Your brother Philip is, I must regretfully inform you, deceased. He died some months ago from injuries sustained when he was robbed, I believe in Paris. Please accept my deepest condolences, sir. Or, I should say, Lord Vespian.’

At last! Mathew struggled to contain the smile that tugged at the corners of his thin mouth. Careful not to show his satisfaction, he shook his head sadly. ‘My dear brother’s passing cannot be said to be a shock, given the way he chose to live, but it is a blow none the less. I shall arrange for the appropriate notices and such, but the main thing is to confirm the legal transfer of the estate to my name. I take it he left his will with you?’

Tobias Acton shuffled uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Well, my lord, as to that, I’m sorry to tell you that things are not quite so straightforward. Lord Vespian—your brother, that is—left us none of his personal papers. As trustees we can obviously act with regards to that part of the estate which is entailed, but as to the unentailed property which, as you know, is not insignificant, we have only this.’

He solemnly handed Mathew a sealed packet. ‘Our instructions were to give this into your hands in the unfortunate event of his lordship’s death.’

Mathew took the packet, his rigid countenance giving no sign of the anger rising in his breast at this caprice of Philip’s. Tearing open the seal, he read the contents with impotent fury. Finally, he crumpled the letter into his pocket. ‘It seems, Mr Acton, that I have inherited a niece rather than a fortune. My dear brother has posthumously informed me that he was not only married, but that the union produced a daughter who is his rightful heir. The will and testament supporting this was lodged by Philip with a man named Nick Lytton who, to the best of my knowledge, died ten years since. I can only presume my niece—’ he broke off to consult the letter ‘—the Lady Serena, will stake her claim as soon as she has recovered them from his son.’

Tobias Acton’s brows rose a notch. ‘A most unexpected development, Lord Vespian. May one enquire as to how you intend to handle this somewhat, ahem, delicate situation?’

‘That, Acton, is a question I find myself quite unable to answer at this present moment.’

The next morning, Hughes relieved Serena of her hat and pelisse and informed her that Master Nicholas awaited her in the library, which was situated at the far end of the building. Serena opened the door and stepped into a surprisingly modern room with long windows looking out over a paved terrace. The book cases were mahogany, not the oak prevalent in the rest of the house, as was the large desk behind which Nicholas sat. Above the book cases the walls and ceiling were tempered a soft cream. The hangings were dull gold.

‘This is quite lovely,’Serena said, ‘and so unexpected.’

Nicholas rose from behind the desk to clasp her hand between his in his customary greeting. ‘A description I could easily apply to you.’

She felt his intense gaze probe her thoughts, felt the now familiar fluttering that accompanied the touch of his flesh on hers, however slight. They stood thus for what seemed an eternity, the memory of that remarkable, passionate, all-encompassing kiss hanging almost palpably between them.

A polite cough announced the arrival of Hughes bearing a tray of coffee, which he placed on a small table. Serena poured two cups and handed one to Nicholas before sitting down to sip contentedly on her own. ‘I’ve never learned to make good coffee—this is delicious.’

Nicholas raised an eyebrow. ‘Not exactly an accomplishment you can have had much call for, surely?’

‘On the contrary. There have been times when we were quite down on our luck, Papa and I, unable to afford luxuries such as servants.’

‘Not recently, though. No matter how simple the gowns you wear, I’m not deceived—the simpler the design, the costlier the price, is my experience. You’re tricked out in the absolute finest of everything—gowns, shawls, hats, even those little boots of yours are kid, if I’m not mistaken.’

‘And what, pray, monsieur, would you know about the cost of a lady’s apparel?’

‘As much as you, probably. I’ve certainly paid for enough fripperies over the years, to say nothing of having to cough up for dressmakers and milliners when the lady concerned is a—let us say intimate—acquaintance.’

‘You are referring to your mistresses, I take it.’ She was determined not to be shocked, equally determined to ignore the foolish twinge of jealousy. ‘However, my clothes are from Paris, naturellement, which makes them a little above your touch.’

He remembered her earlier jibe about a protector. What if she had not been joking after all? The idea was distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Au contraire, mademoiselle,’ Nicholas said maliciously, ‘I am well enough heeled to be able to insist that any lady under my protection wears only the very best. And well enough versed in the latest modes to see that your hard times are behind you, if your wardrobe is aught to go by.’

She gave him a direct look, alerted by the harsh note in his voice. ‘You think a man paid for them?’

‘Am I right?’

He spoke nonchalantly, but Serena was not fooled. ‘Yes.’ She waited, but he said nothing, only looked at her in that way of his that made her feel he was privy to her innermost thoughts. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Nicholas, stop looking so serious. I meant my father.’

He was unaccountably relieved, but managed not to show it. ‘Well, he must have made you a generous allowance.’ Serena did not deign to reply. ‘Do you still miss him?’ Nicholas asked her after a few moments, his voice gentler now.

‘Of course. We were very close. Don’t you miss your parents?’

‘The cases are rather different,’ he replied wryly. ‘I saw more of the servants than my parents when I was growing up. Outside school, there were various tutors, but being without siblings I was largely left to go my own way—exactly as my father did in his youth. I had money enough to indulge in all my whims, and when I grew older to support my gaming and fund my amours. My father introduced me to his club and a few of his influential friends when I came of age, and that’s about the sum of it.’

‘So you are an only child too. Did you wish for a brother or sister? I know I longed for siblings.’

‘I was an only child,’ Nicholas corrected. ‘I’ve got a half-sister now.’

‘Yes, but so much younger than you—it’s not the same.’

‘She’s about the age Melissa was when my father married her. There’s no fool like an old fool—he was completely infatuated.’

‘But Melissa made him happy?’

‘He died before he could be disillusioned,’ Nicholas said sardonically, ‘but not, unfortunately for me, before he became obsessed with a desire to reform me.’

‘Poor Nicholas.’

There was just a tinge of mockery in Serena’s voice, but Nicholas could forgive her anything when she smiled at him that way, making him feel she understood him very well. He was becoming accustomed to it.

‘I would have thought reforming you a well-nigh impossible undertaking,’ Serena continued teasingly. ‘How on earth did he intend to achieve it?’

‘Oh, he had his ways, believe me. He took every opportunity to lecture me about the benefits of marrying a good woman and the wonders of love. All the usual nonsense that a reformed rake is prone to as he grows old and finds mortality staring him in the face.’

‘That seems a rather jaundiced way of looking at it. Perhaps he really was in love?’

‘Spare me the romantic twaddle, Serena. He was in lust, not in love. And he was a hypocrite, which is something I cannot be accused of. I indulge my passions for gaming, horses and women, but I never play when I can’t pay. I never put a horse at a fence it can’t take. I never trifle with women who don’t know the score. Which is more,’ Nicholas concluded bitterly, ‘from what I’ve heard about my father in his younger days, than can be said for him.’

‘Perhaps that’s part of it—his wanting to prevent you making his mistakes. My father wrapped me in cotton wool for the same sort of reasons, and in some ways—I am only beginning to realise it now—it was suffocating. You, on the other hand, were positively neglected, but that did not prevent your father from wishing to dictate your life.’

‘The difference between us is that I will not allow him to. You, on the other hand, are still dancing to Papa’s tune.’

Serena bit her lip, for he had hit a nerve. ‘For the moment. So,’ she continued brightly, ‘despite your father’s attempts, you have not been converted to the conquering power of love as espoused by Lord Byron.’

‘That deluded romantic! The man has almost single-handedly brought love and languishing back into fashion.’

‘It seems to me that Lord Byron is more interested in indulging his own rather eclectic tastes and encouraging everyone, poor Lady Lamb included, to worship at the altar of his ego,’ Serena said scornfully. ‘In any case, real love doesn’t come in or go out of fashion, as I have no doubt Lord Byron will. You can’t stop it or avoid it. You can’t be cured of it and you can’t dictate how it happens either. Some people never fall in love because they never meet the right person. My parents were fortunate. It may be that your father was too, with his Melissa. It is possible that his wanting you to change your ways was not hypocritical, but a desire for you to be as happy as he was.’ She stopped abruptly, taken aback by the passion of her own response.

‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to differ on that,’ Nicholas said dismissively. ‘It’s a pretty point of view, and you are a charming advocate, but I remain unconvinced. You know less of the world and its travails than you think if you really mean what you say.’

With difficulty Serena managed to repress the hot retort that rose to her lips. ‘I won’t quarrel with you, there’s no point. I won’t persuade you, only experience will do that.’

‘Indulge me, though, by explaining one thing to me before we drop the subject.’

She raised her brows enquiringly.

‘Yesterday by the trout stream you seemed more than happy to encourage me to—for us to—for things between us to take their course. Today you rhapsodise about true love. I’m concerned that we are at cross-purposes.’

‘In what way?’

‘I can never offer you love, Serena, I won’t be such a hypocrite as my father. I can promise you fun, perhaps, pleasure definitely, but it would be a brief idyll, nothing more. I won’t pretend to any finer feelings to ease your conscience. If you choose to pick up where we left off from our kiss, you must do so with your eyes wide open.’

Serena paused for a moment before replying. She was not in love, but tossing and turning in her bed last night, she had been forced to acknowledge the depth of her attraction to him. The pang of physical awareness she had felt when first she encountered him, stripped to the waist in the boxing ring, had grown during the hours they spent together. Hidden away from the rest of the world as they were, time slipped by more and more quickly. Whenever she saw him, the urge to give in to temptation became harder to resist, fuelled by the knowledge that once she had her papers their paths were unlikely to cross again. The sensible voice in her head warned her that to give in to her desires was to risk being burned, but this feeling of rightness when she was with him continued to grow regardless.

Nicholas would take whatever she offered, provided she stuck to his terms. His feelings for her were of a fleeting nature. It had been unintentional, but his reaction to her eulogy on true love was a timely warning. ‘My eyes are very wide open,’ she told him with certainty. ‘We are not at cross-purposes, I assure you.’

Did that mean she would grant him more than a kiss? It was on his mind to ask her, but he thought better of it. ‘I have some business to attend to for the rest of the morning,’he said instead. ‘I’ll join you after lunch.’

Mathew Stamppe, lately become Lord Vespian, had had a busy morning, which included a long-overdue visit to the dentist, a fitting with his tailor and various commissions for his good lady wife. The existence of a niece, a chit of a girl heir to the fortune that was rightfully his, vexed him beyond words and continually dogged his thoughts. Tobias Acton had advised him to sit tight and wait on her contacting him, but this, Mathew had decided, was not a course of action to which he could inure himself.

His next piece of business took him to a flash tavern just off the Fleet where he was to meet up with an ex-Runner recommended by his club doorman. Mathew sat uncomfortably in a booth, warily eyeing the unsavoury clientele of the dimly lit room, relieved that he had taken the precaution of leaving all his valuables, save the required purse of money, safe in his lodgings.

A short, compact man in a greasy brown coat approached him. ‘You Stamppe?’ he enquired loudly.

‘For pity’s sake, man, keep your voice down,’ Mathew hissed.

The man smiled. ‘No need to worry on that score, squire. Folk in here have learned the hard way to mind their own business, if you get my meaning. Now, let’s see the readies.’

He bit delicately into one of the coins from the bag which Mathew handed him. Satisfied with the quality, he called for a glass of fire water and awaited instruction.

Mathew’s orders were vague. When pressed to be more specific, he flapped. ‘Just do whatever you see fit, I want no details.’

The ex-Runner smiled knowingly. He had come across the type many times before. Happy enough to pay someone else to do their dirty work, but too squeamish to think about what they had paid for actually entailed. It suited him well enough. He signified his agreement by raising his glass in a toast before tossing it back with a satisfied smack of the lips. Then he was gone.

After a lunch alone, Nicholas still being engaged upon business, Serena flicked through some volumes of Shakespeare in a half-hearted way, searching for the source of the last rose of summer quotation. By the time he joined her she was heartily bored.

‘Forget about that for today, let’s play cards instead,’ he said, lounging in the doorway.

‘Cards,’ Serena exclaimed in surprise.

‘Yes, why not? Can you not play?’

‘Very well, actually. Whatever you want.’

‘Piquet?’

‘If you wish. But just for penny points.’

Nicholas laughed. ‘I’m considered to be a very good player.’

‘Oh, I’m not worried,’ Serena said airily, ‘I’ve played a lot of cards in my time.’

‘Another of the skills learned at dear Papa’s knee, no doubt,’ he quipped.

She chuckled. ‘If only you knew.’

‘Since you’re so confident, we should make the stakes more interesting. A forfeit.’

‘It depends what you have in mind.’

‘You’re expecting me to say a kiss, but I won’t be so predictable.’

His smile was irresistible. ‘What, then?’Serena asked.

‘A lock of your hair. Something with which to remember our time here.’ He surprised himself at the fancifulness of his request, was still more surprised when she agreed.

‘Deal,’ she said, handing him the cards with a glint in her eye that should have worried him.

As the rubbers progressed it became clear that Serena’s claim to skill had been no idle boast. Nicholas was losing steadily.

‘Well, I make that—let’s see…’ Serena added up the score and showed him the total.

‘Confound it, I never lose by such a margin. Are you sure?’

‘Quite sure,’Serena said smugly. ‘Now you must pay the forfeit.’ She opened her reticule, producing a pair of embroidery scissors, brandishing them before him triumphantly. He ran his fingers through his carefully cropped hair, much alarmed. ‘Give me those, I’ll do it.’

Serena shook her head. ‘To the victor the spoils, Nicholas. What was it you said, “I never play when I can’t pay”?’

‘You’re enjoying this.’

She nodded primly, her eyes brimming with laughter.

He made a dive for the scissors, but she quickly put them behind her back. ‘Kneel before me, Mr Lytton,’she commanded, ‘I would not wish to ruin your coiffure.’

He held her gaze as he knelt, a wicked smile curling the corners of his mouth, his eyes reflecting the laughter in hers. ‘You will regret this, mademoiselle.’

‘I don’t think so. Stay still.’ She bent over his head. Her dress brushed against his face, which was disconcertingly close to her thighs. Heat rushed through her body.

‘I told you you’d regret it,’ Nicholas said wickedly, his voice muffled by the material of her skirt. ‘I, on the other hand, am finding this position rather delightful.’

Serena froze. Was that his breath she could feel through her petticoats? A quick snip and a lock of silky black hair fell into her hand. ‘There, you can stand up now,’ she managed breathlessly.

He gazed up at her with such a smile that her knees almost buckled. ‘Why don’t you come down here and join me? It’s very—good God!’

‘What is it?’

‘The last rose of summer left blooming alone. I’ve just remembered, it’s a song. And there it is. Come here.’

‘Very funny. Get up.’

‘No, I mean it,’ Nicholas said. ‘Look.’

She carefully placed his curl in her reticule with her scissors and dropped to her knees beside him. He took her by the shoulders and pointed her at the fireplace. Two panels decorated with delicate plasterwork filled the gap on each side between the mantel and the book cases. On one the figure of a man held a flower stalk in his hand. On the opposite panel was a tomb, around and on top of which the petals of the flower were scattered.

‘Oh!’ Serena clapped her hands together in excitement.

‘The last rose of summer. Melissa used to sing it—damned melancholy thing, but it tickled my father. He knew the poet who wrote it, years before it was set to music. I can’t think why I didn’t remember until now. Go on then, they’re your papers, see if you can find the latch.’

The panels were not large, starting from the wainscoting and ending at head height. Carefully, Serena felt her way around the edges of the one on the right, with shaking fingers seeking a gap or a mechanism, but there was nothing. She tried again. Nothing. Disappointed, she sat back on her heels.

‘Maybe it’s on the other one. Let me try.’ Nicholas joined her, kneeling on the floor beside the panel depicting the young man and the flower stalk. As Serena had, he felt his way around the panel. Then he looked more closely at the stalk, which seemed to be detached from the plaster beneath it. Carefully, he twisted it. It turned. The tombstone with its rose petals slid back to reveal a cavity in the wall. Inside lay a small packet sealed with red wax, a name written in faded ink on the front.

Serena reached in. Philip Stamppe, his last will and testament. Her father’s name leapt out from the paper in flowing script. She felt herself go faint, and staggered to her feet.

Nicholas poured her a small measure of brandy. ‘Sit, drink this.’

Serena drank, spluttering as the cognac seared the back of her throat. Then drank some more, savouring the calming effect of the liquor. ‘I’m sorry, it’s the shock, seeing his name, that’s all. I’m better now.’

He was almost as shocked himself, to find that the papers actually existed. As the implications began to make their way into his brain, Nicholas cursed inwardly, for now his precipitate action had ensured that Serena had no further reason to stay and he was not ready for her to go. Not yet.

She turned over the little packet of documents on her lap, but made no attempt to break the seals.

‘Am I permitted to know what they are?’

She was sorely tempted to tell him everything, but to do so would be to call a halt to whatever this thing was between them, and she was not willing to do that. Not yet. ‘My father’s will,’ she conceded, ‘and some papers confirming my identity.’

‘You don’t seem particularly overjoyed to see them.’

She looked up. ‘I expect you are, though. It means I won’t need to trespass on your time any longer.’

‘Must you go straight away?’

‘I ought to.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I know.’

Nicholas stared frowningly out of the window. ‘Leave it another couple of days and I’ll be able to escort you myself. I should have news of my duelling opponent by then, and in the meantime I can show you a bit of the countryside. Do you ride?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. We’ll go riding tomorrow,’he said decisively.

‘I should go to London tomorrow.’

‘Stay. Let us have a day’s grace, without worrying about papers or panelling or—or anything.’

Serena folded the documents into her reticule along with the lock of Nicholas’s hair as she thought through his suggestion. He had not pressed her as to their content. Did that mean he didn’t care, or he didn’t want to know? And if she stayed another day, what was implied? More than just a gallop across the countryside, or was she reading too much into it? He would not take what was not freely given. She believed him, but she did not trust herself. Already, part of her had rushed ahead like a stampeding horse, looking forward to the morrow. She tried to rein it in. ‘A day’s grace,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’d like that’, though even as she spoke, doubt seized her.

Nicholas took her hand and pulled her to her feet. His smile was warm, drawing from her a response that banished everything save a tingle of anticipation, a rush of pleasure. ‘Come on, then,’ he said to her, ‘I’ll walk you back to your lodgings.’

‘Tiens, I thought you were never coming back, mademoiselle, I was about to send someone out in search of you.’ Madame LeClerc, arms crossed impatiently, greeted Serena from the doorway. Dressed in her habitual black, her pale eyes peering shortsightedly at her charge, she had the look of a well-fed mole startled from its burrow.

‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Serena said soothingly. ‘Let’s go in. You’ll be wanting your dinner.’

‘Pah,’ Madame LeClerc said contemptuously, though whether she referred to Nicholas’s retreating figure or dinner was not clear. Once inside, she commenced her habitual lament. ‘I am tired of waiting, Mademoiselle Serena, when will we be on our way?’

‘Not so very long now,’ Serena said patiently, ‘my business is almost concluded.’

‘Business! Is that what you call it. The whole village is talking of you,’ Madame LeClerc said spitefully.

Serena turned from the mirror where she had been tidying her hair. ‘You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip, Madame LeClerc, I’m sure there must be more productive ways for you to pass your time.’

‘What am I to do here, exactly’ Madame responded angrily. ‘The women dress in sacks and aprons. When I try to advise the cook on how to make a nice French ragoût, she orders me from the kitchen. And now there is a strange man pestering me with silly questions.’

‘What strange man?’

‘A round man with a greasy coat. He knocked on the door and talked at me. I don’t know what he said, but I thought he was a person most suspect.’

‘He was probably just lost; I shouldn’t worry about it.’

‘That is all very well for you to say, mademoiselle, but you leave me alone all day when you go off to the big house. What if he had ravished me, what then?’

Serena spluttered with the effort of turning her giggle into an unconvincing cough. ‘I am relieved he did not.’

‘Much you would care if he did!’

Realising that she was genuinely upset, Serena spoke more soothingly. ‘I promise you we won’t be here for much longer. Now let’s forget about strange men, and eat whatever nice English food our landlady has prepared for us before it gets cold.’

They sat down to dinner at the table in the parlour, but Madame was not content to drop the subject of village gossip. ‘They say you spend all day in the company of this Monsieur Lytton. They say that you are his mistress,’ she informed Serena through a mouthful of rabbit pie. ‘They say you must be, given his reputation with the ladies.’

‘I’m not interested in gossip,’ Serena replied sternly.

‘Yes, but, Serena—Mademoiselle Cachet—you should be more discreet; your papa would not be pleased.’

‘C’est mon affaire, madame, none of your business. Since Mr Lytton’s father was one of Papa’s oldest friends, I’ll thank you to hold your tongue. Eat your dinner; I want to hear no more of this.’

It was only village gossip, but it worried her none the less. She did not doubt that much of the speculation had originated from Madame LeClerc herself, but that was no consolation.

Retiring early to the privacy of her chamber, Serena finally broke the seal on her father’s will with shaking fingers. By the time she had worked her way through the lengthy and highly technical content, her candle was guttering, throwing strange shapes onto the walls. The sums of money mentioned staggered her. Until now, she had not quite believed it was true, so outlandish had been Papa’s tale, but the facts were there in parchment and ink. She was indeed an heiress, a considerable one.

Getting out of bed, she folded the documents carefully into a drawer of her jewel case before taking out the necklace Papa had given her for her last birthday. It was a simple but beautiful piece of jewellery, a gold locket with a sapphire in the centre, surrounded by a pattern of tiny diamonds. She opened it and carefully placed the lock of Nicholas’s hair inside, unable to resist pressing upon it a little kiss. Then she snuffed the candle and climbed wearily into bed.

Lady Serena Stamppe. It sounded so strange to her ears. Not at all like herself, but like someone in a book or in a painting. Someone far more dignified, older, more refined than she. Lady Serena. The Honourable Lady Serena. Nicholas would be amused. No, Nicholas would not be at all amused. She would not think about that. Not yet. Not until after tomorrow.

Next door, Madame’s snoring stopped. Taking this as a good omen, Serena fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Four

Serena woke to a fresh sunny morning. It augured well for the promised outing, which she was looking forward to enormously. She checked her appearance in the mirror one last time before going downstairs. Her riding habit was of deep blue velvet, and the small hat trimmed with feathers of a matching colour sat jauntily atop her golden curls. It was not one of Madame LeClerc’s creations, having been fashioned for her by an English tailor in Paris, the mannish cut of the short jacket serving to emphasise the very feminine curves concealed beneath it.

Madame LeClerc was wont to sleep late and had not yet risen, and for this Serena was grateful. She could imagine the fevered speculation that would be aroused by the sight of herself setting off to ride out alone with Nicholas. Madame’s expressive Gallic eyebrows would shoot up to new heights, possibly to disappear entirely under the frill of her cap. With a chuckle, Serena gathered the long trail of skirt over her arm and closed the door of her lodgings quietly behind her. She stepped gaily out into the bright April sunshine and set off for the Hall with a sense of anticipation and well being.

The way was damp underfoot. The scent of fresh earth and wet grass carried on the gentle breeze stimulated her senses. Though she missed Paris and greatly looked forward to seeing London, with all the famous sites she’d heard so much of, at this precise moment she was in no rush to get there. In a way, she was starting to think of this lush green land as home. How she envied Nicholas the beauty of Knightswood Hall. How she envied him the casual acceptance and ease of manner with which he took it all for granted. Papa had imbued his daughter with his own excellent address and confidence, but there were nevertheless times when Serena felt overwhelmed by the elegance of Knightswood Hall and its dashing owner. She was not at all convinced of her ability to play the role of a lady for the London Season in which her father had insisted she should take part, once her true position was known. She was even less convinced than ever of her desire to do so.

Overseeing the saddling of the two horses as Serena made the now-familiar short walk from the village, Nicholas was also musing on the subject of his family’s ancestral home. During past visits to the Hall the solitude, lack of entertainment and the early country hours had been a trial. In Serena’s company he looked on it all with a fresh eye. Seeing the house from her perspective, he could admire its beauty anew, could appreciate its quirks and inconveniences as the product of its evolution, tangible evidence of its history and provenance. For perhaps the first time ever he felt a genuine sense of pride at being the owner and custodian of the Lytton estate.

The fresh green loveliness of the English spring bursting forth in all its glory before him was something else he had missed, since it coincided with the height of the Season and the hustle, bustle and grime of London. He was making up for lost time now. At some point its appeal would begin to pall, he had no doubt. As would Serena’s. But not yet.

He knew enough of her to be certain that she would not change her mind about leaving. At best he had only today and tomorrow. He would wait no longer to sample more of her charms. The thought ignited his senses, an unaccustomed sense of anticipation making him jerk on the bridle in his hand. Titus whinnied and flared his nostrils. The dappled grey mare standing next to him pranced skittishly.

‘I’ll take them round the front myself,’ Nicholas said, casually dismissing the groom. Grabbing both sets of reins, he set off on foot through the archway, out of the stable block and towards the house. Rounding the path which led to the front, he met Serena coming from the opposite direction.

Seeing Nicholas stride towards her, leading a horse in each hand, a dazzling smile illuminating his handsome features, she felt her breath catch in her throat. His cravat was snowy white against the strong line of his jaw. A plain dark-brown riding coat buttoned tight across his chest emphasised the width of his shoulders. Looking down, past the cutaway of the coat, the waistcoat of biscuit hue adorned with a single fob, she drank in long muscular legs clad in his favourite buckskins and impeccably polished short boots with long tops. She swallowed. The soft leather of his breeches seemed moulded to his shape so tightly she would swear she could see his muscles ripple underneath as he walked, the square-cut tails of his coat flying out behind him. His hands were clothed in gloves of the same close-fitting soft leather. In one of them he carried a riding whip. He was, Serena thought, not beautiful, that was quite the wrong word, but astonishingly, compellingly attractive.

Trying not to stare like a besotted schoolgirl, she turned her attention to the horses he was leading. The large imperious stallion could only be his. The other horse was smaller, a lovely dappled grey with expressive, intelligent eyes. ‘Oh, is this my mare?’ She ran the last few steps, going straight to the horse’s head, producing some lumps of sugar from a pocket in her habit. ‘She’s lovely.’

‘Yes, she is,’ Nicholas said, his eyes on Serena.

He took her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, smiling into her eyes in a way that left her in no doubt of his thoughts. Serena felt a responsive shiver. Beside her the horse pawed nervously at the ground.

‘Her name is Belle,’ Nicholas told her, handing over the reins. ‘She can be quite lively—do you think you’ll be able to handle her?’

‘I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly. I expect she just needs a gallop. I’m looking forward to it almost as much as she is.’

‘Well, just take it easy until we’re out in the fields. Come here and I’ll help you up.’

She mounted with ease, draping her long skirts gracefully over the pommel. Belle pranced and pawed, held firmly in a light grip. They set off at a brisk trot side by side down the lane and out into the fields. Serena rode well, straight-backed and light handed, the feathers in her hat flying out in the breeze as she urged the mare into a gallop. Beside her, Nicholas and Titus kept pace. The countryside rushed by in a swirl of green and brown accompanied by the thud of the horses’ hooves, the whistle of the wind in her ears, an occasional rustle in the undergrowth as some small animal fled from their path. Gradually they slowed to a canter and then to a trot, lazily following the meanderings of a burbling stream.

Flushed from the exercise, her eyes bright with curiosity, Serena asked Nicholas to tell her more about their surroundings, surprised to find that almost all the land belonged to him. Her questions forced him to dig deep into the recesses of his brain for answers. It was gratifying, how quickly it all came flooding back to him.

‘I hadn’t realised you were such an expert on farming,’ she teased.

‘I’m not really. My bailiff manages it all; I can’t claim any credit for the good heart the land is in.’

‘But you clearly understand how the estate works.’

‘I spent a lot of time here in my youth, even though I don’t come down so often now.’

‘It’s so beautiful here, I love it. You’re very lucky.’

‘I suppose I am. Do you plan to stay on in England?’ he asked curiously.

‘Yes, I think so.’

‘In London?’

‘I don’t know.’ In truth she had no idea. ‘Maybe I’ll find my own place in the country.’

‘So your father’s will left you well provided for?’

‘Yes. But we said…’

‘I know, that we wouldn’t talk about it today.’ He reined in his horse. ‘We should go back. If we follow the stream for another mile or so, we can loop round through the West Farm and approach the Hall from the north.’

Serena nodded her agreement. They had passed the main buildings of the farm and were approaching the edge of the grounds of the Hall when she dropped back a little, distracted by a sound from the hedgerow to her left. As she leaned over in the saddle to try to see what creature was making the strange noise, the unmistakable sound of a shot pierced the air. The bullet whizzed over her head, missing her by inches.

Hearing the crack, Nicholas pulled Titus up sharply, turning round in the saddle just in time to see Serena’s horse rear up into the air before bolting, with Serena still clinging on. Quickly wheeling Titus round, pressing his heels into the horse’s flanks to urge him on, Nicholas galloped after Serena as she hung grimly on to her horse’s neck and careered across the field. Coming alongside, Nicholas leaned over precariously to grab the horse’s bit. ‘Whoah, Belle, whoah, girl,’ he said gently. The mare slowly came to a halt.

‘Are you all right?’ he asked anxiously.

‘Yes, I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Serena sat up in the saddle. She was as white as a sheet, but had herself firmly in hand. Taking her reins back from Nicholas, she focused her attention on soothing Belle, whispering calming platitudes in her ear. Gradually, the mare ceased her fidgeting. Serena looked up to find Nicholas frowning heavily, staring over her shoulder at the direction from which the shot had been fired. ‘What is it?’she asked him.

‘Did you see anything?’

‘Nothing at all. I felt something whizzing over my head, but I didn’t see where it came from.’

‘It came from over there.’ He pointed to a clump of trees leading into a wood at the boundary of the property. ‘I’m going to have a look. There’s a barn at the other side of the field, you and Belle can wait there. You’ve had quite a shock. Are you feeling well enough to ride?’

‘I’m fine. But—can’t I come with you?’

‘No, go and wait for me there. I won’t be long. I expect it was a stray shot fired by a poacher, in which case he’ll likely be long gone. What he was shooting at this time of year in broad daylight I have no idea though—rabbits, maybe.’

‘They would need to be flying rabbits,’ Serena said with a weak attempt at humour. ‘That bullet would have gone into my head if I hadn’t bent down.’

‘That thought had not escaped me,’ Nicholas replied grimly. ‘Go and rest, Serena. I’ll join you shortly.’

Giving her no time to protest, Nicholas galloped off in the direction of the wood. Serena headed for the barn, where she dismounted and tied the mare up beside a convenient water trough. The sky was lowering, the morning’s brightness giving way to a squally April breeze. Rain threatened.

By the time Nicholas returned half an hour later it had started to pour, and Serena was beginning to fret.

‘I thought something had happened to you.’

He grinned at the charming picture she made, framed by the doorway in her blue velvet suit with her bright gold hair dishevelled. ‘Don’t be silly, did you think the poacher would shoot me? More likely the other way round, as punishment for his recklessness. Go inside, I’ll just put Titus beside Belle. We might as well wait out the rain here, it will pass over soon enough’

He had found no trace of a poacher, not that he had really expected to do so. He had checked with Farmer Jeffries, whom he had spotted working the fields nearby, but he had seen nothing either, although he had heard the shot. The poacher had aimed high, possibly startled into loosing the gun. It was the only explanation that made sense, Nicholas told himself, for the alternative was that someone had shot deliberately at Serena, and that made absolutely no sense at all. He decided not to worry her unnecessarily with this absurd notion. ‘It was an unfortunate accident, nothing more, but a most unsettling experience none the less. Are you sure you’re all right, Serena?’

She gave him a weak smile by way of reply. She seemed determined to appear little shaken despite the closeness of the bullet. She had real pluck, Nicholas thought with admiration. Every other woman of his acquaintance would have swooned.

‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him again. ‘I got a fright and let my horse bolt, for which I am ashamed. Thank you, Mr Lytton, for being my knight errant. I’m sorry to have put you to the trouble.’ She dropped a curtsy.

‘It was an honour, mademoiselle,’ Nicholas replied with a bow.

He closed over the door to block out the rain, which was now falling heavily. ‘It’s not exactly salubrious, but at least it will keep us dry,’he said, surveying the space. The barn was small, enclosed on all sides. Apart from some bales of hay stacked in one corner and a pitchfork leaning on the wall beside them, it was empty.

Rain pattered on the roof. A gusty wind whistled through the rough wooden walls. Serena shivered, making for the bales of hay, which formed a break against the draughts. ‘We can sit over here, it’s at least a little more comfortable.’

Nicholas followed her. Serena perched on one of the bales, reaching up to remove her hat. The action stretched the tight-fitting jacket of her habit against the contours of her body, the soft velvet outlining the fullness of her breasts. The long line of her throat showed creamy white above the lace of her collar. Turning, she found Nicholas gazing down at her, desire writ plain across his face.

Her heart picked up a beat. They were alone in an isolated barn. A ramshackle building with only bales of straw for comfort, hardly the setting she would have picked for her first experience in seduction. But the raw need on Nicholas’s face was unmistakable. She had only to acquiesce.

Nervously, Serena pushed a stray curl from her eyes. Did she want this? Her whole body screamed yes, but still she tried to be certain in her mind. It was an irrevocable step to take. An idyll, that’s how Nicholas saw it. She was not so sure she would be able to think of it in quite the same way afterwards.

Afterwards. Had she then already made up her mind? The atmosphere between them crackled with tension. Nicholas stood looking down at her, one brow raised. She knew what he was asking. Knew too that he would accept her no, though he wanted her yes. She wanted to say yes. Right here, right now, she wanted to say yes more than anything. But would she feel the same way tomorrow, and the next day, and the next? To surrender herself to him could be to cast the dice irrevocably. Was that really what she wanted? But to draw back from the game now would be to regret having done so for ever, wouldn’t it?

‘Serena?’

Why must he ask? Why must he look at her like that, so she could not think straight? She stood up, reaching to brush a lock of hair from his brow. It was damp from the rain. Black as coal. Soft as silk. She pushed it back, running her fingers along the contour of his skull, trailing them down his neck, fluttering against his skin. What was he thinking?

He smelled of rain and horse and man. His skin was cool and damp. She ran her fingers up through the short hair on the back of his neck. What was she doing?

Their eyes locked, blue on grey, deepening into dark pools of desire. With a harsh intake of breath, Nicholas pulled her roughly to him, holding her close, gripping her waist, cupping her head through her curls. Angling his mouth on to hers, he kissed her hard, engulfing her in sudden heat and passion and fire. Soft curves melted into hard planes.

He deepened the kiss. She reached her arms around him, under the material of his coat, against the soft linen of his shirt, the silk of his waistcoat, feeling the heat of his skin through the delicate material. Her hands roamed across his back, kneading the rippling muscles, tracing the knotted line of his spine. He was all bone and muscle and sinew. Power and strength coiled tight. Heady. Strange. Frighteningly, dizzyingly exciting.

Nicholas groaned, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, his kisses demanding, hardening, deepening. Long passionate kisses. Tiny licking kisses. Nibbling on the corners of her mouth, sucking on her bottom lip, his tongue tangling with her own, sweeping across the tender skin on the inside of her mouth. Licking and sucking and thrusting.

He pulled her closer, pressing his arousal against her through the soft leather of his buckskins. Shockingly hard. Unimaginable. Now, now was the time to stop. To stop before she did imagine. What it would feel like. What it would feel like…

She was hot. Her body thrummed, pulsed, pounded, throbbed. She was a hard core of heat, yet she was melting.

Nicholas licked, and she followed. He bit her lip gently, and she nicked his bottom lip between her own teeth. Tentatively touched her tongue to his when he thrust. She wanted to touch him, but did not know how. She knew she should stop, but did not know how. ‘Nicholas,’ she heard herself say, though surely that was not her voice?

He was still kissing her. Drugging, swollen, swooning kisses, as if he would suck the lifeblood from her. She gave and gave and gave and still he kissed her more. He undid the large buttons of his riding coat and waistcoat, shrugging out of both together. The tiny buttons on her own jacket surrendered to his hands, though she could not have said how. They stood chest to chest. She was breathing as if she had been running. Nicholas, too, his chest heaving, like in the fight. She had no will, no will of her own any more, save to do as he bid.

He tugged the folds of his shirt free from his breeches and took her hands, placing her palms flat on his heated skin. She ran them wonderingly along his ribcage, down the line of his torso to the indent at his waist, relishing the shivering response her touch elicited as she used her hands to draw the map of his body. Her fingers encountered the barrier of his breeches. She pulled her hand back as if she had been burned. She was burning.

Nicholas looked down at her anxiously. Her eyelids were heavy over the deep blue of her eyes, the long dark lashes fanned out over her cheeks. Her hair was undone from its pins, rippling down her back in long ringlets, one tress curling provocatively over her flushed cheek. Her lips were swollen from his kisses. She looked every bit as wanton, even more arousing than in all his fevered late-night imaginings.

‘Serena?’

She stared up at him. He took her hand again, placed it back on his chest, relishing the feel of her skin on his, while desperately trying to read her thoughts. Was she frightened? For a moment he thought so. Because this was the first time? For a moment he hoped so. Because it was not? No, don’t think of that.

Beneath the soft silk of her blouse he could see her breasts rise and fall. He could see the hard peaks of her nipples. Carefully he tugged the lace at her neck, finding the fastenings, slowly undoing them, until her blouse was open to the waist. Her breathing quickened. Her hand curled into the muscle of his chest, but she did not stop him. He pulled the blouse free from the waistband of her skirt. He tugged at her undergarments, expertly freeing her breasts from the wisps of lace and fine lawn cotton that constrained them. At the first touch of his thumbs on her nipples Serena moaned, slumping back against the bales of hay.

She wanted him. Nicholas arranged her gently, supporting her against the straw. She was a picture to rob any man of control, with her golden hair spread out like a fan, her countenance flushed, her eyes heavy with desire. The creamy mounds of her breasts with their rosy-tipped peaks rose and fell alluringly against the white of her undergarments. Just exactly as he’d pictured. The blue velvet of her skirt trailed out beneath her. Nicholas drank his fill of the vision, his breathing heavy, his heart thumping erratically as desire surged painfully through him.

‘Nicholas.’

Serena breathed his name in that special way of hers, watching him through eyes slumberous with desire. She was no vision. She was flesh and blood and heat and luscious, perfect curves. And his, all his. Pushing her legs apart under the voluminous skirt of her riding habit, Nicholas knelt down in front of her. Cupping her full breasts in his hands, he licked the soft undersides, teasing her nipples into hard, swollen fullness between his fingers, pinching them just enough to make her moan with the overwhelming pleasure of it. He leaned in closer, circling her nipples with his tongue, flicking over the hard peaks, sucking gently, then hard, gently, then hard.

She was mindless. She was lost. She was frightened by what was happening to her, but in a way that made her want more. Heat spread out from her belly, a dull glow turning into a burning ember, sparks flying out through her veins, igniting her blood, making her burn. Was this normal? Serena writhed restlessly. She didn’t want him ever to stop. His mouth on her. His hands on her. He was making her do things. Things she didn’t know she knew.

She should stop. She couldn’t stop. She arched against him, pushing her body into him, finding the restraining cloth of her skirt, his breeches, an unbearable barrier. ‘Nicholas.’ She breathed his name again, slanting open her eyes to look at him, hot hands, hot mouth, hot eyes on her. She wanted this, and now she wanted something else too.

Nicholas lifted the hem of her blue velvet skirt, pushing it up around her waist to reveal the long graceful line of her legs. Little boots laced tight around delicate ankles. Silk stockings clinging to the outline of her calves, their ribbons tied under the lace-trimmed edges of her underwear. God, so beautiful.

Serena blushed because he was looking. Blushed because she could see he liked looking. Blushed because she liked him looking. She shifted under his gaze.

The movement caused the gap between her pantaloons to open, giving Nicholas a brief, tantalising view of blonde curls. He inhaled sharply, drinking in her body hungrily, feasting on the full length of her legs, the outline of her thighs under the delicate lawn of her underclothes, breathing in the smell of hay, her flowery perfume, the elusive musky scent of vanilla which seemed to emanate from her skin. With his eyes closed, he ran one hand teasingly from the top of her boot up over her stocking and along the velvet-soft skin on the inside of her thigh, feeling her rippling response. Running his hand over her other leg, he breathed in deeply, relishing the smell of her, the feel of her, the lines and textures of her. A multitude of sensations bubbled through his blood, making him swell with desire, wild with the anticipation of possession.

He reached for the gap in her pantaloons, unerringly finding the source of her heat. Gently, he touched, stroked, pressed. She responded, pushing against his hand. He pushed her legs apart, revealing all the glory of her soft curls, her creamy white thighs, her wet centre.

Serena felt the heat of his mouth, a gentle breath on her thighs. She tightened, her body a bow stretched taut to breaking point. He was licking. The slow sweep of his tongue made her gasp. He licked again, teasing her, circling around the rough edges of desire, homing in, then out again, stroking her with his fingers, pushing her back when she arched against his mouth, his determined control of her frustrating and stimulating at the same time.

Lost, lost, lost. Serena moaned and pushed and twisted against him, wet with need, overcome with wanting. Still the licking teased, brought her to the edge, withdrew, driving her into a frenzy, making her feel as if she teetered on the brink of some huge chasm, wanting Nicholas to push her, wanting to jump, unable to do so without him. She was terrified he would not make her.

Make me, Nicholas, she wanted to say, though she didn’t, she couldn’t, she wouldn’t. Please. He heard her. Did he hear her? Heat erupted suddenly, ripped through her, and she shattered, her whole body pulsing outwards from the centre of her climax, mindless, falling, whirling, lost. Her hands clenched on the straw at her sides, her heels dug into the bales supporting her, and she moaned over and over in a rhythm of her own, shaking, hot, trembling, wet.

Nicholas raised himself up, bending to kiss her. Serena reached up to pull him close, her mouth hot on his, kissing him back passionately, wild with the need to taste him, to make him feel what she was feeling, to take him to the place where she was.

He breathed hard against her, struggling with the fastenings of his breeches, desperate now to finish what they had begun. The final button on his buckskins gave way, and at last he was free from constraint. He took her hand, placing it on his erection, closing his eyes in pleasure at the feel of her butterfly touch fluttering over him. He was so highly sensitised he could almost feel the ridges and swirls of her fingertips.

Serena looked in awe at the thick jutting length of him. So strange. She could feel the pulse of his blood. She could feel the tension in him etched into every muscle. Here, here was where the centre of all that power was. He took her hand and wrapped it around his hardness. She watched his response with a mounting sense of excitement as she touched him carefully, stroking him, cupping him, watching him, learning from the way he moved, throbbed, moaned under her caresses. Something fierce clutched at her insides. Something powerful and horribly addictive. She ran her thumb over his silky smooth tip. She thought she’d done something wrong. Then she saw from his face that she hadn’t.

With a low husky growl Nicholas pushed her back against the hay. As he stood over her, made ready to plunge into her wet, honeyed centre, he became dimly aware of an insistent noise. The door to the barn was being rattled fiercely. He stilled, unable to believe his ears. Not now. Please God, not now.

‘Who’s in there? Is that you, Master Nicholas?’

Nicholas swore furiously. Tearing his eyes from the vision in front of him, he quickly fastened his breeches, carelessly thrusting the ends of his shirt into them. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered to Serena, making swiftly for the door, slipping outside before Farmer Jeffries could glimpse the scene inside.

‘I thought I recognised Titus,’ the farmer said. ‘Is there anything wrong, Master Nicholas? Only, after the shot, I came out to check things over for myself, and found your horses tied up.’

‘The rain,’Nicholas said, running a hand through his dishevelled locks. ‘We were sheltering from the rain.’

The farmer looked as if he were about to say something, but to Nicholas’s relief he contented himself with a nod. ‘Just as you say, Master Nicholas. I’ll keep an eye out for that poacher. Good day to you.’

‘Good day, Jeffries.’

Nicholas returned to the barn. Serena was huddled on the hay, struggling with the buttons of her jacket. Her skin was flushed, her lips raw and swollen. ‘You look quite delectable. Here, let me help you.’He pulled a piece of straw from her hair.

She blushed fiery red, getting to her feet, studiously avoiding his eyes as she brushed out her skirts. ‘I should go.’

Nicholas studied her as she adjusted the lace at her neck and pinned the little hat, its feather still drooping with rain, rather lopsidedly back in place. A few moments ago she had been like molten heat in his arms. Now she was simply embarrassed. The horrible suspicion that he had completely mistaken her could not be ignored. He looked around him at the draughty barn, the forlorn bales of hay, and abandoned any idea of continuing where they had left off. What had he been thinking!

He picked up his hat and riding crop. ‘You’re quite right, you should go home. We’ll finish this tomorrow, when we can be sure of no interruptions.’

‘Tomorrow.’ Serena gave a rather forlorn smile. ‘Yes, we’ll finish this tomorrow.’

He was perturbed by her tone. ‘I’ll see you home. We’ll ride to your lodgings, I can lead Belle back.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Come on, before the rain starts again.’ He threw her efficiently into the saddle and they cantered back to the village in silence. As she handed him Belle’s reins, the rain began again in earnest.

Serena opened the door of her rooms on her return to find an empty grate and a note from Madame LeClerc informing her that the modiste had accepted a ride to London with their landlady’s son. Crumpling the letter and hurling it into the grate, Serena cursed shockingly fluently in Madame’s native language. Her own journey to London would now have to be undertaken alone. Unless Nicholas escorted her. Serena sighed. She doubted very much he’d be inclined to do so after tomorrow.

She lay awake for most of that night, deeply troubled by the day’s events. The feelings that Nicholas’s love-making had aroused in her were frightening in their intensity. Despite her lack of experience, she knew it was more than mere physical attraction—at least on her part. She was out of her depth, in danger of drowning in the heady potion of desire, attraction and affinity that made up their relationship. In her heart of hearts she knew what she felt for Nicholas was not the fleeting fancy of a spring idyll. If the farmer had not interrupted them, she would have lost more than her innocence. She would have lost her heart.

As a grey dawn crept through the folds of the heavy curtains, Serena forced herself to acknowledge the inevitable. The time had come for her to fold her cards. Any notion she had of returning to Knightswood Hall and finishing what they had started yesterday was foolish beyond belief. Casting all chances of future happiness with someone else to the winds for the sake of a few hours’ idle pleasure would be madness. No matter how much she might yearn for it. No matter how right it felt. Madness.

She tried very hard to picture that someone else of her future, but he stubbornly refused to resemble anyone other than Nicholas. Her country house always turned into Knightswood Hall. Her children all had dark hair and slate-grey eyes. It was useless.

Perhaps she would have more success when this was over. Perhaps, after all, immersing herself in the balls and parties of the London Season would be a wise next step. Not towards matrimony, but away from danger. At least it would give her something to occupy her mind other than what might have been. What now would never be, she thought morosely. For Nicholas would not, in any case, be interested in her once she told him the truth. She had come close today to making him break his own rules, though he did not yet know it. Nicholas Lytton was not a man who would take kindly to that sort of betrayal. A lonely tear tracked down her cheek. Whichever way she looked at it, she dreaded the coming interview. However she tried to imagine it, right now, at this moment, her future seemed bleak.

Nicholas did not sleep much either. Tossing and turning in his tangled sheets, he cursed his over-vigilant tenant. The image of Serena spread out on the hay occupied his mind with tortuous clarity. He had never felt so desirous of a union of the flesh in his life. He had never felt so frustrated in his life. He groaned, turning over again in a vain attempt to find a cool spot in the rumpled bed. Tomorrow. If he did not have her tomorrow, he would go insane.

He was rudely awoken in the morning by a brisk rap on his bedroom door, which most certainly did not emanate from his considerate valet.

‘Nick, you dog, get up.’ Standing in the doorway was Charles, Lord Avesbury, a notable Corinthian and Nicholas’s best friend. Closing the door behind him, he strode over to pull back the window hangings before sitting himself on a chair by the dressing table.

Nicholas sat up in bed. ‘Lord, you must have made an early start. What the devil brings you here? Not, you understand, that I’m not delighted to see you, but your timing is appalling.’

‘I was staying with the Cheadles,’ Charles replied. ‘It’s not more than fifteen miles away. There was talk of a picnic or some such nonsense today, so I thought I’d make my escape for a few hours.’

‘I see. Lady Cheadle still hopeful, is she?’

‘It’s my mother’s fault. She and Lady Cheadle are bosom buddies. She will have it that it’s the dearest wish of her heart to see me leg-shackled to her friend’s eldest daughter.’

‘And you, Charles? Is it the dearest wish of your heart, to wed Penelope Cheadle?’

‘Steady on, Nick, I wouldn’t put it that strongly. I’m getting on though, about time I was setting up my nursery. I’m turned thirty.’

Nicholas stretched up to tug the bell for his valet. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Charles. Rather you than me. I’m going to get dressed. Go down to the breakfast parlour, Hughes will bring you some coffee. I’ll join you shortly, then you can tell me all the news.’

‘Not much to tell. Truth is Nick, you’re mostly the news at the moment.’

‘Don’t tell me my duelling opponent has inconveniently died?’

‘No need to worry on that score, he’s making an excellent recovery. You may come back to London whenever you’re ready. No, it’s not the duel. Get dressed, we can talk over breakfast. I’ll be dammed if I’ll sit here with you when you’re not even wearing a nightshirt.’ Refusing to be drawn any further, Charles retired downstairs.

Chapter Five

Nicholas did not tarry over his toilette, joining his friend in the breakfast parlour some twenty minutes later. Charles was gazing out of the window where a long line of men were scything the lawn. He was a good-looking man, famed for the perfect cut of his coats, which he had always from Weston, and the intricacy of his cravats, which he always tied himself. He was neither as tall nor as well built as Nicholas, but he had a leg shapely enough to look well in the tight pantaloons and tasselled Hessians he wore—from Holby, naturally—and his amiable countenance showed surprisingly few signs of wear despite his solid membership of the hard-drinking, hard-playing Corinthian set.

As Nicholas entered the room, Charles raised his quizzing glass. ‘I’m not sure I like the way you’ve tied your cravat. These country ways are making you lax. Time you were back in town.’

Nicholas laughed, sitting at the table to carve some ham. ‘I was never so fastidious as you, Charles. Tell me, for I’m on tenterhooks, what on earth can have made me the talk of the ton.’

‘Hear you gave Diana Masterton her congé.’

‘Yes, she was becoming tedious in her demands, I told Frances Eldon to pay her off. Don’t tell me that’s it?’

‘No, of course not. At least…’ Charles took a sip of coffee. ‘Bumped into your cousin Jasper at White’s the other day. Asked me if I knew aught about the Cyprian who’s keeping you company here. Wondered if she was the reason you’d rid yourself of the fair Diana. Needless to say I couldn’t tell him anything, except that I doubted the truth of the rumour, since you’re always so careful to keep your fancy pieces at a safe distance.’

Nicholas paused in the act of cutting into the slice of ham on his plate, frowning at his friend. ‘She’s not a fancy piece.’

‘What!’ Charles exclaimed, startled into spilling his coffee. ‘You mean to tell me it’s true, there’s a woman here? Come on, Nick, that’s not your style. What are you thinking of?’

‘She lodges in the village, not here. And I’d like to know how Jasper found out about her.’

‘I never thought to ask. Wouldn’t surprise me if he bribes your servants though, sort of thing he would do. Seemed mighty put out about it in any case, on account of your birthday being so close.’

Nicholas gave a sharp crack of laughter. ‘So that’s what he’s worried about. He’s well off the mark—I have no intentions of marrying Mademoiselle Stamppe.’

‘Oh, so she’s French,’ Charles said dismissively, as if that explained everything.

‘No, English actually, although she’s lived on the Continent all her life.’

‘What’s she doing here with you, then, if she’s not your mistress?’

‘It’s a long story, Charles.’

‘You can’t fob me off so easily, Nick.’ Lord Avesbury took an enamelled box from his waistcoat pocket and flicked it open expertly with the tip of his thumb. ‘Tell me the whole tale.’Taking a delicate pinch of snuff, he sat back in his chair with a grin. ‘Anything’s preferable to Lady Cheadle’s picnic party. Go on, I’ve got all day.’

Cautiously skirting over the more personal aspects of their relationship, Nicholas recounted the events of the past few days.

Charles listened, running the full gamut of emotions from incredulous to sceptical. ‘So what’s in those papers of hers, then?’

‘Her father’s will and proof of her identity.’

‘Why would she need proof of her identity? Sounds a bit shady to me. And now I come to think about it, her name sounds familiar too. Can’t put my finger on it just at the moment, but it’ll come to me. What’s in the will?’

‘I don’t know. She promised she’d tell me, but events yesterday got in the way somewhat.’

‘Events?’ Charles laughed. ‘I see. That’s what you meant by my bad timing. Take it she’s a looker, then, your mademoiselle?’

A bell clanged in the distance. Nicholas stood up, looking towards the door. ‘You’ll see for yourself in a few moments. I fancy that’s her now.’

Serena entered the parlour a few minutes later. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Hughes didn’t mention that you had company.’ She had been so busy rehearsing over and over in her mind the speech she intended to deliver to Nicholas that it quite overset her composure to find he was not alone.

Nicholas came over to take her hand in his familiar clasp. ‘Serena, this is Charles, Lord Avesbury, my dearest and oldest friend. Charles, may I present Mademoiselle Serena Stamppe.’

Charles produced his quizzing glass to inspect the goddess who had appeared before him, his brows rising as he took in the perfection of Serena’s beauty. She was dressed in a printed cotton dress of Turkey red, the small puffed sleeves intricately pleated and tapering tightly down almost to her knuckles. The neckline was trimmed with freshly laundered white ruffles, matching the frilled hem of her petticoat, beneath which her feet were clad in her favourite half-boots of kid. She had discarded her pelisse and hat when she arrived, and the full glory of her golden curls, piled high on her head, competed with the morning sunshine gleaming through the window panes.

Tucking the eyeglass into the pocket of his waistcoat, Charles trod over to take Serena’s hand, bowing with great elegance. ‘Your servant, ma’am. Forgive me, Nicholas did not warn me I was about to encounter such a vision of loveliness. Your presence alone has made my journey worthwhile.’

Serena smiled politely, rather nonplussed to find herself in such obviously elevated company. ‘How do you do,’ she said, remembering her manners just in time, and dropping an elegant curtsy. She turned to Nicholas. ‘Forgive me, if I had known you had a guest I wouldn’t have intruded.’

He smiled reassuringly. ‘Charles is a very good friend, there’s no need to worry. Stay for coffee at least.’

She agreed because it would seem rude not to, sitting down in her usual chair by the fire. In the presence of Nicholas’s friend all the impropriety of their situation hit home with a vengeance. She was embarrassed and disconcerted. Frustrated, too, for she had hoped to get the difficult conversation she had resolved to have with Nicholas out of the way as soon as possible.

Charles chatted amicably about the house party he had temporarily abandoned, the latest on dits, and a wager made on a race between a frog and a chicken. By the time Nicholas recounted the story of his first meeting with Serena, she had relaxed enough to be able to laugh about it.

‘I thought he was a groom. It never occurred to me that I was watching the master of the house stripped to the waist and fighting the local blacksmith.’ She looked up teasingly at Nicholas, who was standing with his back to the fireplace. He returned the look with a smile of such warmth that she raised a hand towards him, remembered that they were not alone, and dropped it. Remembered, too, her resolve to put an end to things between them.

Charles observed the by-play with interest. Now he had met her, it didn’t surprise him that Nick had kept such a beauty hidden away. She was almost flawless, the mysterious Mademoiselle Stamppe, it would take a strong man indeed to resist her charms. It wasn’t like Nick to be so reticent about his lady loves. He had carefully refrained from discussing Serena, though it was obvious they were intimate. Their bodies gave them away, constantly moving towards one another. The way they looked at each other, too. And that smile—they might as well have kissed. Nick was in deep with his adventuress. Charles wondered if he realised just how deep.

‘I hope you won, Nick. The fight, I mean.’

‘Of course I did. Samuel landed a couple of good punches, but he’s slow.’

‘You’re getting too old for that sort of thing.’

‘I know, I know.’ Nicholas looked down at his hands, the faint scars the only reminder of the recent mill. ‘I tell myself that I won’t do it any more, but you know how it is. I can’t resist a challenge.’

‘Yes, but the next time you might lose. Give it up, Nick, you’re almost thirty. Time you settled down.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ Nicholas said curtly. He didn’t want to think about his father’s damned will.

‘You’ve got less than three months left,’ Charles continued blithely.

‘Not now, Charles.’

Watching him, Serena was confused by the lessthan-subtle change of subject. The awkwardness of her situation returned to her. She rose to go. ‘I’ll leave you two to catch up. It was a pleasure to meet you, Lord Avesbury.’ She curtsied, then turned to Nicholas. ‘May I speak with you tomorrow? There is a matter I am most anxious to resolve with you.’

‘You are not the only one who is anxious for resolution,’ Nicholas whispered in her ear.

Serena blushed furiously, then looked stricken. ‘I will see myself out.’ She left, resolutely closing the door before he could demand to know what was wrong.

Nicholas and Charles passed a pleasant day tooling Charles’s phaeton round the countryside, before partaking of a rustic meal at an inn some miles from High Knightswood.

‘I bumped into your sister and your stepmama at Almack’s the other day,’ Charles said, touching his whip to his horses. ‘Georgie was queening it over a pack of young pups.’

‘Brat. Did you speak to them?’

‘Of course I did, for I had already determined to come and see you. Georgie wanted to know when you were coming back to town, and said to be sure and tell you that she’s a blazing success. Melissa was—well, you know what Melissa’s like.’

Charles concentrated on overtaking a lumbering cart. ‘Dashed attractive woman, that Serena of yours,’he continued when the manoeuvre had been stylishly executed.

‘Very,’ Nicholas agreed drily. ‘What are you implying?’

‘Ain’t implying anything. I’m happy to tell you straight to your face, Nick, it’s obvious how things are between you two. The way you were looking at each other put me to the blush. Don’t tell me it’s finally happened,’ he said with a sudden guffaw of laughter. ‘Has the lovely mademoiselle given you a coup de foudre?’

‘You’re being ridiculous Charles, I’m not in love with her.’

‘Whatever you say. It’s just occurred to me, though—maybe Jasper wasn’t too far off the mark after all.’

‘What’s my cousin got to do with this?’

‘Fretting himself to death at the thought of you getting hitched.’

‘But I’ve no intention of getting married. Leastways, not until it’s absolutely necessary.’

‘Lawyers still claiming they’re making progress? Depend upon it, they’ll be saying that on the day of your birthday, it’s what you pay ’em for. Don’t believe a word of it. You need to get hitched, no two ways about it, and the perfect candidate’s fallen like a ripe peach into your hands. Beautiful, obviously more than willing—in fact, I’d say the chit’s besotted with you, although you don’t notice, of course—and, what’s more, not someone who will give you any trouble.’

‘You’re serious,’Nicholas said incredulously, staring at his friend as if he had just escaped from Bedlam.

‘Of course I am. Think about it for a moment. I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the severity of your plight. If you don’t marry, you’ll lose everything.’

‘Not everything, I’ll still have the Hall and estate.’

‘Much good they’ll do you without funds. You’ll have to give up your gaming, your expensive women, your hunters. You’ll have to rusticate here for ever, in penury.’

‘It won’t come to that.’

‘It’s coming mighty close,’ Charles said exasperatedly. ‘You can’t let Jasper inherit, Nick. What isn’t swallowed up by his debts will be tossed away on the hazard table. He’s playing very deep these days, he’d be back under the hatches in less than a year.’

‘I am aware of that. But it doesn’t alter the fact that I have no desire at all to be married.’

‘What makes you so much against it?’

‘An inherent dislike of being coerced into doing something I have no desire to do, for a start.’

‘Bloodymindedness, in other words.’

‘If you like.’ Nicholas sighed deeply. ‘Of course I don’t want Jasper to inherit.’

‘Then marry your Serena,’ Charles said stubbornly. ‘Devil take it, Nick, it’s not like you to be so dense. She’s perfect. My guess is she’s the by-blow of some gentleman, you don’t get a nose like that from common stock. She’s well mannered, well turned out—need I go on?’

‘So you’re suggesting a marriage of convenience.’

‘Convenient enough for both of you, certainly. You keep your fortune. She gets your name. You can pension her off after a respectable time—say a year.’

‘You underestimate my dear parent. There is a clause in his will that no one else, not even Jasper, has knowledge of. If my marriage is terminated by anything other than death, Jasper inherits.’ Nicholas smiled at the shocked expression on his friend’s face. ‘My father constructed a matrimonial prison for me, with a life sentence as punishment. I will find a way to break it—I must. Now let us drop the subject, once and for all.’

Charles pulled the phaeton up at the front door of the Hall, refusing the offer of a bed for the night. ‘Didn’t mean to offend you, Nick.’

‘It’s all right, Charles. I simply won’t be told how to run my life. Not by my father, not by Jasper or even, my dear fellow, by you.’

Charles grinned. ‘Truth be told, Nick, I’m pretty set on doing the deed myself. Don’t want to offend the future mother-in-law, best be on my way before they send out a search party.’

‘Give my regards to Lady Cheadle, and accept my felicitations, if I’m not being premature.’

‘Well, it’s fairly certain. I’m to have an audience with Lord Cheadle in the morning—settlements, you know. She’s a compliant little thing, Penelope, she’ll do well enough. Take a leaf from my book, Nick, before it’s too late.’ Charles pulled his caped driving coat more securely around him and tightened the reins. With a crack of the whip he set his horses trotting briskly down the path, only to pull them up almost immediately. ‘Stamppe,’ he called back, ‘knew it would come to me. It’s the family name of the Vespians. Saw the announcement in the Morning Post the other day, the fifth earl died in Paris last year. Your Serena must be some distant relative.’ With a twirl of his whip, he set off again.

Nicholas headed for the library, demanding the last few days’ copies of the Morning Post. While Hughes retrieved the newspapers from the butler’s pantry and hastily ironed them flat, Nicholas poured himself a glass of Madeira and thought about Serena.

Inevitably his mind returned to the image of her yesterday lying wanton in the hay, her hair fanned out, brighter gold than the supporting bales, her creamy flesh flushed. He couldn’t wait to plunge into the hot wet core of her, to feel her tight around him, to… Damnation! He was fantasising like a school boy. If he continued in this vein he was in for another night like the last one, tortured by adolescent fantasies and frustrated with longing.

Looking at the clock on the mantel, he realised that it was almost dinner time. Tomorrow he would make sure their love-making was not interrupted. Tonight he would have to content himself with trying not to think about what that would entail.

Hughes arrived with the stack of newspapers and the day’s post. There was a letter from Frances Eldon at last. Nicholas opened it with a smile of anticipation. As he quickly scanned the neatly crossed pages his smile faded. By the time he had finished, his face was a mask of fury.

He was waiting for her on the front steps of the Hall the next morning. The day was dry but cold, making Serena glad of the warm woollen cloak she wore over her dress of pale blue muslin. At the sight of Nicholas’s tall figure her heart did a little flip of excitement. It was all very well to tell herself that they must never share so much as another kiss. Faced with the man himself, her will power weakened.

You are not the only one anxious for a resolution. His parting words to her yesterday. Excitement turned to anxiety, which dissolved into dread when she saw his face. No sign of his usual careless smile, his mouth was drawn into a tight line and he was frowning, his eyes a cold slate grey that seemed to glitter like polished granite. ‘Is there something wrong, Nicholas?’

She faltered to a halt on the step below him. He looked down, his eyes travelling slowly over her, from her face, sweeping down her neck, the length of her body, with contempt. An icy coldness clutched at her heart. ‘Nicholas?’

‘Come in. There’s coffee waiting,’ he said curtly, preceding her into the house, giving her no choice but to follow him, hastily abandoning her bonnet and cloak to Hughes’s care.

They sat opposite each other in front of the fire as was their custom. The clock ticked on the mantel. Outside, the sun danced in and out of scudding clouds, slanting shadows of light and dark onto the polished wooden floors. Everything familiar, in its usual place, yet somehow nothing felt the same.

Nicholas’s brows met, giving him the look of a brooding devil. The long fingers of his right hand drummed a slow beat on the arm of his chair. He sat with careless grace, his long legs, clad today in tightly fitting pantaloons and polished Hessians, sprawled out in front of him, but there was no mistaking the tension in him. He was coiled. Ready to spring. And Serena felt horribly like his prey.

His mood alarmed her, all the more because he had himself so tightly under control. She carefully replaced her half-full coffee cup on the tray lest her shaking hands betray her. Nicholas had not touched his. The clock ticked.

‘Alone at last, Serena,’ Nicholas said, looking positively predatory.

She managed an uncertain smile.

‘I’ve given Hughes instructions to deny me to any callers. What with Farmer Jeffries and then Charles, I think we’ve had too many interruptions lately, don’t you?’

Her mouth was dry. She licked her lips. ‘Nicholas, I…’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Nervous, Serena? There’s no need to be. Surely our experience in the barn was sufficient to prove that the conclusion to our little idyll here will be pleasurable—on your part, at least. We have yet to determine how I will like it.’

Colour flooded her face and drained just as quickly, leaving her ashen. ‘Why are you being so beastly?’

‘You’re tense. We should do something to help you relax. A game of piquet, perhaps? Or what about dice? I’m sure Papa taught you how to load the bones as well as how to fix the cards.’

‘I don’t cheat.’

‘Oh, but you do, Serena. You have been cheating me since the day you turned up on my doorstep.’ He stood, the tension in him blatantly obvious now, in the way he clenched his fists by his side, the way he held his shoulders rigid. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a letter. ‘I had this from Frances Eldon, my man of business, yesterday. Combined with your uncle’s announcement in the Morning Post and your own revelations, it has helped to make a lot of things much clearer.’

She realised at once that it was too late. If he knew from someone else what she should have told him from the first, he would never forgive her. ‘You had your man of business investigate me,’ she said flatly.

Nicholas coloured. ‘Since you were so sparing with the truth I had no option.’

She stood up shakily. ‘Don’t say you had no option, it’s not true. You could have waited. I came today to tell you, but I see there is no need, your Mr Eldon has saved me the trouble of a confession.’

‘You lied to me.’

‘You did not trust me,’ she flung at him, her temper flaring. ‘And I did not lie to you, Nicholas. I may have misled you, but you were perfectly happy for me to do so.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You claim you were suspicious of me from the start. Suspicious enough to have someone investigate me. But you never asked me. You never said, Serena, I’m not sure about this story of yours.’

‘Would you have told me?’

‘Yes! No! Probably. It doesn’t matter, you didn’t ask because you didn’t want to know. And then when I found my papers, the same thing. I would have told you straight away, even before I had read them, if you had pressed me. But you did not. Instead you suggested a day’s grace.’

‘Which you were more than happy to agree to.’

She nodded and took a calming breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I was. It was wrong, I knew it was wrong, but I agreed because I wanted…’ She blushed, but forced herself to continue. ‘Because I wanted what happened in the barn. Now I know it was a terrible mistake.’

Her admission threw him. He reached for her, but she stepped back. ‘No, Nicholas. It’s too late now. I must go. I should have gone two days ago.’

‘Sit down, Serena,’ Nicholas said coldly, ‘you don’t get off so lightly. I want to hear it for myself. All of it.’

She would rather do almost anything, but she owed it to him, and he was mostly in the right, so she sat down, stiff-backed, hands clutched tight together in a bitter parody of their first meeting. Nicholas sat down too, his gaze unwavering. That look of his that made her feel he could read her mind.

‘Well, as you have obviously surmised, Papa made his money from gambling. Gaming salons, but I assure you he was neither a cheat nor a sharp.’As she sketched a picture of their life, she watched Nicholas watching her, but his face gave away nothing. ‘We followed the wars, for where there are wars there are officers and hangers-on and plenty of money,’ she continued. ‘Most recently we settled in Paris.’

‘And you, did you preside over the tables?’

Despite the circumstances, the very idea forced a smile from her. ‘Hardly. I’ve told you several times, Papa was extremely protective. He forbade me from entering the salons when they were open. I was his hostess at private parties—when he played for pleasure with his particular friends, all older men, respectable men. I played too, sometimes. And of course, I practised with him.’

‘A fine education for you!’ He was unaccountably angry on her behalf. ‘What about the dangers you must have been exposed to, the sights you must have seen, the type of men you must have met?’

‘It wasn’t like that. You don’t understand.’

‘No, I don’t. What did he intend for you, your sainted papa? You’re—what, twenty-two, twentythree? Did he not wish to see you settled?’

‘I’m almost five and twenty. Of course he wanted to see me settled, that’s why I am here. He would have brought me himself if it was not for the war.’

‘That is complete nonsense, he could have returned any time if he’d really wanted to. Your father sounds to me like a selfish bastard.’

Serena was silent. Papa had explained, but even then, through the grief of knowing he had only a few hours left to live, his excuses had sounded weak to her ears. It had been more than thirty years, after all. ‘You’re right, he was a little set in his ways. I suppose the truth was that he had grown used to his life and did not wish to be constrained by his responsibilities in England.’

‘His life as the Earl of Vespian.’

‘Yes, my father was Lord Vespian.’

‘Which makes you the Lady Serena—assuming, of course, that a marriage actually took place between your parents. Was there one?’

She cast him a wounded look. ‘Of course there was.’

He was unrepentant. ‘I’m only saying what everyone else will ask. Charles did say it was curious, your need to prove your identity.’

‘You told Charles all this? You had no right.’

‘Charles won’t say anything. He liked you.’

‘Well, I’m relieved to know that someone does.’ Serena reached for her reticule and pulled out a small leather pouch, which she handed to him. ‘I thought my father was being excessively cautious, but he insisted I should have this as well as the legal documents.’

Nicholas undid the ties. Inside was a ring, intricately worked in gold, a strange antique setting wrought around a large black pearl. Frowning, he traced a long finger over the pattern. ‘An heirloom, I presume,’ he said, returning the ring to its pouch and handing it back to Serena.

‘Another of his deathbed bequests,’ she said with intentional irony. ‘I’ve to give it to my uncle. It seems it is always worn by the heir to the earldom.’

Nicholas strode over to the window. In the brief time they had spent together the narcissi had started to fade, the cherry blossom to fall. In the distance he could see a horse and plough readying a field for planting. He had been beguiled, even Charles had spotted it. Locked away from the world, he had been careless of everything save the overwhelming attraction between them, the shared laughter, the gravitation of their bodies towards each other. He had been happy. And no matter what she claimed, he had also been duped.

A gust of rage seized him. ‘Tell me, Lady Serena,’ he said, turning back from the window to the beautiful deceiver sitting in front of the fire, ‘just why you felt it so necessary to keep your real identity a secret.’

‘You know why.’

‘I’d like to hear it from you.’

Her knuckles where white, so tightly was she gripping them. ‘Very well, if I must. I did not tell you because I knew that while you would be happy enough to dally with Mademoiselle Cachet of no particular place and no particular family, you would run a mile from Lady Serena Stamppe. I needed to find my father’s papers. You only helped because you were bored and you thought I was fair game. You would not have thought Lady Serena fair game, would you, Nicholas? And I would not then have found my father’s will. I don’t know why you’re making me say this—no doubt you wish to humiliate me. No doubt I deserve it—but do not paint yourself as whiter than white in this tawdry episode.’

‘I did not think you fair game, as you call it. How dare you!’

‘You hardly treated me as you would a respectable female.’

‘You hardly gave me grounds to do so. The first time I set eyes on you, you kissed me while I was half-naked in front of a crowd of spectators.’

‘You kissed me!’ She flung herself to her feet. ‘And then you kissed me again, here in this very room.’

‘You didn’t put up much of a fight.’

‘Oh, how dare you. How dare you! You turn everything to your own account. I came alone here because I am alone. What relatives I have don’t even know I exist yet. I thought I was calling on a man my father’s age. You made it perfectly clear from the start that you didn’t think my papers existed, or if they did that they had long been lost. I’ve told you, time and again I’ve told you, that I led a sheltered life, yet you chose not to believe that either. You talked about the rules of the game, and not playing if you couldn’t pay, and no commitment, at every opportunity so that I knew—how could I not—that you would consign me to the ends of the earth if you found out that I was the type of female who could be compromised.’

‘That explains why you lied, it does not explain why you let me make love to you. The other day—in the barn—I gave you every opportunity to say no. Dammit, Serena, you know I did.’

‘Yes, you did,’ she whispered. ‘And I didn’t. I should have, but I didn’t. I don’t know what came over me. I was not thinking straight. I thought I could play to your rules, that I could indulge in what you call a spring idyll, but I realise that I am not, after all, the type to treat such affaires lightly. It meant nothing to you, but I discovered it should mean something to me.’

‘You left it rather late in the day to discover something so fundamental. There is a name for that type of behaviour, but I will not sully your ears with it.’

Serena recoiled as if he had hit her, but met his gaze resolutely. ‘I deserved that. I know how it must look, but it was not my intention to—I mean, it was my intention to—what I mean is, at the time I meant it. But afterwards, I realised that I risked throwing away my chances of future happiness with someone else. Throwing it away on someone who did not—would never—offer me what I want.’

‘Marriage, of course,’ Nicholas said disgustedly. ‘I should have known you weren’t really that different from the rest of your sex. Well, you’ll be able to take your unsullied pick now, Lady Serena.’

‘Yes, I will,’ she said, finally driven by hurt to goad him. ‘I’m not only titled, I’m vastly wealthy too, you know. An heiress and a lady—you’re right, I will be able to take my pick.’

Charles had been right. The perfect candidate, he’d called Serena, and that was before he knew all. That Frances Eldon had also urged matrimony on his employer in his latest epistle added fuel to the flames. ‘I hope you will be more honest with the poor clunch, whoever he turns out to be, than you were with me. Will you tell him that he’s taking a lying, scheming, card-sharping temptress to his bed? Will you tell him that he’s not the first to touch you? To kiss you? To make you cry out with pleasure? Or will you play the innocent virgin with him? I warn you, you will have to polish up your act a bit if you do. Respond to him as you did to me, and he will not believe you any more than I do.’

Serena flinched. ‘You don’t mean that, Nicholas. You know I wasn’t acting.’

‘I know that I am the one left aching with frustration, while you at least were satisfied,’ Nicholas responded crudely. ‘All I’ve been thinking about, day and night, is you, you, you. The vision of you lying there with your hair undone haunts me. And now it will always haunt me. I will never be rid of you,’ he said heatedly, grabbing Serena by the shoulders. ‘Don’t you see what you’ve done? Because I will never have you I will always be imagining what might have been.’

He pulled her towards him and kissed her roughly. His lips were hard on hers, his tongue thrusting into her mouth. She could smell the scent of his soap, feel his breath warm on her skin, sense the barely controlled anger in the tension of his fingers bruising the soft flesh at the top of her arms.

It was a punishing kiss, a possessive kiss, the hungry kiss of desire too long pent up. It was the kiss of a man intent on slaking his thirst. Then suddenly it was a passionate kiss. Unable to stop herself, Serena responded, kissing him back urgently, meeting fire with fire. Nicholas groaned, releasing his grip to slide his arms around her, pulling her close into the hard length of his body. Then abruptly she was free. ‘It would have been better for us both if your father had left his papers with a lawyer.’

‘You wish we had never met?’

‘With a passion.’

‘Don’t be like this, Nicholas, don’t let us part on such terms.’

‘For God’s sake, what other terms can there be?’

‘We are both overwrought. You think I have deceived you, but I have not. I’m the same person I was when first we met. A title does not change who I am. I admit, I did not tell you the whole truth, but I did not lie to you. And as to what has happened between us—you have not broken your rules. Your conscience is clear, you did not take anything I was not willing to give, and thanks to the arrival of your tenant, I did not give you enough to be truly compromised.’ She managed a watery smile.

Her willingness to absolve him from the blame he suspected he deserved melted Nicholas’s anger, leaving him feeling strangely empty. He saw she was making a valiant attempt not to cry, and felt guilt perch like a brooding raven on his shoulder. ‘Go and pack,’ he said gruffly, struggling to resist the desire to pull her back into his arms. ‘I’ll pick you up at noon tomorrow.’

‘Don’t be foolish, Nicholas. I’ll hire a chaise. I won’t be more than a night on the road.’

‘It is you who are being foolish. It’s too dangerous for you to travel alone with only your snoring Madame for company, and Charles told me yesterday that I’m no longer persona non grata in London, since my duelling opponent is well on the road to recovery.’

Serena coloured. ‘Madame LeClerc is gone ahead of me.’

‘Then that settles it. There have been a spate of robberies on the London road. A highwayman, Hughes says. It’s not safe.’

‘I’ll hire some outriders,’ Serena said stubbornly.

‘Serena, I insist. If you don’t agree, I’ll simply make sure you can’t hire your own chaise in the village. One of the advantages of being the local landowner.’

‘That’s not fair. Nicholas, it’s better if you don’t, really…’

He took hold of her hand between his own. ‘I could not be happy with you travelling alone. Indulge me in this. We both need time to order our thoughts, and I to cool my temper. You are right, we should not part on such terms. We deserve better.’

Her conscience warred with her desires, and her desires won. She could not resist the temptation of a few more days of his company. ‘Very well.’ Refusing his escort on the grounds that he too must attend to his packing, Serena departed Knightswood Hall.

It was only when she had gone that he realised she had still offered him no explanation for her willingness to make love to him.

Chapter Six

The air in the public room of the King’s Arms, the tavern owned by the legendary heavyweight Thomas Cribb, was stifling. Acrid wood smoke from the roaring fire hung heavy, despite the grimy windows flung open wide to the street. The pungent aroma of unwashed human bodies mingled with the smell of spilt ale and cheap spirits.

Jasper Lytton paused on the threshold, wearing the habitual sneer that marred the handsome lines of his countenance. Of late the place had become overrun with the hoi polloi, so much so that even the distinction of being invited to partake of daffy within the sanctity of Cribb’s own private parlour was become a dubious pleasure. He raised his quizzing glass to survey the room. From the window embrasure a thin man beckoned with a long white finger. Jasper joined him reluctantly.

‘I th-thought you weren’t going to turn up, Jasper. I’ve been here an age.’ The man spoke with a slight stammer. He was young and elegantly dressed, but dissipation was already taking a heavy toll, thinning his hair, etching a deep groove on either side of his mouth. The pale eyes were bloodshot. His hand shook as he reached for the decanter to top up his glass, filling Jasper’s at the same time.

‘God, Langton, you look like hell.’ Jasper lolled on the hard wooden seat, watching his friend’s hand tremble with malicious pleasure. Though Langton could give him at least five years, and he himself drank harder and gamed deeper, no one would take Jasper for the senior man.

‘S-so would you, in my position. Well, do you have it?’

Jasper shifted uncomfortably, unwilling to meet the other man’s gaze. ‘No, not yet.’

‘You promised! I need it back immediately. If I d-don’t have it—God, you know what these people are like.’

‘Only too well, I introduced you to them myself, remember?’ Watching his friend gulp down the fiery liquid, Jasper felt a minute twinge of guilt. It wasn’t as if the five thousand he owed Langton was such a great sum, but it was a debt of honour. Introducing Hugo Langton to his own moneylender of choice had been intended as a stalling tactic, nothing more. Carefully reaching into his jacket pocket, Jasper withdrew a small roll of notes. ‘There’s two hundred here on account. I’ll get the rest soon. I just need a run of luck.’

‘Or your cousin to bail you out,’ Langton muttered, snatching at the money.

Jasper’s smile hardened. ‘That’s unlikely. Nicholas made it perfectly clear that he wouldn’t be towing me out of the River Tick again.’ The bitter memory of that last uncomfortable interview with his cousin still rankled. Why couldn’t Nicholas see that paying off Jasper’s debts for him was simply advancing money that would be rightfully his in the very near future anyway?

‘How long is it now until the great day?’

‘Less than three months.’ He’d be lucky to hold his creditors at bay that long. There were bailiffs at his lodgings. Duns at his club. Damn Nicholas, why was he making him wait?

Across the table Langton emptied the dregs of the decanter into his glass. His hand no longer shook. The rough liquor gave him courage. When he spoke his voice was free from its stammer. ‘Three months, and you’ll be a rich man—provided your cousin doesn’t get leg-shackled in the meantime.’

Jasper’s thin lips tightened. Waving an imperious hand at the beleaguered landlord for more brandy, he quelled the panic that threatened to overwhelm him every time he thought of the consequences were his cousin suddenly to announce his nuptials. ‘He wouldn’t do that,’ he said grimly.

The fierce look that he drew forced Langton to cower back in his seat, all thoughts of teasing banished. ‘If you s-say so. I merely thought…’

‘What have you heard?’ Jasper asked sharply.

‘Just a rumour. Came from Charles Avesbury, if you must know.’

‘Avesbury,’ Jasper exclaimed. ‘He said Nicholas was to be married?’

‘Well, not as such. But he did see the lady in question. Said the two of them were smelling of April and May.’

Jasper scowled. ‘We’ll see about that.’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘Never you mind.’ Jasper pushed back his chair. ‘I have business to attend to.’ Swatting the landlord’s arm from his shoulder, Jasper indicated, with a careless nod of the head, that the new decanter was Langton’s responsibility. Without a backward glance he strode for the door of the inn, casually kicking a flea-bitten terrier from under his feet.

‘Business,’Langton mused, pouring himself another glass of brandy. ‘Dirty business, if I’m any judge.’

At mid-morning the next day Nicholas’s travelling chaise and four arrived outside Serena’s lodgings. After a curt greeting, he stood by the chaise, watching as she supervised the loading of her luggage, admiring the graceful figure she cut in her woollen travelling cloak, the gold of her hair glinting under a poke bonnet.

Yet another sleepless night had taken its toll on Serena’s mood. She had expected Nicholas to be angry, but had not anticipated he would feel quite so betrayed. Castigating herself for not having been truthful with him from the start only served to make her feel worse, however, for she could not ignore the fact that only by doing so had she come to know him so intimately.

As her dressing case and jewellery box were stowed inside the chaise, Serena wearily acknowledged the truth of the matter. She had fallen in love with Nicolas Lytton, plain and simple. No wonder his touch set off such extreme sensations. No wonder she felt a fizz of excitement every time she looked upon his handsome figure. No wonder she felt as if the sky was falling down when she thought of a future without him. She loved him. She wished with all her heart it had been possible, just once, to make love with him. Now her only consolation was that he had no idea of how she felt. And that was how it must remain, for if ever he had an inkling of her feelings—knowing Nicholas—he’d probably see it as another form of entrapment.

He helped her into the coach, his expression unreadable. Serena disposed herself beside her boxes as he took the seat opposite. The coachman pushed shut the door and they were away. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, but sleep would be impossible with Nicholas sitting so close that his knees brushed hers. He was angry still. She knew better than to try to coax him out of it, could only hope that at some point on the long journey ahead his mood would mellow. Today should be a time for looking forward to whatever her new life would bring. She had an uncle, an aunt, perhaps even cousins. She was rich. She was in the fortunate position of being able to suit herself, neither beholden to an employer nor dependent upon a husband. The future was hers to define. Yet she could not bring herself to think about anything other than the brooding man sitting impassively opposite her. As they left High Knightswood behind, Serena fell into a troubled doze, her head resting awkwardly on her shoulder.

Nicholas watched, torn between frustrated desire and guilt. A surfeit of brandy last night had failed to prevent their last conversation replaying over and over in his mind. Serena was right, she had not really deceived him. He had asked Frances Eldon to investigate her because he knew her story was not the whole truth. And she was, unfortunately, right about his willingness to be deceived. He wanted her so much that he had deluded himself. Had failed to examine closely the inconsistencies in her story, the apparent contradictions in her character. It was a bitter pill to swallow, that she had also ultimately saved him from breaking his own damned rules. He had not compromised her, but he could not stop imagining what it would have been like if he had.

This morning he had an aching head and an unusually active conscience. Time would cure the former. The latter, having little experience of, he was less sure how to tackle. He owed her an apology at the very least. She had every right to reproach him for the things he had said yesterday, but she had not. He still couldn’t understand why, if her claims to innocence were the truth, she had allowed him such liberties. It didn’t make sense. He wished to hell she hadn’t. He wished to hell she’d allowed him more. He wished—he didn’t know what he wished any more. The only thing of which he was certain was that he was not ready for Serena to quit his life.

As the horses slowed to turn into the yard of the posting inn for the first change, Serena was startled into wakefulness. Reaching up to straighten her bonnet, she smiled at Nicholas, an unaffected smile, forgetting for a moment all that had gone between them.

‘We should take some refreshment while they put the horses to the traces,’ he suggested.

She nodded her agreement. ‘Coffee would be most welcome.’

Nicholas helped her down the step, calling imperiously to the landlord to see to her request. It was late afternoon, the day dull and damp, not actually raining, but the smell of rain was in the air. Serena stretched her aching limbs, removing her gloves and reaching up to rub the stiff muscles on the back of her neck. She looked over to find Nicholas watching her, and smiled tentatively.

‘I must apologise for my overreaction yesterday,’ he said stiffly.

She put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t say any more. We both spoke in haste. Let us cry friends and forget about it.’

‘Friends with a woman,’ Nicholas said with a rueful smile. ‘That will be a first, but for you, mademoiselle—Lady Serena—I’ll try.’

The ostlers made the final adjustments to the tackle holding the four new horses to the chaise, then they were back in the carriage and on their way. The atmosphere was restored—almost—to the easy camaraderie of Knightswood Hall.

Lulled by the motion of the coach, Nicholas slept fitfully. Dusk approached and darkness began to fall. Serena was cold despite the rug she had tucked round her knees and the swansdown muff enveloping her hands. Outside she could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves, the occasional snatch of conversation between the two coachmen. Once, she heard the hooting of an owl.

Opposite her, Nicholas stirred restlessly against the squabs, one leg stretched forward, resting against her knees. She longed to sit beside him, to pull his head on to her shoulder, to smooth his silky black hair away from his brow, to feel the warm, reassuring heat of his body against hers.

In an effort to distract herself, she stared out at the night sky, where a waning moon could just be seen through the scudding light cloud. Surely it could not be much longer before they stopped for the night? She was stiff and sore from the journey. Nicholas mumbled, shifted in his seat, and quieted again. The sharp crack of a shot startled her from her reverie.

The coach jolted forwards as the horses reared at the noise, throwing Serena from her seat. Strong arms clasped her, preventing her from falling. A solid wall of warm muscle supported her. A reassuring voice asked her if she was hurt.

‘No, no, I’m fine. Nicholas, I think I heard a shot.’

He pulled her up on to the seat beside him and held her close as the coach slowed to a stop, feeling in his pocket for his pistol. ‘I didn’t hear anything—are you sure?’

‘Yes, it was quite unmistakable. Nicholas, do you think…?’

The words died on her lips as the door was wrenched open. A man stood framed in the doorway, his body muffled from head to toe in a black frieze coat, a large handkerchief wound up over his face so that only his eyes showed. The muzzle of his pistol pointed directly at Serena’s head.

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