The Rake And The Heiress. Marguerite Kaye
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,