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