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"I don't love Serena Riverton."

"Then let her go to another."

With that she left, and Francis considered her excellent advice.

He wished he had the strength to take it.

* * *

The letter from Aunt Arabella arrived the next morning. It was curt and not informative, except in so far as commanding Francis to present himself at Patchem's Cottage
immediately.
It was all too like the one from his mother that had started the unraveling of his life.

His first thought was to dash off in fear that something terrible had happened to Serena, but nothing of that nature was implied at all.

In fact, he'd swear his aunt was cross with him.

The only reason he could imagine for Aunt Arabella to be angry with him was if Serena had spun her some lying tale. He was tired of terse, uninformative letters. He was tired of being entwined in female machinations. He ached from head to foot and didn't think he'd had a restful night's sleep since he'd first met Serena.

So Aunt Arabella could damn well wait.

He lounged around the house for two days, being waited on by ladies and servants, and massaged by Blanche. He began to regain his freedom of movement but failed to find a solution to his dilemma. Solomon would doubtless recommend that he be cut in half to be shared between the two ladies. He feared they'd both need the same parts, however, though for different purposes.

By the third day, Francis couldn't put it off any longer, and he left Melton to drive to Summer St. Martin.

Despite the curtness of Arabella's note and his many misgivings, Francis was aware of delighted anticipation as he approached the village. He warned himself that Serena's beauty could turn out to be a trick of his memory, her golden appeal prove to be mere gilt.

He should want it, for then he'd be free.

He didn't want it. He had decided, whatever the cost, to make her his mistress.

He intended to enjoy her and protect her rare quality. He would establish her in comfort, make sure she had everything she required, and protect her from all harm. He couldn't wait to prove to her that men could be gentle and caring.

He couldn't wait to make love again.

To her.

He couldn't wait to return her property and tell her that he had won it for her.

He decided that he wouldn't wait for Allbright to produce the jewels. He would explain about the race and give Serena a draft for three thousand guineas. He'd surprise her with the jewels later. That would make two occasions upon which she would be very pleased with him.

His heart beat faster as he drove into the village, every second closer to Serena. He swung into the lane where Aunt Arabella lived, but drew to a frustrated halt at the sight of a crowd blocking the way. An archery butt had been set up there, and three young men were taking turns shooting at the bull.

What a damnable time and place to hold a contest.

Then he noticed that though a number of people were gathered to watch, one person sat in pride of place on the wall at one side, like a lady watching a medieval tournament. It was Serena, and it wasn't hard to guess that she was in some way the cause of this competition.

What, he wondered caustically, did the winner get?

Even so, his mind was tangled by the sweet sight of his siren. She was every bit as beautiful, every bit as special as he remembered.

But different.

Today she was bundled in a simple red woolen cloak, the hood tossed back to leave her head free. Conventional wisdom said that scarlet would not go with deep red hair, but each glowed in the reflection of the other. That hair was no longer in wanton curls, but swept neatly into a tight knot on the top of her head. The severe style did not detract from her charms at all, though he wanted to loosen it and drown in its silken weight.

She laughed at a comment, cheeks aglow, eyes sparkling. She looked young and happy in a way he had never dreamed possible, and as ravishingly beautiful as any women in silk and jewels. The only frivolous thing about her, however, was a white ribbon fluttering from the clasp of her cloak.

An arrow hit the edge of the bull and she cheered, clapping like a child.

She looked like a mere schoolgirl.

Then people began to notice him and turn.

Serena looked, too.

Francis handed the reins to Kipling and swung down, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. A look of horror had passed over Serena's face at the sight of him.

He wasn't welcome?

Who had taken his place?

Suddenly furious, he stalked over and seized a bow from a startled contestant. He sighted on the target and sent an arrow whistling into the very center of the bull.

"Well," he asked, turning to Serena, "do I win?"

"I think so," she said faintly, attempting to smile.

He smiled, too, though he could feel the effort hurting. "What, then, do I win?"

She reached up to loosen the white ribbon with trembling hands and offered it, fluttering in the breeze.

"How touching." He took it, not knowing what to make of any of this. "Is the entertainment over, or is there more?"

Her eyes were huge and apprehensive. "It's over, I think. It was just an impromptu."

"Then perhaps I could have a word with you in private."

"Of course." She managed a smile and kind words for her disappointed admirers, then led him up to the cottage.

"Is Aunt Arabella in there?" he asked. The last person he needed at the moment was his meddlesome aunt.

"No. She's visiting Mrs. Holt."

He allowed her to lead him into the house, trying to control this mad fury of jealousy. He had never been prey to such feelings before, but now they raged in him. He wanted to set hands on her and shake her. He couldn't abide the thought of her giving her favors left, right, and center.

He looked at the ribbon that he'd wound tight round his finger. For heaven's sake, it was a ribbon, that was all. Why was he in such a state?

She turned in the parlor, clutching her cloak tight about her. "I'm sorry." Tears welled in her eyes and he felt an utter cad.

He reached for her. "Don't Serena. I'm sorry, too."

She evaded his grasp. "But it wasn't your fault," she said brokenly. "It was mine, all mine...."

"Serena, there's no need for all this drama. You acted unwisely, perhaps, but no real harm is done. I had no reason to be angry."

She was staring at him. "But you
were
angry?"

She looked so young and frightened that he could not be stern with her. "Not anymore," he said gently. "Now, Serena, I want to talk to you about our future before Aunt Arabella returns. Then we can present a united front."

She stared at him in a strange manner; he'd never imagined that even her eyes could grow so huge. Perhaps she no longer wanted his
carte blanche.
That was a source of anguish. Had she perhaps received another offer, a respectable one? The knowledge that he could not top that offer ate into him. Wanting some kind of contact with her, he reached out and helped her off with her cloak. After a moment she released it.

The gown revealed was nothing like her russet wool masterpiece. It was a simple fawn cotton, simply made. It was high at the neck, long in the sleeves, and gathered so as to conceal most of her figure. It was very demure and, surprisingly, it suited her. He didn't know what to make of her anymore. She sat neatly in a chair, her disturbing eyes fixed on him, looking like a schoolroom miss awaiting a rebuke from her father.

He was to propose an immoral liaison to this creature?

But, knowing what she could be, he wanted her, here and now....

Francis took a stand near the glowing fire, feeling the heat on his legs and a flush in his face. He gazed down into the flickering flames and steeled himself. "I realize that it has been some time since we spoke together, Serena. You seem to have settled here quite well." He cleared his throat. "I wonder if you have... have made any plans about your future." He looked up soberly. If she had a chance of marriage, it would be unfair to stand in her way. "Plans that do not include me."

She seemed startled. "No. I'm sorry."

Francis let out a breath he had not been aware of holding. "There's no need to apologize." To his surprise, the words were hard to say, but he managed. "I have come to ask you to be my mistress."

She was not pleased. He watched her turn white, watched as her eyes grew even more enormous. Then red flooded her face like a wave, and he caught an expression of deep hurt before she looked down. "I... I don't think I can do that anymore."

He felt strangely as if he should apologize, and then annoyed to be so put in the wrong. "It was your suggestion, if you remember."

"Ye... yes, but..." He saw her swallow.

"Goddamnit, Serena, will you kindly decide what you want!"

"What she
wants!"
snapped Aunt Arabella, marching into the room like a battalion, armed with an umbrella. "What the devil do you think she wants, you reprobate?"

"Reprobate!
What story has she being telling you?"

Francis heard himself shouting, bemused that he was driven to such lengths.

"The truth. Or do you deny it?" Arabella took up a belligerent stand behind Serena, like a wizened guardian angel in a very large black bonnet.

"How can I deny anything unless I hear the charges?" Francis asked icily. "I've just offered this lady what she begged for a few weeks ago, only to have it thrown in my face."

Arabella moved around to face Serena. "You refused, child? Why?"

Serena looked up, eyes flickering between them both. Francis saw the terror that had been in her eyes when he'd first met her, and felt sick to be the cause of it.

"Serena, don't," he said, taking a step forward. "Don't be afraid."

Arabella turned to poke him with her umbrella. "If she's afraid, she's afraid of you, and not surprising. Do you know yet who her husband was?"

"Yes."

"Then it's hardly peculiar that she's nervous of accepting another offer of marriage, is it? Give her a moment and she'll come round."

Francis took a deep breath. "I have not offered marriage."

Arabella straightened slowly and fixed him with a fearsome glare. "Are you trying to buy her off, you wretch?"

"Not precisely," said Francis, badly off balance. The conversation didn't make sense, and it wasn't a normal occurrence for any man to try to set up a mistress under the eyes of an elderly spinster relative. Aunt Arabella was highly unconventional, but even so he was not sure he would come out of this with a whole skin. He'd depended on a simple fact—that Serena wanted this as much as he.

"He's offered me
carte blanche,"
said Serena, with cold clarity. She suddenly rose to her feet and faced him, looking taller than she was. "I would much rather you had not come, my lord. I know you were not to blame, and I would have accepted it if you had washed your hands of me, but... but not this."

"Carte blanche!"
Arabella loosed it like a war cry.

"This woman," shouted Francis, and realized he had actually flung out a hand to point like a bad actor in a melodramatic play, "begged to be my mistress, and—"

But he caught himself on that accusation. He could not accuse her of that before others.

"That," said Arabella formidably, "was doubtless a petition made out of fear and before she realized she was with child."

Silence fell. Francis stared at Serena, and she met his eyes, chin high.

"Is this true?" he asked quietly as the world shifted around him and he tried to find a footing.

"Yes." Her anger turned to confusion, and she looked between him and his aunt. "Didn't you know?"

"You said you could not conceive."

"I believed it to be true." She clasped her hands tightly. "I'm sorry you weren't told, my lord. I don't insist on marriage, but you must see that I can no longer be your mistress."

"What, then, would you do with the child?" He still felt as if he were in a very bad play. Was it comedy or tragedy?

She lowered her eyes. "I hoped you would support it."

"But you will not be my mistress? Why?"

"Good grief, you numbskull," snapped Arabella. "How could she? Is she to live with you, with a child—possibly a son—at her knee, and know that it has lost its rights? How is she to explain it to him one day? 'Yes, this is your father, dear, but it did not suit us to marry.'"

Francis found his eyes had traveled to Serena's stomach, but there was nothing to see under the loose gown. He was not sure how much there should be to see, anyway. What would it be? Three months, he supposed. He had to ask. "Can you be sure it is mine."

Arabella made a noise but Serena turned on her. "You asked the same question." She turned back to Francis. "I have no way to prove it, of course, but since my husband's death nearly six months ago, I have been intimate with only one man—you, my lord. There is no doubt in my mind."