One Wicked Night (18 page)

Her expression confirmed he was going to be a father again. Lucien wasn’t sure whether he should be furious, elated—or scared as hell.

He opened his mouth, to say what, he wasn’t sure. Then he remembered the solicitor’s presence and closed it again.

Higgins spoke, drawing Serena’s gaze from Lucien’s. “If you have no objections, Lord Daneridge, I must confer with Her Grace about some of the remaining estate matters requiring privacy.”

Lucien tapped his foot angrily against the wooden floor. He did have objections, damn it. He and
Her Grace
were long overdue for a confrontation. Now, more than ever, he needed to understand the facts behind her half-truths at the Raddingtons’ ball.

His gaze pinned Serena to her chair. He watched as her nervous tongue darted out to wet her lips. At that, a bolt of desire scorched him, and the taut string in Lucien’s gut snapped. He leaped from his chair with a curse. Hadn’t he learned anything? His lust for Serena had lured him into this predicament in the first place.

But the fact remained, he wanted—needed—answers from her, and soon. He wanted to hear the truth come from her luscious mouth, every last damn word of it.

As he stalked past Serena’s chair, he whispered in her ear, “I will call on you tomorrow morning. Without fail. Be ready.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The following morning, Lucien left the carriage parked before Grosvenor Chapel, waved away an inquiring footman, and climbed the grassy knoll. Taking the last hesitant steps, he halted at the gray stone marking Chelsea’s final resting place. He stood unmoving, watching the dawning sun inch into the foggy sky and cast a murky light over his daughter’s grave. Despite his searing anguish and the disbelief of the first days of her death, he had chosen this very spot for her because she had been so fond of sunrises.

Lucien knelt at the edge of the dirt-covered mound, strewn with yesterday’s flowers. The familiar wave of grief crashed against his heart. He closed his eyes.

Thoughts whirling, he retrieved the old bouquet of white carnations and replaced it with a fresh one, as he did daily, this time leaving baby pink roses—their silky petals the color of Chelsea’s cheeks.

A flash of her tiny crimson-covered body, helpless and crumpled beneath the team and carriage wheels of a sobbing stranger, taunted him. He should have been there to save her from the accident, instead of identifying her after the worst had happened. After it was too late.

I am with child
, Serena’s voice crowded into his head, demanding attention. With a savage curse, he pivoted away.

Throwing his head back, he stared up at the muted London sky. “Why?” his half-bewildered, half-accusing whisper asked of the God he had renounced on this spot just two months past. “You gave me a child once, and my neglect caused her death. Why are You giving me this chance again?”

No answer rained down from the heavens, not that he really expected one. As usual, he was on his own.

Scowling, he dropped his gaze to the cold earth. His mind filtered through treasured images of Chelsea as she had played a stranded princess in a tower, as she had carried a rag doll he had bought for her at a country fair, as she stroked the pet frog she had named Herman upon capturing it in the garden.

For a moment, everything about him was still, as quiet and motionless as the graveyard’s inhabitants. Then, from out of nowhere . . . a gentle wisp of wind skittered through the air, ruffling his hair and the bouquet at his feet. A bird’s sweet song tinkled in the air.

A sign that life would, and must, go on.

A gentle wave of tranquility suffused him. As if God had imparted the wisdom, Lucien’s questions now had answers, a wealth of explanations where none had existed before.

He had to be ready for fatherhood again; God had given him no choice. Serena and the baby would need his protection. And if this birth was a test, it was also a gift. And a responsibility he would live up to with the best of his ability.

He would make damn certain he didn’t fail at fatherhood twice.

Lucien rose, yet a strain of fear still resided in his heart. This child would never be his in the eyes of the law, and he would have to provide and care for the babe with the alternative means available to him—an added challenge, no doubt.

But more than anything else, the fear stemmed from the Earl of Marsden, Alastair Boyce. The man was plainly furious with his late uncle’s will.

Lucien’s long, fitful strides took him down the length of Chelsea’s grave. Alastair had most likely had his uncle disposed of in the hopes of obtaining the Warrington fortune. So what was to stop him from targeting Serena? Not a damn thing. He had no choice but to keep his eyes on Marsden—and Serena as well.

Yet to do that, and become a real part of this new child’s life, he had one option. And he didn’t like it.

But that child was
his
, damn it. He wanted that babe, needed it to redeem himself in his own eyes, perhaps even make himself whole again. Not to mention that both mother and child were in danger.

He really had no other choice.

His decision made, the pain he had weathered since Serena’s startling announcement lifted. For the first time in almost a month, his lips turned up in a semblance of a smile.

“Poppet,” he said to Chelsea. “Daddy promises to make you proud.”

A warm breeze whispered across Lucien’s skin, the kind which lingered on summer days he had spent outdoors with Chelsea, slicing a ray of hope through the chilly morning air.

Fatherhood would be better the second time. He would do anything and everything to make certain of that.

****

Lucien arrived home from the graveyard. While trying to capture his whirling thoughts and process them, he slowly handed his hat, cloak, and gloves to Holford.

“My lord,” the butler said somewhat loudly, making Lucien aware that Holford had probably said it two or three times to get his attention.

Lucien weighed the question before answering. “Better than I would under the circumstances, I think. I do not envy her. She is clearly grieving Warrington’s demise, as odd as that seems. But she is a strong woman and will deal with her grief.”

“In time, yes.”

“Warrington’s heir is the Earl of Marsden. Do you know him?” At Niles’s grimace and nod, Lucien continued. “Serena is convinced he paid to have her husband murdered.”

“Really? What do you think?”

He recalled the vivid palm print on Alastair’s cheek, and Serena’s aura of suppressed rage. His mind replayed Alastair’s taunts and veiled threats. His guts twisted with anger. “It’s very likely. He’s a greedy bastard.”

“Enraged. I sent two men to watch her house, just in case Marsden decided to try something.” He shrugged. “It required no genius to see he was furious, especially after he called Serena a whore and accused her of bewitching her husband.”

Lucien hesitated before answering. Striding to his desk, he poured a glass of port and tossed it back, letting the liquid slide down his throat in one long swallow. Slamming the empty glass on the desk, he turned back to Niles, grateful for the one friend he knew would keep his secrets.

“Serena is pregnant.”

Niles’s jaw dropped to his chest. “And you think the child is yours?”

“I know it is. Her virginity, the timing . . . No other possibility exists.” Holding his cane tighter, Lucien crossed the room and stopped before his friend. “Both she and the baby are
my
responsibility.”

Lucien wasn’t sure what kind of husband he would make. Damn it, he had no desire to be married again—ever. Ravenna had seen to that. But his desires were not the issue. His child and its mother were. Period. They clearly needed his protection.

****

An hour later, Serena paced the length of a Merman sofa along one of the drawing room’s walls, awaiting Lucien’s arrival. Where was the man? Not that she looked forward to this, or any other, confrontation. On the contrary, this meeting was one she wanted, more than anything, to have behind her.

Lying to Lucien was going to be anything but easy. He seemed not just to sense, but to know when her words were less than honest. No doubt, something in her face gave her away. But no more could she allow herself that weakness. She had already convinced Mr. Higgins and Alastair of her impending state of motherhood. Now, she also had to convince Lucien she was truly with child. An unpleasant task indeed, but the Warrington lineage and fortune, and possibly her life, depended upon her singular ability to lie until she could determine for herself if she truly was
enceinte.

She didn’t dare trust anyone, not even Lucien, with the truth behind her ploy. If she told him everything, he most likely would refuse to corroborate her scheme, since he appeared so opposed to any kind of deception.

Her idea was underhanded. Her conscience made her well aware of that fact. Deception was not something she felt at all comfortable with. Indeed, guilt already plagued her, but she had chosen her path yesterday at Mr. Higgins’s office, and now she had to walk it to the end.

With a deep breath, Serena eyed her surroundings, seeking calm in the midst of the nervous tumble of her thoughts. She had chosen the most formal drawing room for this confrontation because of its size. She could direct Lucien to sit in an elbow chair across the room. Keeping the man as far away from her as physically possible was key.

The room was also intimidating. Nothing within lent it any air of intimacy, particularly not the looming religious painting above the fireplace and the marble molding hovering above the double doors. Surely Lucien would not dream of mentioning intimacies, nor starting any, here.

Lastly, the decor was neoclassical, a leftover from the late Georgian period, and Cyrus’s favorite. Serena remembered the number of times she had approached him about modernizing this room, only to be turned away with a resounding no. Now she was glad. Greeting Lucien in a room so reminiscent of her husband would give her strength to keep on the course she felt sure Cyrus had intended her to follow.

At the sound of two sets of footsteps echoing in the hallway beyond, one too bold to be a servant’s, Serena ceased her frantic pacing and raced across the room to one of the pale yellow brocade sofas. She seated herself on the edge just in time for the butler’s knock.

Her heart pounding in her ears, she bade the servant to show Lord Daneridge in.

She met Lucien’s intent green-eyed gaze the moment he crossed the threshold. He hadn’t slept well, if at all; dark smudges and a conspicuous puffiness beneath his eyes told her that, though he was still more handsome than God should allow. His limp was more pronounced this morning, as if the joint pained him. The ruthless grip he exerted on his cane reminded her that, despite his injury, he still possessed tenfold her own strength.