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Serena knew Lady Anne was being honest and kind, but if she had sought a way to heap burning coals on Serena's head, she could not have done better. "Good men do not wed just for beauty, Lady Anne."

She longed to tell Anne the truth, but it would do no good. In fact, if she guessed aright, Anne was comforted by the belief that Francis's marriage was a great love match.

"I think you are wise, Lady Anne, not to want to marry without love. I'm sure true love will come your way in full measure very soon."

Anne smiled a little mistily. "I do hope so. I hope to have what you and Francis have."

Serena summoned what she hoped was a blissful smile. "I wish you a husband you deserve, Lady Anne, for he will be a treasure among men."

When Anne had gone, Serena sat with a thump on a little sofa. How many more of these excruciating moments were there to endure? Would she ever be able to move through a day without an eye open for traps?

She had to admit, however, that the talk with Lady Anne had eased her a little. Unless Anne was the greatest actress in creation, she truly had not loved Francis, not as Serena loved him.

She sat there quietly, dwelling on that. She loved Francis quite desperately. She wanted—needed—his love in return. If only she deserved it.

She fought her tears. It would not do for her to return to the company with red eyes.

Francis came in. "Here you are. Are you feeling unwell?"

Serena was dangerously vulnerable. Her heart danced at the sight of him; his voice thrilled her senses. If she could just be here with him for eternity, she would be happy. "No. No, I'm fine."

He came to sit on the sofa by her. "Then why are you here at all? Do you not care for music?"

What did he feel? It was impossible to tell. Did he love Anne? Heaven knows, she was lovable.

"I was talking to Lady Anne," she confessed.

His light smile faded. "About what?"

"You, of course."

"And?" He was very watchful, but giving nothing away.

"And nothing," she sighed. "She merely wished to assure me that you had not jilted her."

"She is generous, then. It was as near as made no difference. Come. The carriage waits. It is time to go."

Serena didn't try to continue such an awkward discussion.

When they arrived home, it wasn't quite as late at night as the last, and Serena, after her nap, was not particularly tired. As they went up to bed she wished she could depend on her husband coming to her. It was not sexual desire that moved her, but the need to prove that Francis desired her, the need to give him something to compensate for all she had taken.

He entered her room with her and said, "Are you tired tonight?"

"Not particularly." Her heart began to speed.

"Then I will return in a little while, if you do not mind."

"No," she breathed. "No, I do not mind at all."

* * *

Francis went to his own room, still holding his desire by a tight rein. This time there would be no repeat of that last encounter. He would take it slowly and give her as much pleasure as he could.

My God, though, it was hard when she was so utterly desirable. Tonight he had seen other men look at her with heat in their eyes. He'd received a few congratulations on his marriage that had rung with envy. Young Farnham had declared her a Toast.

Francis wanted to bury his wife in the country and keep her to himself. Then he remembered that her first husband had done just that.

As Grisholme attended him with quiet efficiency, Francis clenched his teeth on commands to hurry. It would be pointless. It would take time for Serena's maid to ready her for bed, and he didn't want to be a subject for yet more servants' gossip.

Lord above, did they spend their evenings below stairs speculating about his intimate life?

When he was in his banyan and ready for bed in more senses than one, Grisholme was still in the room, quietly putting everything in order.

The valet had been behaving in this manner for as long as he had been in Francis's employ, but now it seemed like an act of malice. Francis threw himself into a chair by the fire. He rose quickly, however, as he felt something under him. He turned and picked up a pair of lady's pockets by the ribbon used to tie them at the waist.

He dangled them from his fingers and raised a teasing brow at his very proper manservant.

Grisholme did look a little discomfited. "Your apologies, milord. An oversight on my part. An undermaid delivered them from the laundry for her ladyship. They had been sent down by mistake with a gown. I forgot to give them to her ladyship's dresser."

The man's embarrassment at such a dereliction of duty was quite amusing.

Grisholme came over to take the offending pockets, but Francis said, "No matter. I'll give them to Lady Middlethorpe myself." Foolishly, Francis then felt embarrassed that his words could be taken as an announcement of his intent to make passionate love to the said Lady Middlethorpe. He tossed the pockets carelessly back onto the chair.

"Good night, then, milord." At last Grisholme bowed himself out.

Francis took a breath and made himself wait a few moments more. He wished he didn't want to make love to Serena quite so desperately. It would make it hard to be careful, damn it. But careful he must be. He must never bring back memories of her first marriage.

He held out a hand and noted wryly that it trembled slightly.

Perhaps he should have used some other woman to slake his lust so that he could be moderate, but he couldn't do it. Apart from the fact that it would hurt her if she found out, he didn't seem to desire any woman but Serena. This evening at the musicale, he'd looked at Anne and had been completely unable to imagine the intimacies of marriage with her. He'd glanced at Serena and had desired her instantly.

He stood sharply and attended to the fire, then he picked up the pockets. He had them upside down, however, and a few coins and a card slid out onto the floor. Muttering with impatience, he gathered them up. Then the name leapt out at him.

Charles Ferncliff!

He stared at the rectangle of white pasteboard in disbelief. What the devil was Serena doing with a card from Charles Ferncliff?

He scanned the card, trying to find some sense other than the obvious. Hell and damnation. It wasn't possible.

Despite his disbelief, scenarios leapt into his mind.

Serena and Ferncliff?

He had been after Ferncliff when he met Serena, but no one could have planned that meeting. He'd met up with Serena because he'd taken a shortcut.

A well-known shortcut.

Perhaps that letter had not really been intended to send Francis asking questions of his mother, but to send him on the road to Weymouth.

He collapsed back down in the chair and stared at the card as if it could reveal more. Could Ferncliff have started this insane affair in collusion with Serena? Could he have planned to trick him into meeting with Serena so he could be seduced by her and marry her?

God's truth, but no one would believe a plan like that.

What was he supposed to believe, though? He turned the card helplessly in his hand.

What he should do was go to Serena and ask her about all this.

If there was an innocent explanation, though, there was no need to ask.

And if there wasn't, she'd surely lie.

And if there wasn't an innocent explanation, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

What he wanted was to enjoy her luscious body.

After another long study, Francis flicked the card into the flames and watched it curl and char.

Then, suddenly, he remembered the man he had encountered near here on Tuesday. Tall, ruddy, dark-haired.

Charles Ferncliff.
He'd stake his life on it.

He'd had his quarry in his grasp! Had Ferncliff been coming from a meeting with his accomplice?

His lover?

No, surely not that.

Francis wanted answers. His hand went to the bell-pull, but that would bring Grisholme back when the man was doubtless heading for his own bed. It wasn't Grisholme he wanted, anyway. He went downstairs to find—as expected—his butler making the final check of the house.

"You require something, milord?" Dibbert managed to imply that Francis was behaving most improperly by wandering his house in his nightwear.

"Were there any callers to the house on Tuesday?"

The man considered it. "No, milord. Of course, Lady Middlethorpe—the Dowager Lady Middlethorpe—arrived, along with her staff."

"But no one visited anyone here. Or left a card."

"No, milord. It was not generally known then that you were in Town. Yesterday and today, of course, a number of people have left cards."

Francis wanted to interrogate the man about Serena's movements on Tuesday, but that would be to reveal too much. "Thank you, Dibbert. Good night."

"Good night, milord." The butler continued his duties, and Francis returned to his room to pace.

Brandy had found Serena's gloves in the garden. Ferncliff had been coming from the garden. He and Serena had clearly met there in a clandestine manner. What the devil was going on?

He tried to remember that occasion. Had Serena seemed uneasy or guilty? It was impossible to tell. Francis had been awash in his own guilt over his use of her body, and shocked by those horrible ornaments. Upon meeting her, he'd been intent on giving her the puppy.

There had been nothing guilty in her enjoyment of the puppy.

He couldn't—wouldn't—believe that she was Ferncliff's lover, but what else could they have been doing together?

Francis leapt to his feet. He wouldn't believe the worst, but now—more than ever—he wanted a word with Charles Ferncliff. Ferncliff was at the heart of the whole plague-ridden mess. He had a strong urge to go over to Simmons's rooms now, in the middle of the night, and force the truth out of the villain.

And he didn't give a damn whether it gave Simmons an apoplexy or not.

There was a tap on the door. It opened, and Serena came in rather hesitantly. "I... I thought perhaps you wanted me to come here."

She was dressed in a new nightgown, a low-necked garment of filmy silk and lace that hid little. Her hair was a loose deep red cloud.

"Why not?" he said. No matter what else she was, she was his wife and it was his right to enjoy her. Seeing her here in all her available enchantments, he felt his control slip away.

Still, he commanded himself, you must act the gentleman.

She was hovering by the door as if about to take flight. He strode over, swept her into his arms, and carried her to the bed. As he laid her there on the crisp white sheets, he searched her face for reluctance or duplicity and found none.

Perhaps she read something in his features, though, for she raised her arms and said, "Francis, I want you to join with me above anything. Come."

He couldn't even wait to undress her, though he managed not to rip the lovely garment. The top slipped down easily to give him access to her delicious breasts, and the bottom pushed up. She must have removed his banyan, for he did not and yet he was naked.

He tried to hold back but it was like the first time. She took him into her and brought his release on him, so that he exploded into limp satisfaction without any clear recollection of the stages.

The relief was astonishing, but it was followed by annoyance.

Damn it, he'd omitted all the careful pleasuring of her he'd intended. He moved to the side ready to apologize, but she looked radiant with contentment.

She placed a gentle kiss upon his lips. "You must never think I do not welcome you, Francis. Sharing my body with yours is the greatest joy I have ever known."

He had to believe her.

He wrapped her in his arms and offered up a prayer. Please, God, don't let anything come between me and this woman. He put the thought of Charles Ferncliff's card firmly out of his mind.

* * *

Serena slept deeply, but she came to awareness in the middle of the night, to find his hands busy upon her. It was the mirror-image of their first encounter, except that she was completely aware and enthusiastic. Thinking of that, she moved on top of him and pleasured him as she had that first time, but now with his full consent.

She could almost thank Matthew Riverton for teaching her these skills. Every time Francis achieved his satisfaction, Serena felt a wild surge of joyous triumph. She would do it over and over again if she thought he could bear it.

They fell asleep again almost immediately, but she woke to his touch once more, this time in daylight. His fingers traced to the peak of her breast. "Time to attend to you, my siren..."

Serena, however, heard the clock strike ten and seized his busy hand. "Heavens, Francis, I promised to help Beth."

He twisted around to snare her wrists. "Beth has more servants than she knows what to do with. I have only one wife."

She struggled playfully. "Stop it, Francis! That's not the same. She is putting on this entertainment for us, and I should help."