Forbidden (12 page)

Serena didn't even think about Lord Middlethorpe again during those first days. She just allowed Arabella—as Miss Hurstman insisted on being called—and Kitty to tend her and slowly draw her into the daily tasks around the cottage. They asked remarkably few questions.

At last, however, Arabella faced Serena over the tea table. "Time for you to tell me your story, gel, so we can decide what to do for the best."

Serena stared at the tea. "I really don't want to."

"Bite the bullet. You'll feel better later."

Serena looked up rather resentfully. "I suppose surgeons say that as they are about to hack someone's leg off. And in just that tone."

"Doubtless." Arabella was unrepentant. "And they're right. Well? Or do I have to get an ax?"

Serena sighed. "My real name is Serena Riverton. My husband was Matthew Riverton. You won't know of him, but—"

"'Course I know of him. Randy Riverton. Disgusting fellow. What were you doing married to him? He must have been old enough to be your father."

Serena was stunned by this brisk acceptance. "I... I had no choice."

"Every woman has a choice, gel, does she have the courage to use it."

"Not at fifteen," retorted Serena.

"Fifteen
," said Arabella, and Serena would swear she paled.

"Yes."

"Oh, you poor child."

Serena felt tears threaten for that child. "Yes."

Arabella cleared her throat and poured more tea. "I see. And he died recently, didn't he? So what's your problem now, gel? Ain't you a rich widow?"

"No." Serena found her handkerchief and blew her nose. "Matthew squandered most of his money trying to buy his way into Society, and before I knew what was happening, my brothers had their hands on the rest." She looked up sharply. "I know that was doubtless feeble of me, too, but euphoria had turned my wits. I never thought... I never expected that they would..."

"Would take over and abuse you? You don't know men, dear. They always take over given half a chance, and a good many of them will abuse." She pursed her thin lips thoughtfully. "Doubtless your money could be regained by the courts..."

"I suppose so," said Serena, toying with her cup. "But there was little enough—about three thousand pounds—and I know legal bills can eat up money. Also," she added hesitantly, "I'm afraid of them. My brothers, I mean. I know they aren't supposed to be able to force me into another marriage, but I fear they could. I'd rather they not know where I am."

"Very well, then," said Arabella, as if it were of little account. "You must stay here. I could do with the company. Of course, it's a dull life for a beautiful young woman..."

"It's perfect," said Serena sincerely, beginning to hope, seeing a lifetime of peace and security spread before her.

"For now, maybe," said Arabella skeptically. "And, of course, we'll have to see what Francis has to say."

"I have no particular claim on his kindness," said Serena quickly.

Arabella frowned. "He has no right to dictate my life," she corrected. "Say it."

Serena gaped, but saw that Arabella was in earnest. "He has no right to dictate my life," she said faintly. "But..."

"Say it again."

Serena opened her mouth. "If he doesn't," she said, "then neither do you!"

Arabella grinned. "Good girl. I knew you had a spine in there somewhere. It just needs a bit of exercise. The first thing, though, is to provide you with some clothes."

"I only have four guineas."

"I made sure Francis left you some money. There's twenty pounds or so."

"I can't use his money," Serena objected. "If I do, I
will
have to allow him to dictate my life."

Arabella looked at her. "Are you really only worth twenty pounds, body and soul?"

It was an absurd notion. "No, but..."

"Francis gave me that money for his own good reasons, gel, and you owe him nothing."

For an appalled moment Serena wondered whether Lord Middlethorpe had told his aunt about her shameless behavior, and this was his way of paying her off. But that could not be.

It was, however, doubtless a sop to his conscience and Serena was glad of it. She knew she had been very wrong in what she had done, but realized a man—a good man—would feel some debt. If this money had freed him of that burden then she was pleased.

Serena spent some of the money on cloth for two plain dresses, and a little more for the village seamstress to make them up. Mrs. Pritchard also made her some much needed underwear and nightwear.

Mrs. Pritchard would have liked to have made the items rather fancy, but Serena insisted on an almost schoolgirl simplicity and when she put on the first gown, she was glad. The simple, functional round-gown had ample cloth in the skirt and a high neckline. The fullness allowed her to wear pockets underneath, which Matthew's gowns had not, and that was a convenience. The modest style appealed to her greatly, but even more appealing was the fact that it carried no memories, and no trace of her old perfume.

Her fur-lined cloak was still tainted, and so she took Lord Middlethorpe's advice and hung it out each day in the fresh air hoping that eventually the aroma would be gone. For the meantime, she was happy to wear Arabella's second-best cloak, a simple country one of red wool.

She took to dressing her hair in a severe knot with no curls allowed to escape. She didn't fool herself that she had become plain, but felt considerably more normal. She threw herself with delight into the village's preparations for Christmas.

Preparing for Christmas was something Serena hadn't done since her childhood—since before her marriage—and it gave her great joy. She arranged seasonal greenery on mantelpiece and shelf, and spent much time down at Saint Martin's church decorating it for the festivities. The people of the village accepted her easily as a young friend of Miss Hurstman's.

She even began to feel strong enough to plan her future. Despite the appeal, she knew she couldn't stay with Arabella forever. But now that people were accepting her, she thought perhaps she could obtain employment. Not as a governess, for she knew it wouldn't work for her to be in a household where there were men, but perhaps as a companion to an elderly lady. Arabella would give her a reference, and so would the vicar here. Arabella might even know some suitable lady.

Once the weather improved in the spring Serena would set out to be independent, but for the moment she would enjoy herself. She was truly happy for the first time in her adult life.

Until the morning when Arabella, slightly pink, said, "I never thought that you might be needing monthly cloths, my dear, such matters being long past for me, thank heaven. There is plenty of white flannel in the linen cupboard. Help yourself."

Serena stammered her thanks, and Arabella clearly took her unsteadiness as embarrassment, but it was not so. Serena was realizing that her courses were overdue. A count back told her that they were a week overdue. She had heard that shocks could upset these things, but in a life that had contained many shocks, she had always been as regular as the church clock.

But she
couldn't
be expecting a child.

She was barren.

After a moment's thought, the panic eased. She couldn't have conceived. Matthew's physician had said she had a deformity of the womb and in eight years of marriage there had never been any sign of conception. It clearly was just a matter of her adventures disordering her. Serena joined in Arabella's plans for charity baskets for the village poor, silently thanking heaven for her barren state.

If she were with child, she had no idea
what
she would do.

* * *

As Serena gave thanks for her barren state, Francis sat in White's addressing a rather dull dinner. He'd spent the weeks since he'd left Serena trying to track down Charles Ferncliff, for he was not convinced that the man would abandon his mischief. He'd had no success.

He'd discovered Ferncliff was a younger son of Lord Barrow of Derbyshire, but discreet enquiries of that family had discovered that they believed him still to be employed by the Shipleys. Some enquiries around Weymouth had uncovered nothing of use. During his short stay, Mr. Ferncliff had spent all day just riding about. His excuse had been an interest in Anglo-Saxon remains, for heaven's sake.

What could that be a cover for? Theft? Most available Anglo-Saxon remains were things like church walls and stone crosses. Hardly suitable for carrying away to sell.

Today Francis had received a letter from his mother assuring him that she had not been troubled by the man further. Moreover, she had urged him to take up the matter of Lady Anne again, for the duchess was tactfully inquiring about his silence. Finally, Lady Middlethorpe commanded her son to be at the Priory for Christmas.

He supposed his mother was right on all counts. Clearly Ferncliff had been frightened off, and Anne would be wondering what was going on. He was appalled that he had not so much as written to her parents to explain his absence. If he set off tomorrow, he could stop at Lea Park for a couple of days and still be home in time for Christmas.

But what of Serena? Since he'd heard nothing to the contrary, he assumed she was still in Summer St. Martin. A woman like that would hardly remain there forever, though. He should send more money—a handsome amount of money—and make sure Arabella understood that Serena was to be allowed to decide her own fate. Serena would doubtless head for London as soon as the weather improved, and find herself a protector in no time....

Alternative plans insinuated themselves into his head.

It would be so easy to arrange. He would hire a small house here in London, then furnish it and equip it with discreet servants. That done, he would drive down to Summer St. Martin. He need only say, "I would like you to be my mistress," and she would join him. They would be happy for all eternity.

He shook his head. Such a course would be wrong on all counts.

He hoped his obsession with Serena was simply that she had been the first. To fight it, Francis had been tempted to visit a brothel. He hadn't gone through with it, though. Well-used whores still revolted him, no matter how skilled, and he doubted such a casual coupling would make a dent in his feelings.

What was more casual than a chance-met woman seducing him in the night?

But, against all reason, it had not been casual.

He had been tempted to turn his enquiries from Ferncliff to Serena Allbright. He should be able to discover her full story with ease. He knew, however, that to know more of her would make his life more difficult, not less.

He wanted to wipe her out of his life entirely, but if he did that, then one day he would meet her on the arm of another man, and he could hardly bear the thought. As it was, his nights were made restless by longings and tortured dreams....

"That was a heartfelt sigh," said a voice at his elbow. "The fish doesn't agree with you?"

Francis looked up to see Sir Stephen Ball, M.P. by his side, and he gestured to his friend to join him. "Just a dilemma, Steve."

Sir Stephen took a seat with his usual careless elegance that had gained him the nickname of the Political Dandy. He was rapidly making a name for himself in the House of Commons with the power of his convictions and his witty speeches—always delivered, however, in a sardonic drawl.

He was pale, blond and handsome, with a face already marked by cynical humor at the age of twenty-five.

"Dilemma a Rogue can assist with?" Stephen asked as he summoned a waiter to bring an extra glass.

"No. And certainly not one for the House." Francis put Serena firmly aside and concentrated on Ferncliff. "Are there any clever ways of finding a man who don't want to be found?"

"Not usually. If he's willing to avoid his home and his usual haunts, it would be sheer luck that turned him up."

"That's what I feared." Francis filled his friend's glass.

"What's the fellow done?"

"Threatened to spread some malicious nonsense about my mother. There's been no recurrence, but I'd like a moment alone with him just to be sure of it. I have to leave for the country tomorrow, however, without finding a sniff of him."

"Any reason to think he'd be in London?"

"No," Francis admitted. "It's just that the place is like a lodestone. Attracts all the villains sooner or later."

"True enough. I'm staying in London over Christmas. Give me a name and I'll keep my car to the ground."

Francis felt an irrational reluctance but said, "Ferncliff. Charles Ferncliff."

"Charles Ferncliff!" exclaimed Stephen. "I can't believe it."

"You know him?"

"I've met him. Brilliant fellow. Takes tutoring jobs while he works on a book about Anglo-Saxon culture. More interested in barrows and old poetry than modern-day matters."

Strangely, it fit. "His studies have turned his brain, then, I assure you. Took a grudge against my mother because she didn't approve of his rough and tumble ways with his charges. Threatened to start some nasty rumors about her if he wasn't paid off."

"Good God. Poor man."

"I'm more concerned for my mother," Francis pointed out.