Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

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 (#ulink_b79f2b23-7abc-57b1-9b12-73c8c2358cce)

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.’