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"Yes, she would."

Serena blew her nose again to cover an unworthy spurt of irritation. Lady Anne clearly was exactly the sort of wife Francis wanted and deserved, and she was the most miserable wretch in creation.

He relieved her of her soggy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes with his dry one. "At least you and Anne have met and handled it with civility, so the worst is over. The one thing about all this is that these things only have to be done once. It will all blow over."

The words escaped. "But you wanted to marry
her!"

He didn't deny it. "That is in the past. Now, if you are up to it, a jaunt is planned for tonight to the Royal Circus, followed by a musicale at Lady Cowper's. They should both be the sort of entertainments to raise your spirits. Tomorrow, Beth and Lucien are holding their soiree. With any luck, that should be the end of it."

Serena felt bone weary at the thought of this endless social merry-go-round and depressed by his tone. He was clearly finding all this as dreadful as she was. She made no objection to these busy plans, however, but slid off the bed to remove her spencer. When she turned she saw the look in his eye and recognized it. Welcomed it.

When she realized Francis wasn't going to do anything about the way he felt, she was totally confused.

Did he not know that she was willing to serve him?

How could she invite his attentions without seeming bold?

They were just standing there, so after a moment she took his hand and brought it slowly to her breast. It rested there like a captured creature, but then it moved, kneading gently, and he drew nearer.

Abruptly, he pulled away.

"Do you not want me?" She could
see
that he did.

His jaw tightened. "What I would like," he said rather hoarsely, "is to massage you."

"Massage me?"

"Yes." Color had touched his cheeks, and he was not looking at her at all. Serena didn't know what to make of this. Was it a euphemism? For what? Still, she would allow him just about anything without complaint.

"If that is what you want," she said. "What do you want me to do?"

"Take off your clothes." Then he moved forward with an abruptness that stole his normal grace. "Let me help."

He turned her around and made short work of her fastenings, despite some clumsiness in his fingers. Together they took off her cambric gown, her stays, her petticoat, and her shift, so that she was left in only her cotton stockings and drawers.

Nudity did not distress Serena, but she felt the vulnerability of it and watched him warily. He was somber, like a man studying a disquieting piece of sculpture, but she could almost feel his gaze passing over her like a finger of fire.

"How perfect you are," he said softly, but made no move toward her.

"If I please you, I am pleased."

What do you want? I can see that you are growing hard. Do you want me to fall to my knees and take you in my mouth? Do you want me to bend over the desk so you can take me from behind? Do you want to tie me up?

What do you want?

"Shall I undress further?" she asked at last.

"No. Not yet." He stirred, but only to delicately remove the pins from her hair and finger-comb it loose around her shoulders. The brush of his hands on her sensitive scalp had her lids drifting shut with pleasure. He smoothed her hair softly over her back and then down the front, over her collarbone to her breasts. Her skin was tingling, restlessly wanting more.

She looked at him, full of wonder. He gathered a handful of her hair and raised it to his mouth for a kiss.

Of necessity, that brought her closer to him, so her breasts brushed against the roughness of his woolen jacket in a gentle abrasion that stole her breath.

When he raised his head from her hair, his lips were no great distance from hers. His head lowered, angling against hers....

Then stopped.

He moved away.

Serena remembered telling him she didn't like to be kissed. She caught at his sleeve. "Kiss me, Francis. I would like you to kiss me."

He allowed her to pull him back, then slid one hand around her neck beneath her hair. His lips lowered again, and his lids shielded the hot darkness of his eyes.

He was gentle. He was too gentle. His lips barely touched hers, though she could feel the heat of his restraint.

Serena stretched her arms around his neck and forced him closer, deepening the kiss. He seemed to almost resist, but then his lips parted and their mouths blended for one sweet moment....

Then he pulled free.

"Enough of that," he said with strained lightness. "Lie on the bed. I want to take off the rest of your clothes."

Serena was acutely disappointed, but her hopes ran high. She obediently lay on the coverlet on her back.

He deftly removed her beribboned drawers and her stockings. He didn't touch her in a lascivious way. In fact, he didn't touch her at all if it could be avoided. What on earth was all this about?

His eyes wandered over her, and she could see each breath he took. His need was almost more than she could bear. She raised a hand slightly, inviting him.

He frowned then and turned to fetch a big linen towel. "On this, I think. We don't want to soil the brocade."

This was careful planning indeed, thought Serena, but wondered why they didn't just get between the sheets. Unless, she thought with sudden anxiety, he had something more unpleasantly soiling in mind...

"Right," he said. "Turn over. I'll be back in a moment."

With that, he left the room.

Serena stared after him. After a moment, she obeyed him and lay on her stomach, but with a great deal of uncertainty. In her experience, approaches from behind were generally unpleasant. What had he gone to get? She rested her head on her arms and tried not to think of whips.

She heard him come back and tensed, trying to determine from the sounds he made what might be about to happen. Apart from his footsteps, there was nothing. Then a clink, as if he had put a cup or a bottle down. What could it be?

He touched her and she flinched instinctively, but immediately realized that it was a gentle touch, a warm touch, an oiled touch. She would have twisted to look at him, but he pushed her firmly down, brushed her hair out of the way, and began to rub her back with his oiled hands.

Massage. No more, no less. Had anything ever felt as sweet?

His hands were strong and slightly rough, but they were wonderfully soothing as they worked along her spine and ribs. Sometimes they pressed, seeming to find places that wanted to be pressed; sometimes they stroked, smoothing her like a creased sheet under the iron.

"Is that pleasant?" he asked.

"It's heaven," she breathed.

Serena lost sense of time, just growing softer and softer under his hands, softer than it was humanly possible to be. Now he was stroking down her legs. Now he was at her feet.

She felt him move onto the bed and bend her leg so her foot was up. Then he began to massage her foot, giving attention to every bone, every tiny area of skin.

She hadn't thought it possible but she melted even further, dissolving into a warm puddle of contentment. She heard a noise and realized it was her own blissful sigh.

He laughed.

It was the first time she had heard him laugh in such a way and she laughed herself, in so far as anyone can laugh who no longer has bones or muscles left.

Eventually, he stopped, leaving her absolutely incapable of movement. He left her, but was back in a moment to wipe all the oil from her back and legs with a soft cloth. Then he pulled back the bedclothes and rolled her under the covers. "Now, rest and be ready for the evening."

Serena was inescapably somnolent, but she looked up at him with concern. She had expected this to end in sex. "But..."

He silenced her with a brief kiss. "Rest."

Then he was gone.

Serena could not fight it. She drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Francis washed his hands, feeling like the noblest of sainted martyrs, and in all the pain a martyr could expect. He didn't regret his restraint, though. It would have been wrong to drag Serena into sex when she had just had such an upsetting experience, one he felt he should somehow have prevented.

He admitted that he had hoped the massage would lead naturally to lovemaking, but it had been obvious that she was growing sleepy, not aroused. He mustn't forget that she was carrying a child and was unused to this busy social round.

On the other hand, that massage had definitely aroused him. It had built the hum of desire that seemed to be constantly with him to an almost unbearable intensity.

He sighed. Perhaps it would be better to avoid massages in the future. At least until their marriage was more normal.

Who'd said the choice was between marriage and burning? Marriage seemed to consist of living in a furnace.

He knocked back a glass of brandy, hoping one burn would kill another, then glared at the empty glass. He was going to turn into a souse at this rate. He rang for his valet, Grisholme, and instructed him to take the brandy away. The man looked heartily glad to do so.

Francis paced his room restlessly. It was damnable that Serena had to encounter Anne. Damnable for both of them. He wished he'd not had to tell Serena about Anne in the first place. It had clearly hurt her. He'd had no choice, however. She had to be prepared for just such an encounter as had happened today.

He wondered just how upset Anne was and if any good would be served by talking to her. It would be hard to explain his actions to a delicately reared young lady, but he hated to think that his silence would hurt more than his explanation.

Francis pondered the situation as he paced the room restlessly. He hadn't written to Anne during their courtship, for that would not have been proper, and now hardly seemed the time to start a correspondence. But matters were hardly normal, and according to both Serena and Beth, Anne had behaved superbly.

In the end, he wrote a letter to Anne, thanking her for her kindness and apologizing to her for his behavior. He enclosed it, unsealed, in a note to the duchess.

He had just dispatched it when he was told Lucien had come to see him. He went down.

Lucien rose to his feet. "There's news of your quarry."

"My quarry?"

"Ferncliff. Remember him?"

"Oh, yes. At last!" Francis reckoned he could burn off a good deal of his frustration in a violent confrontation with the author of all his troubles. Lucien had brought the footman who had made the discovery, and the man was summoned.

"Staying with a scholarly fellow in Little George Street in Chelsea, milords," said the footman. "Fellow as fits the description, anyhow."

"Is he there now?" asked Francis.

"Saw 'im go in and made haste straight back to Marlborough Square to report, milord. Can't be an hour yet."

A hackney was summoned and Lucien and Francis piled in. The footman climbed up on the box with the driver and guided him to the house.

Francis had taken the time to grab his pistol case and loaded one in the carriage.

"Just give mc warning," said Lucien lazily. "Am I going to have to stop you from committing murder?"

"I doubt it." But Francis didn't respond to the teasing tone. "I just want the truth and an end to it all. My life is tangled enough without this."

"I suppose it is." Lucien stretched out his long legs and swayed as the carriage bounced over the uneven streets. "There was nothing Beth could have done to avoid that incident, you know."

Francis turned to look at him. "Of course not. Does she blame herself? Tell her not to. Thank heavens Anne Peckworth has sense and a kind heart, though."

"Yes," said Lucien, but he gave Francis a funny look.

"Luce," he said impatiently, "I would never have considered marrying Anne if she hadn't been a fine sort of girl. I'm not going to try to pretend she's a harpy now, just to suit my convenience."

Lucien raised a hand in a gesture of surrender. "Fair enough. And as you say, it's as well she didn't create a scene. None of us need that."

The carriage jerked to a halt.

Ferncliff's haunt turned out to be a respectable tall house containing gentlemen's rooms. The footman was given charge of Francis's pistol case—less one pistol—and sent to watch the back of the house. Francis and Lucien climbed the stone steps to rap at the front door. It was opened by a tall, stick-thin individual.

"Yes, gentlemen?" he asked in the careful accent of an upper servant. He was clearly impressed, but not awed, by their obvious quality.

Francis realized that they did not know with whom Ferncliff was staying. "We wish to speak with Mr. Charles Ferncliff."

"Ay do not have a tenant of that name, gentlemen." The man was now more wary and began to close the door a little.

"On the other hand," said Francis, "we know he is staying here. It is important that we speak with him. A tall, ruddy man of about thirty-five or forty."