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If only Francis loved her, how happy she could be.

Why should he, though? She had done him nothing but harm. Her beauty and sexual skills would not bring love. If such things touched the heart, men wouldn't use whores and wander away whistling. She could only hope that now she and Francis seemed to be moving into calmer waters, he would begin to appreciate her other qualities.

She knew she had them. She was kind by nature, and honest, and faithful. Perhaps if she were less faithful, she would have found the courage to flee Matthew years ago. She had felt bound by her marriage vows. She wasn't scholarly, but nor was she stupid. She could manage a house properly, and she thought she would be a good mother.

Were these enough virtues to win love?

What caused love?

Why did she love Francis?

Just to ponder such a question was cause to smile with delight. Perhaps more than anything else, she loved him for his gentleness. It was not a weakness, she knew that, just a gentle concern for others. It was a precious quality. He had so many other precious qualities, too. He was intelligent, competent, and trustworthy. Above all, Serena valued trust. She knew without a doubt that she could trust Francis with her life and her children.

But all those things generated liking and respect. What turned liking into love?

His body? He was slender, but she had had enough of big, brawny men for a lifetime. She thought his body beautiful. His features were indisputably handsome, made more so by the personality that shaped them. One did not love for a body, however.

His mind? She didn't think she had come to know his mind, yet.

She shook her head. Perhaps there was no making sense of love. It was a treasure, though, and one she wanted to preserve.

She sat for a little longer, praying for guidance and patience, and then rose to return to the house. As she left the arbor, however, someone stepped forward to block her way. Two men.

With a spurt of fear, she recognized her brothers and took a step back.

Then she realized she had nothing to fear. She was married and beyond their power. She stopped her retreat and raised her chin. "Hello, Tom. Will. You are trespassing, you know."

"Trespassing in our dear sister's garden?" sneered Tom. "Haven't you done well for yourself, Serry? Viscountess Middlethorpe, no less. Why didn't you think to tell your loving family of this happy event, then?"

"If I had a loving family, I might well have done so. What do you want?"

"Ten thousand pounds."

Serena stared at him blankly. "What?"

Tom's eyes were flatly malignant. "Your husband owes us ten thousand pounds, Serry, no matter who he be, and I want it."

She laughed. "Then I suggest you apply to him for it."

She could tell that he wanted to hurt her but didn't dare. That knowledge was very sweet. She moved forward. "Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to the house."

She had misjudged. He seized her arm in a -cruel grip and pushed her back into the arbor. "Preparing for an evening in a ducal mansion, I hear. Moving in fine circles, aren't you, you little trollop? How will the Duke and Duchess of Belcraven feel when they know you were Riverton's wife?"

She forced herself not to struggle in his grasp, though fear was almost choking her. "They do know."

He was taken aback but rallied. "But I'll go odds others don't. Middlethorpe hasn't announced the marriage yet, has he? I've been watching the two of you this last couple of days since I twigged the way I'd been tricked. You're hoping to take Society by a bold move, but what if word got around about you, and about the things you've done...?"

She tried to bluff him. "It wouldn't matter. I'm already accepted."

"If you believe that, you'd believe in the pig-faced woman. Just let talk start and see what happens to your precious acceptance. Then, of course, there are those pictures...."

"Pictures?" Serena asked in horror.

"Pictures of you in lewd postures." Now he'd gained her attention, Tom let her go and pulled out a squashed roll of paper. He smoothed it with his fat fingers. "You can't have forgotten them, Serry." He handed it to her.

Serena stared in horror at the crumpled pen and ink sketch. It showed her lounging on a chaise while a faceless footman fondled her naked breasts. And this was one of the mildest of the bunch.

"Where did you get this?" she whispered.

"From Riverton's rooms in Town. I knew where he kept 'em. He showed 'em to me once. Seemed to think it might upset me." He chuckled. "Just got me excited, they did. When he died, I went there to see what I could scavenge—for you, of course, dear sister. The duns were already moving in, though. I only sneaked the pictures out by mixing them with some legal papers. They've given me and Will some merry moments, haven't they, Will?"

Will nodded. "I told Tom we ought to get you to pose like that again, just for us."

Serena stared at them both in horror. "I
never
posed for those pictures!" She ripped the one in her hands in half. "That artist changed everything except my head!"

Tom just laughed. "Now, who's to know that? I could sell them for a pretty penny, Serry, especially now you're such a part of Society. Do you know, there's already a few pictures of you in the print shop windows. You're the latest Society beauty."

Blank terror was welling up in Serena, and she was in very real danger of fainting. "Those pictures aren't real! That trick could be played on anyone! An artist could put the queen's face on a whore...."

"But people wouldn't believe it of the queen. They'd believe it of Randy Riverton's widow. There's plenty know those pictures tell the truth, no matter how they were done."

"Of course they don't. Matthew was jealous. He never let another man touch me!"

Tom looked a bit disappointed but said, "Be that as it may, Sister, the world'll believe the worst."

It was true. Serena collapsed back onto the bench and sank her head in her hands. "What do you want?" It was an admission of defeat.

"I told you. Ten thousand pounds."

She looked up. "You're mad. I don't have that sort of money. You'll have to apply to my husband." She watched Tom's eyes shift. "And you won't do that, will you?"

"I will if you force my hand," Tom blustered. "He'll pay up to prevent talk."

"He'll call you out, rather."

Tom showed his teeth. "Let him. I'll go odds I'm a better shot than that strip of wind."

Tom was a good shot. Dear Lord, was she to crown her follies by causing Francis's
death?

"He's a dead shot," she declared boldly, and it was pure bluff.

It found a mark, though. Tom's eyes narrowed uneasily. "Is he, now...? Well, anyway, shooting me won't stop those pictures being made public. Will'd see to it, wouldn't you, lad?"

"Course I would," said Will cheerfully.

"Dear God, but I hate you both," Serena said.

Tom chuckled complacently. "Now, now, no need for that, Serry. I can see you'd have a problem laying a hand on that sort of money right away, but we can be reasonable. Let's say you pay us a hundred here, a hundred there. Middlethorpe's a warm man. He'll not mind you helping your family."

"He'll think I've run mad!" Serena protested. "He knows I detest you. And I don't even have access to hundreds, you fool."

"Watch your mouth, Serry," Tom growled. "You'll find enough to satisfy me, and there's an end of it. If you don't, the pretty pictures of you in the print seller's windows will be replaced by the other ones. Use your wits. There's pin money and housekeeping. Doubtless your doting husband's given you trinkets you could say you'd lost..."

"No!" Serena was revolted.

"Speaking of trinkets," Tom went on implacably, "I'll have your jewelry back, too."

This new tack knocked Serena even more off balance. "What?"

"The pretty baubles Riverton gave you. They were tricked out of my hands and I want 'em back. Somehow I doubt you're deeply attached to 'em."

Serena shuddered at the mere thought of those ornaments. "I don't have them. What are you talking about?"

Tom eyed her shrewdly, then a grin cracked his heavy face. "Didn't Middlethorpe give them to you? Well, well, perhaps there's more in his breeches than his drawers after all. He must be keeping them to be a little surprise one night when the novelty's worn off."

Serena didn't want to believe all this, but clever deception wasn't her brothers' strong suit. "Why would my husband have them? Last I heard, you had them."

"He won them from me in a horse race."

"You can't fool me with that. He won my three thousand pounds back."

"And I paid with those jewels.... So," Tom said with sudden interest, "did he give you three thousand pounds, then?"

Serena kept firmly silent.

Tom was not fooled. "That'll be a nice start, won't it, Will? Three thousand in ready cash. With that and the trinkets, we might even call the account settled, eh? A bird in the hand and all that. Then our little sister can get on with her respectable marriage in peace."

Serena looked at her brothers with loathing. "I'll give you
nothing.
Not one penny."

Tom's smile didn't waver. "Yes, you will, because otherwise I'll ruin both you and your marriage, and you know it. Think your pretty husband'll want you about when you're a byword?" He kicked the pieces of paper on the ground. "Keep that picture and think on it. I'll be back here tomorrow at this time for the three thousand." With that, he turned and left.

Will grinned and followed Tom out toward the small gate that led into the mews.

Serena gave a little whimper and hugged herself. What now? Dear Lord, what now? She wanted to tell Francis, but what if he did call Tom out and Tom killed him? She had ruined her husband's life; would she now be his death?

She wept, rocking herself. She loved him so and wanted to make his life perfect, but all she seemed able to do was to drag him deeper and deeper into a foul stew. Tonight was to have been the moment of triumph when her place in Society would be established, but it would be a hollow victory with this threat hanging over them. The higher her position, the greater the scandal those pictures would create.

She looked at the torn halves of the one Tom had left and shuddered.

She'd wiped the pictures out of her mind, hoping that somehow they had been lost or destroyed. Matthew had always kept them in London, saying they reminded him of his sweet little wife when he was away from home. She'd hoped he kept them to himself, but apparently he'd shown them to Tom. For all she knew, he had been in the habit of passing them around to his foul friends or had even hung them on his walls!

And now Tom had them.

The thought of her brothers gloating over them made her feel sick.

Serena had been just sixteen when Matthew had brought the artist to Stokeley Manor. He had said Kevin Beehan was to do sketches for a portrait. Serena had lost her illusions about her husband, and was terrified and disgusted by him, but she had not come to realize his true nature yet. She had seen no trap in it.

Even if she had, she admitted with a sigh, she could not have refused. Matthew had a quick and vicious response to any insubordination.

There had seemed nothing about the sittings to object to. The artist had sketched her in a number of poses—sitting, standing, lying; in the house, in the garden, even in the stables. She had seen them all. He was skilled, and the pictures had conveyed a charming, graceful innocence that denied the horrors of her marriage. She had asked for one to keep and had been given it.

She had burned it when she'd seen the final results.

She didn't know whether Beehan had used whores to model the bodies or just his imagination, but he had taken those pictures, stripped most of the clothing off her, adapted the body pose where necessary, and added a variety of men. In all of them, no matter what terrible things were going on, her youthful face smiled dreamily out of the picture with its characteristic counterpoint of sultry satisfaction.

They had been so cleverly done, however, that people would believe them to be exact representations of fact. She picked up the two torn pieces of paper and matched them together. People would think she really had sat half-naked on the chaise in the drawing room at Stokeley Manor, presiding over the tea tray while that brawny footman caressed her.

She leapt to her feet, crushing the paper in her hands. It wasn't fair! What had she done to deserve her fate? What had she done that her life should be constantly torn from her control and ruined?

She was tempted to give up, to stop fighting, to run away and hide. That brought her up short. She could not do that. She carried a babe in her womb that deserved its father and a home. She had a good man for a husband, one who deserved a respectable wife. She had to fight on somehow.

The first step was to tell Francis about this new threat. She closed her eyes at the pain of it. She didn't want to. She didn't want to tell him about the pictures.

He had a low opinion of Riverton, but he had no real idea of the way her marriage had been. The pictures would reveal too much. She hadn't posed for them, but they laid bare the nature of her marriage. What would he think of her?