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