Forbidden (17 page)

Francis waved him on.

Lucien didn't seem to understand.

Francis waved again, desperately.

Then Lucien grinned and saluted. He urged his horse on and the magnificent stallion surged ahead of the field.

Banshee gave a noise like the screech of the creature he was named for and produced an amazing burst of speed, hurtling after the black ahead. Francis just clung on for dear life as his hell-horse thundered toward Cottesmore.

There was a crowd there, waiting to see the result. The cheering, waving bedlam was enough to spook any animal, but Banshee paid no attention at all.

Lucien glanced back and pulled his horse slowly in. Banshee surged past at the lych-gate of Cottesmore Church, then—blowing as he was—did a saucy little dance and kicked his heels at the arrogant animal that had tried to steal his race.

Viking looked aristocratically unimpressed.

Francis burst out laughing. "Oh, you devil!" he said to his horse. "I could almost get to like you. Almost," he muttered, as his aches, pains, and bruises began to make themselves felt.

The crowd showed a tendency to gather around the victors, but Banshee soon showed them the error of their ways. Francis didn't dare dismount yet, as the horse would be a great deal more unmanageable then.

So he waited in solitary splendor, like a damned equestrian statue, as Tom Allbright drove his foaming horse to the finishing point.

"Damn you to hell!" the man snarled. "I saw that! Arden paced you!"

"Nothing in the rules against it. By the way, I wouldn't get too close, or Banshee'll take a lump out of your horse. Or you. He's not fussy."

Allbright backed up, only inches ahead of the gray's bared teeth, then swung around to the observers. "Arden paced him in! I wouldn't have challenged that great black brute!"

There was a murmur of distaste at this unsporting behavior. The marquess walked his horse over to Allbright. "Are you suggesting I did something out of line?" he asked, with all the blue-blooded arrogance of which he was capable.

Allbright paled. "Not at all, my lord. Just that Middlethorpe followed you in."

"Nothing to stop you following, too," Lucien pointed out quite amiably. "Excellent race. Have to thank you, sir, for setting it up. Sundays can be so dull."

"Yes, of course," Allbright muttered as some remnants of sense took over. His eyes still burned with rage, however.

Francis began to get the delicious feeling that Allbright couldn't pay. That was a bonus he hadn't counted on. He wished he was off this damned horse to enjoy it.

With relief, he saw his grooms coming forward and was able to surrender Banshee to them. Dismounting was painful, and even standing straight was a challenge. He made his way over to Allbright. He'd have liked to have strolled arrogantly, but various parts of his body made that impossible. He managed to walk with dignity... just.

"Thank you for the race," he said benignly. "We'll settle this evening, shall we? Would you call on me at Arden's place?"

A brick-red color settled in Allbright's coarse face, more from anger than embarrassment. "Don't have that sort of money on me, my lord," he choked out. "I'd rather settle at Tatt's. I'll be in Town a week on Tuesday."

It was quite normal for racing debts to be settled at Tattersall's in London, but not during hunting season when the men were fixed in Melton. Francis would be within his rights to object, but he didn't mind letting the Allbrights sweat for a few days.

"Of course," he said, enjoying the thought of Allbright doing the rounds of the moneylenders. Then he had an inspiration. Serena must have acquired some jewelry during her marriage, and he'd go odds her brothers had taken that, too. "If you find it hard to come by the cash," he said idly, "I'll take it in kind."

"Kind? What kind?"

"Land, jewels..."

He saw the idea sink into the man's thick head. "Ah, jewels... Well, I do happen to have some trinkets. Belonged to a female relative. Should appraise about right."

Francis was hard pressed not to level the man, who clearly felt no qualms at misusing his sister's only property. He took comfort in the thought of Tom's fury when he discovered that the "trinkets" had been returned to their rightful owner. One way or the other, Francis would make sure he found out.

"Very well, then," said Francis. "Tatt's, a week on Tuesday. At ten?"

Allbright grunted agreement and pushed his way out of the area. Francis savored the moment. He would return Serena's jewels to her, adding the three thousand from his own pocket with her none the wiser. She'd be in transports of joy. The thought of Serena in transports of joy was enough to distract any man.

Lucien surrendered his mount to his grooms and came over to Francis, grinning. "Are you in quite as much pain as you appear?"

Francis was aware of a profound disinclination to move. "Probably more. That horse was never designed to be ridden."

"Ah, the things we will do for a woman. With great foresight, and after a hint or two from Miles, I arranged for a carriage to be here to transport you back home."

"Thank heavens," said Francis sincerely. "I don't want to put leg across horse for days. Weeks. Years..."

Lucien laughed. "You'll feel better shortly. My head groom, Dooley, has a rare hand with massage and unguents."

Chapter 8

Dooley did indeed have a rare hand with massage and unguents, which is not to say that the process didn't hurt like the dickens. As Francis groaned and cursed under the pummeling fingers, he wished Serena Allbright... no, Serena Riverton... knew what he was suffering in her cause.

Serena Riverton was enough to make him curse as it was. By birth she was not suited to be a mistress, and he dreaded to think what Beth would say about such a situation.

By marriage, however, it was a different matter. Sir Matthew Riverton's widow could be considered more of the demimonde, despite a church service. It would depend on what role she had played in his life. If, as was generally the case, she had been left in the country while her husband debauched himself in London, then it was not too bad. If she had been part of his notorious life, then she was ruined.

Francis racked his brain, but could only dredge up snippets of information. He thought he remembered hearing that Riverton boasted of having a well-trained wife, leaving no one in any doubt as to the skills she was trained to use. He had also heard that he hosted wild parties at his Lincolnshire home during the hunting season. If that was his only country home, it didn't look good.

All in all, Francis thought, it was as well that Serena was barren. It removed any temptation to do something stupid.

Tough, calloused fingers were suddenly replaced by strong, soft ones. Francis jerked up and around, cursing as his back objected, to see Blanche Hardcastle had replaced the groom in attending to his naked body. "What the devil...!"

"Lie back down," she said comfortably. "I'm not after your virtue, but I'm skilled at a more subtle kind of massage than Dooley. I don't know why you men think torturing sore muscles will make them better. This won't hurt as much but will do just as much good."

Francis collapsed back down again, for her strong, firm manipulations of his thighs and buttocks did feel healing. After a while, she began to massage him with smooth, sweeping movements of her oiled hands, so that his abused body relaxed.

"Is this an obligatory skill for a mistress?" he asked lazily. "If so, I should have sought one sooner."

"A useful one. The crude think of only limited ways for one person to serve another in an intimate way, but who wants to be crude?"

"I envy Lucien."

"Perhaps you should pity him," she teased. "He has given me up for another."

"Hard to believe."

She pinched him. "There's no need to be polite. Anyway, I'm sure he will have taught Beth such skills by now."

"Taught her to serve him as he wishes?" Francis asked, bothered by Beth's comments days before. Bothered, too, by lurid imaginings of Serena's life with Riverton.

"Taught her a range of pleasures," said Blanche. "Did you think this went one way? Lucien enjoyed massaging me as much as he enjoyed being massaged."

Francis couldn't help but envision massaging Serena and being massaged. He was grateful he was lying on his stomach so the consequences were not obvious.

He tried, but could not imagine Anne Peckworth being on either end of a naked massage.

"Blanche," he asked, "why would a woman want to be a mistress, not a wife?"

"Are you referring to me? I am sunk too deep to become respectable."

"That's nonsense," he said, though he knew there was some truth in it.

"So you weren't referring to me. Who then?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Serena Riverton?" she asked shrewdly.

He knew his silence was answer.

Blanche's hands continued to make soothing magic over his body. "To be a true mistress to a good man is to have a lot of freedom. To be a wife to a bad man can be a slavery as terrible as that of the worst whorehouse in London. I'm sure Riverton was a bad man."

"Why?" Francis wanted Blanche's angle on this, for she knew more of the underbelly of Society than most.

"I never knew him, but one hears things. He was a man who constantly desired novelty. In matters of sex, it eventually becomes impossible to have novelty without hurting or debasing someone. I gather he soon discovered hurting and debasing people to be to his taste. Of course, many men behave one way with their casual women, and another with their wife."

She lapsed into silence and Francis closed his eyes, trying to consider Serena's situation without actually thinking of some of the things she might have done.

He discovered it was actually very simple: It was impossible to let her walk out of his life. He'd worry about her all his days.

He desperately wanted her as his own. She wanted to be his mistress.

So be it.

And he was a good man. He vowed she would find no man more gentle, understanding, and generous than he. If she wasn't barren, he told himself, he
would
marry her despite the problems.

As it was, it would be perfect if he could just be discreet. And even if it should become known, Lady Anne would know how to ignore such a matter.

No. He dismissed that sophistry. If it became known, Anne would be hurt no matter how well she handled it, so it simply must not become known.

He suppressed a groan. Such things always became known.

He remembered Nicholas suffering agonies when trying to juggle a mistress and a wife, and he had hated the mistress, and only kept her as a service to his country.

He remembered Nicholas saying he found it impossible to go from his mistress's bed to his wife's. Francis knew in his heart that he, too, wasn't the kind of man who could go blithely from his mistress's bed to his wife's, particularly when he cared for both women.

But he
couldn't
marry Serena.

And he
couldn't
let her go to another man.

"You're very tense," said Blanche, applying pressure to his shoulders. "Is Serena Riverton such a problem?"

"Of course not," said Francis. There was no point in asking advice on such an insoluble matter.

Blanche gave one last sweeping stroke and moved away to wipe oil from her hands. "I'll massage you again tomorrow. You should feel more comfortable in a day or two."

Francis couldn't imagine ever feeling comfortable again, in body or mind, but he sat up, making sure the towel covered him decently. "Thank you."

"It was a pleasure to soothe the gallant victor." Blanche frowned slightly in thought, then said, "I gather Serena Riverton is barren. I know it would go against your code not to produce an heir, but is continuation of the line really worth such pain?"

He hit back instinctively. "You think Lucien should have married you?"

"What makes you think I can't have children?"

"Why didn't he marry you, then?"

Her lips quirked wryly. "For many excellent reasons, the main one being that he never wanted to. Lucien never loved me."