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Taught what? they might well ask.

And with reason. During her marriage Serena had not been allowed to handle money and so had not learned household management. She had never possessed great interest or skill in needlework or music. Having left school at fifteen, her more formal education was lacking.

The only real training she had received had been from Matthew, and that had
not
been in skills suitable for well-bred young ladies....

Serena became aware of something rubbing her foot. She looked down and realized it was a boot—a boot belonging to the mustachioed captain lounging opposite. He smiled and winked.

She turned hastily away, heat rushing to her cheeks. His boot tapped against hers, then slid up toward her ankle.

She turned back to glare at him.

He raised his brows in mock innocence and moved his foot, but the lascivious invitation didn't leave his eyes.

Serena pulled up her hood and huddled in its protection. Oh, but she hated her appearance that attracted this kind of attention.

Serena knew that without some man's protection this was the kind of pestering she must expect for the rest of her life, or at least until age rid her of her damnable appeal. She despaired of finding any respectable sanctuary.

Even if she could think to find a post as a governess or companion without references, her appearance would slam all doors in her face.

Serena looked out at the bleak winterish countryside and knew Tom had been right. It was her destiny to be a whore. It seemed God had designed her appearance for that role, and her husband had trained her for it. Trained her in what he revoltingly called bed-work...

She flicked a glance at the captain and he winked again, grinning. The invitation was unmistakable.

Then be damned to them all, she thought bitterly. If the choice was between marriage and prostitution, she'd
be
a whore but not in a brothel. She'd be a high-flying Cyprian. In fact, if she was going to be a whore, she'd be the best damn whore in England.

A boot tapped her foot again. Serena glared at the captain so fiercely that his eyes shifted and
he
colored up. And so he should. He couldn't afford her.

She'd be the most expensive damn whore in England, too!

If Seale would offer ten thousand pounds, what could she ask for herself? As Tom had said, her barrenness was no impediment as a mistress.

How were such things arranged?

At that point her resolution faltered, for she was unable to imagine how to go about entering a life of sin. Then she thought of Harriet Wilson.

The famous Cyprian had come to one of the house parties that Matthew had thrown at Stokeley Manor during hunting season. Orgy, more like. Serena shuddered at the memory, but she remembered Harriet as being quite kind to a seventeen-year-old who refused to have anything to do with low women.

Kind and pitying.

Serena could see why Harriet would pity the child bride she had been, obvious slave to her husband, forced even into improper behavior before strangers. Harriet had permitted no such indignities.

Harriet had even stirred herself to give some advice. "I'd leave him, dear," she'd said one day, catching Serena alone.

"I cannot. He is my husband."

Harriet had not protested but merely said, "If you do, dear, come to me and I'll help you. I'm sure I could find you a protector who'd snap his fingers at Riverton. You've a rare quality, you know."

"I
loathe
it."

Harriet smiled. She had none of Serena's beauty, but she, too, had something that drew men like a lode-stone. " If you're lucky, dear, one day you'll see it as the power it is. It's like a cocked gun, aimed straight at the heart of this man's world. Learn to shoot straight."

So, thought Serena, she had a weapon against men... if she could only discover how to use it. It was clearly time to learn to shoot straight, and Harriet would be an excellent teacher. When she arrived in Winchester, she would not continue toward Cheltenham but would buy a ticket to London.

When she arrived in the cathedral city, however, the timetable in the bustling inn yard told her that she had missed the day's London coach. Serena looked anxiously over the crowd and knew she could not stay in Winchester. It was such an obvious center to check that it was only a matter of time before one of her brothers arrived here.

She must go on to a smaller town.

She bought a ticket on the next stage to leave, one to Basingstoke. The big horses were just being eased between the shafts, and so she spent a few coins on a pie from a passing pieman, keeping a wary eye out for any sign of pursuit. It was late afternoon now, and dark was slowly gathering. Her brothers would be on the hunt.

The guard called for the passengers to go aboard, but as Serena brushed the pastry crumbs off her gloves, she froze.

Will was riding into the yard, scanning it.

She ducked behind the coach, heart racing with panic.

The guard called again for the Basingstoke passengers. Serena wanted to leap into the stage and let it carry her away, but she knew Will might see her. And anyway, the booking clerk would remember her—everyone remembered her—and tell Will what coach she was on. It would then be a moving trap.

She choked back a sob of panic. What should she do now? She was aware of the temptation to give up. This was all too hard. She couldn't keep going.

But she must. She really would rather die than marry.

The main thing was to escape Will. She used the concealment of the coach to slip down the yard toward the arched opening into the street. A glance back showed her Will buying a hot pie from the same vendor who had served her. Would he ask about her? He looked as if he thought himself on a fool's errand.

Thank God it was lazy, stupid Will who'd almost caught her and not Tom. She still had a chance.

Once out of the yard, she headed out of town at a brisk walk, expecting to hear pursuit at any moment. There was no alarm and so she relaxed a little. Perhaps she could walk to the next village.

Then she realized she was too obvious on the wide highway. She could clearly imagine Will coming up behind her, chasing her down as if she were a frantic fox. So when she came to a smaller road signed to Hursley, Serena turned into it, speeding her pace almost to a run. When the road forked, she went right at random.

She was gasping by now and she slowed, trying to regain control.

This was madness! This was the road to nowhere, and she doubted that the coins she had left in her pocket would carry her to London. But back in Winchester Will awaited, and she'd rather
die
than fall into her brothers' hands. They'd never let her escape again.

She had made herself walk on. There would be a village ahead, and surely some way of continuing to London even if she had to take a cart or walk.

* * *

Now, an hour later, she was trudging along wearily, pondering the question again: Is marriage truly a fate worse than death? Because it was quite likely death she had chosen.

Slow death by starvation. Quick death at the hands of foot pads. Horrible death at the hands of a rapist. Death from exposure...

Dark was coming, bringing with it an icy chill. The village of Hursley was ahead somewhere but might not appear in time.

Serena had always known that her exotic appearance disguised a prosaic spirit. That prosaic spirit had enabled her to survive her marriage, whereas a more sensitive woman might have been destroyed. Now her sensible head told her that a second marriage, even if like her first, was probably preferable to dying from exposure and certainly preferable to dying from rape.

Serena realized she had stopped to ponder this, and once again she forced her cold and tired legs into motion. She'd surely freeze if she stood still, and she wasn't yet ready to resign herself to an icy death by the roadside.

She felt the small purse in her pocket. Four guineas left, along with a few smaller coins. Some bulwark against the world, but little enough upon which to build a new life.

She swallowed threatened tears and pushed back panic. All would be well when she found a way to London.

She knew many women would be horrified that she was even considering becoming a Cyprian, but to Serena it was a case of needs must when the devil drives. To be a high-paid whore was infinitely preferable to marriage in her eyes. A mistress, after all, could leave her protector. She received money that she could keep as her own. She made the man no vows, and he had no power before the law.

A chill wind was picking up, swirling under her warm cape and gown. Her feet were icy. She anxiously scanned ahead but saw no sign of humanity, good or bad. There could be some shelter quite close, though, she told herself. The hedges here were high, and even though it was November, they obscured her view of the surrounding countryside.

She quickened her step, her mind returning to worry at her problem. She still had the option of returning home and marrying Seale. There was some hope that he would debauch himself into the grave even faster than her first husband, and next time she'd make sure to hold on to any assets that came to her....

The fact that she was thinking of it told her she shrank from her practical choice.

A whore. Could she really be a whore?

What else had she been to Matthew, wedding ring or not?

At least this way she'd be in charge of her destiny.

A noise penetrated her tangled thoughts. Horses and wheels. Fearing pursuit, Serena whirled around.

A carriage!

No, a curricle.

A man.

No one she knew, she realized with sweeping relief.

All the same, her heart raced as she thought of being caught here alone by any man, but there was nowhere to hide. She turned forward, hastening her step, though she knew she had no chance of outpacing the four-horse rig.

It drew closer. The large, steaming chestnuts pounded past but slowed... slowed until the curricle was alongside and matching her speed.

"May I take you up somewhere, ma'am?"

An educated voice, but he could be up to no good accosting a woman on the road. Serena just prayed he would drive on.

The curricle kept a steady pace. "Ma'am?"

Oh, why would he not leave her alone? Serena turned slightly, staying huddled in the deep hood of her cloak. "I need nothing, thank you." She marched on.

The man didn't drive past. "Ma'am, it's at least two miles to the nearest hamlet that I'm aware of, it's cold, night's falling, and I suspect a storm is coming."

As if to prove his point, a few drops of icy water blew on a sharp gust of wind.

"I cannot leave you here," he said simply.

Serena saw it was hopeless that he go away, and she stopped to turn and look at him. No tame wool-factor, this. A blood, she thought with despair, reeking of fashionable arrogance from his tilted beaver to his glossy boots. His lean, handsome face was touched by wry amusement. At her.

"I have no wish to alarm you, ma'am, but the weather threatens to worsen, and it hardly seems safe or proper for you to be alone out here. And consider my predicament," he added with a slight smile. "I've been very well trained in the gentlemanly arts and am cursed with a kind heart. I cannot possibly abandon you. If you insist on walking, I will have to keep pace with you all the way."

Serena was seduced by his good humor and kindness, such rare ingredients in her life that she did not know how to resist them. A knife-sharp gust of icy wind decided her. She was in desperate need of shelter.

Cautiously, she approached the curricle and raised her foot to the step. He stretched out a hand and helped her into the seat beside him.

The very feel of his hand around hers, gloved as they both were, sent a jolt through her. Lean and powerful.

She was not accustomed to lean, strong young men. Her father, her brothers, and her husband were all strong men but heavy, with hands like bunches of rough sausages.

Once, young and innocent, she had glimpsed such men as this and had giggled with her friends about them, wondering which one might be for her. Since her marriage, they had been no part of her existence. He frightened her.

He did nothing alarming, however, but just urged the team up to a cracking pace again. "Where are you headed, ma'am? I'll take you to your door."

"Hursley," she said, looking firmly ahead and clutching the rail.

Now that she was raised above the hedge, Serena could appreciate the man's concern. Bare fields stretched on one side and bleak hills on the other. There were no nearby houses. Heavy, threatening clouds were rolling in from the east and in the distance skeleton trees tossed in strong winds.

"I have to pass through Hursley," he said, "so there is no problem in taking you there. My name is Middlethorpe, by the way. Lord Middlethorpe."

She flicked a wary glance at him. She had met few lords, and none she liked. Matthew had been a mere baronet, and his friends all lower still. Wealthy, to be sure, but not of high rank. The few members of the nobility who had hung around Matthew had been the desperate dregs. Another of Matthew's complaints had been that the cream of the aristocracy would not succumb to the lure of his lavish generosity.