Forbidden (3 page)

Guilty panic choked her. She ran back and grabbed a book off the nearest shelf.

Tom walked in. "Into the books again?" he sneered. "Don't know why Matthew allowed it. You'll lose your looks hunching over books all day."

Serena closed the book on her finger, heart pounding.
He'll guess. He'll know what I'm planning.
"Matthew didn't care what I did during his absences, and I would welcome losing my looks."

"Don't be so pissing stupid, Serry. If you weren't a raving beauty I'd throw you out to scrub floors. You'd soon find marriage a better deal than that. I reckon old Riverton spoiled you."

He came over and twitched the book out of her hands. "What now? Byron? Keats?" Then he let it fall open and burst out laughing. "Oh, Serry, you are a one! Got a taste for it, did you? Can't see why you're so stiff-rumped about marriage, then."

Serena realized with horror that the book she'd mindlessly plucked from the shelf was one of her brothers' foul erotic tomes. She knew because Tom was waving an illustration in front of her. "Like that, do you?" he asked, eyeing the contorted picture.

Serena couldn't say no and not raise suspicion, but she couldn't force herself to say yes, either.

Her brother looked at her red face and shook his head. "And you can still blush, too. You're a strange one, Serry, and no mistake. But I can see why the men go crazy over you. Miss Prim and Proper with a whore's body and a whore's eyes. And a whore's mind, I see. That's your role in life, you know. Whore. With your figure, and the way you move, and the look you always have of just emerging from a spicy bed..."

His eyes were defiling her again.

"Perhaps we should widen the bidding," he said thoughtfully. "There's not many want you for a wife, but a mistress, now, that's another matter. As a mistress you could go to the highest in the land—a lord, a duke even. Being barren's a feather in the cap of a Cyprian."

Serena just stood there, letting his words wash over her. She was leaving. None of this would happen to her.

He put the book back in her hand and patted it with a parody of fondness. "Off you go, sister, and study your trade."

Clutching the book, Serena hurried out of the library, her brother's coarse laughter echoing behind her. Once out of doors, she forced herself to walk calmly through the chilly November garden as if she had no purpose.

Her mind was not calm, though. Now more than ever she had to escape. She fretted over her chances and how to improve on them.

She had time. Neither she nor her brothers regularly ate at midday, and the servants wouldn't go looking for work. There was an excellent possibility that she wouldn't be missed until evening. She should be well away by then.

She had no doubt, however, that her brothers would come after her. She was, after all, worth at least five hundred pounds to them from a brothel. In fact, she was worth at least ten thousand because she'd marry even Seale to escape that fate.

Thirty thousand. Her father had
sold
her for thirty thousand....

That thought, that old betrayal, almost took away her wits, but she concentrated fiercely on the immediate.

Escape.

She wandered into the orchard, then quickened her pace. Realizing she still carried it, she hurled the horrid book into a stand of nettles and clambered over a stile into open fields. It was three miles to the nearest stage post. She could only hope that if she reached there, a passing coach would pick her up. They went by every few hours, she believed, but Serena rather thought one needed a ticket.

She was only too aware of her abysmal ignorance of the world. She had been taken from school at fifteen and immured at Stokeley Manor. From that day on, she had never managed anything for herself, until these past three months when she had tried to bring order to her brother's house.

She had to wonder whether she was equipped to survive alone.

But she had no choice.

Another stile brought her onto the country road. Serena made sure her hood was up over her head, in case anyone passed who might recognized her, and marched resolutely on.

Chapter 2

"Fancy a ride over to Canholme, Middlethorpe?"

Francis, Lord Middlethorpe, looked up from his deviled kidneys and replied to Lord Uffham, his host's son. "Why not? It promises to be a fine day." He turned to the young lady at the table. "Would you accompany us, Lady Anne?"

She was fair and slight and, though not shy, very quiet. She gave him a fleeting smile. "I would enjoy that, my lord."

She was his intended bride.

Nothing was settled yet. He hadn't spoken formally to her father, the Duke of Arran, who sat at the table immersed in his copy of the
Monthly Magazine.
Everyone knew the road they were on, however. Before he left Lea Park, he would propose and be accepted.

It was an excellent match. Anne belonged to one of the highest families in the land, and her portion was suitably grand. Both his family and hers were well acquainted and enthusiastic about the union. She was sweet-natured, clever without being bookish, and pretty in a pale, quiet way. He didn't at all mind the limp.

Francis was aware of a twinge of irritation at the very smooth propriety of it all, but he dismissed that as foolishness. Just because his friends became entangled in adventures and passions didn't mean he should do so. He had always known that wasn't his road in life.

He had come into his property and title at the age of twelve. Since then, he had been the sole reliance of his mother and three sisters. Certainly, his mother had ruled his life while he was a child and still ran Thorpe Priory with smooth efficiency, but her welfare depended upon him. His sisters, thank heavens, were suitably married now, and thus off his hands.

He had always known that it was his duty to guard his health, use his wealth wisely, improve his property, and marry suitably to provide heirs. He had probably delayed marriage rather longer than was wise. If he were to die without an heir, the estate would pass to a distant cousin with a large family of his own. In that event, his mother would lose all connection with the home she had built and cherished with his father.

It would have been pleasant, however, he thought wistfully, to have had one or two adventures in his life. His friend Nicholas Delaney had traveled the world and been in grave danger twice before he settled down....

He realized he was being addressed and turned with a smile to Anne.

"Would you object, my lord, if we went a little out of our way? I have promised some books to the school in Kings Lea and would like to deliver them myself."

"Of course not. Improving tomes? Bibles?" He was teasing but she answered him seriously.

"They are already well supplied with those. How could you think otherwise? No, these are rhyme stories for the younger ones, and a few books of geography and such. All volumes that our schoolroom here will not need for many years, especially as Uffham refuses his duty." She directed her solemn reproach at her oldest brother.

"Good grief, Annie, I'm not yet twenty-five! Give a fellow a chance to kick up his heels before you shackle him for life."

They all laughed, but Francis reflected that he was only just turned twenty-five, yet no one seemed to consider him too young for shackles....

"Marriage is not a shackle," Lady Anne countered with gentle firmness and a slight, betraying flicker of her eyes toward Francis. So perhaps she did catch the point.

Lucky Uffham. Uffham's future was clear, too—marriage and a dukedom—but at least he had no need to hurry. He even had two healthy younger brothers to buffer his conscience.

Quiet servants brought fresh coffee and removed used and cold dishes as the family lingered, making plans for the day. The duke's secretary came quietly in with the personal letters contained in the post bag, and they were distributed. Francis was surprised to find one for himself, for he had given his mother complete authority to handle estate matters in his absence and to open personal correspondence.

This letter had not been sent on from Thorpe Priory, however, but addressed to him here. He felt a prick of uneasiness as he snapped the seal and unfolded the sheet.

My lord,

I suspect you are being kept in the dark, and deception profits no one. For the good of all, I advise you to ask your mother about me. If she will not answer you, I will. I am fixed here at the Crown and Anchor in Weymouth for the next week.

Charles Ferncliff

Francis was so startled he muttered, "What the devil?..." then hastily apologized.

"Is it bad news, my lord?" Lady Anne asked.

"I hardly know." Francis could not discuss this strange epistle here. In fact, the only thing to do was to show it to his mother to see if she had any explanation to offer. "I fear I must go to the Priory to look into a family matter. If you will forgive such a disobliging guest, I hope to return by this evening."

"Of course," said the duke. "No question about it, my boy. Your family's needs must rank first with you. Hope there's nothing seriously amiss."

"I don't think so, Duke," said Francis as he rose to his feet. Who on earth was Charles Ferncliff, and what possible connection could he have with his mother?

He ordered his curricle and sent for his greatcoat, gloves, and hat, but took nothing else. He expected to return in short order. By tacit agreement, Anne walked with him to the door.

"I'm sorry about this, Lady Anne." He offered a social lie. "It is just a matter that my mother cannot handle alone."

"A weighty one, then," Anne said with a smile. "Lady Middlethorpe is wonderfully competent."

"Indeed she is." It was excellent that Anne and his mother had mutual liking and respect. They were even similar in nature and taste. Both had innate good manners, quiet decorum, impeccable neatness, and they never put a social step amiss. He suspected that once Anne was in charge of her own establishment, she would rival Lady Middlethorpe in competence, too.

Francis had an urge to speak to Anne now, to have it settled, but he came to his senses. He could hardly make his offer impetuously in the hall under the eyes of the Groom of the Chambers and two footmen. But he recognized that it was time to act. This evening he would speak to the duke. He would gain Arran's consent, arrange the settlements, and then commit himself to Anne for life.

He took her hand and kissed it warmly. "I will return as soon as possible. You know that."

She didn't mistake him and lowered her head, a delicate blush touching her cheeks. Then they heard the horses on the gravel beyond the door. Francis was assisted into his outer clothing and left.

* * *

Two hours later, Francis caught sight of the great wrought iron gates of his home, Thorpe Priory, and his groom blew a blast on the horn. The gatekeeper ran to swing the gates open and the man's family scurried behind to bow or curtsy.

Francis acknowledged them all with a salute of his whip but didn't check speed. Instead, he concentrated on steering his team into the long, straight drive to his home. The passing hours had increased his anxiety. Something most peculiar was going on.

He drew up the steaming team before his door, flung the ribbons to his groom, leaped down, and strode into his home, shedding outer garments into the hands of waiting minions.

"My mother?"

"In her boudoir, milord."

He ran quickly upstairs, rapped, and entered.

Lady Middlethorpe, a handsome woman who had given her son his dark hair and fine bones, appeared caught in mid-pace before the fireplace. "Francis! What on earth are you doing here?"

He was startled by how agitated she appeared, for she was normally a lady of great composure. She was even fiddling with her fringed shawl—a habit she deplored. He crossed the room and gave her the letter. "I received this today."

Lady Middlethorpe glanced at it and paled. She appeared to read it for far longer than the terse words warranted, then she sat on a chaise and focused her sweetest social smile upon him. "You have just arrived? You must be parched, dear boy. Shall I send for tea?"

Francis could hardly believe it. "No. Cut line, Mother. What is that letter about?"