Marguerite Kaye - Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom - The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

As her dressing case and jewellery box were stowed inside the chaise, Serena wearily acknowledged the truth of the matter. She had fallen in love with Nicolas Lytton, plain and simple. No wonder his touch set off such extreme sensations. No wonder she felt a fizz of excitement every time she looked upon his handsome figure. No wonder she felt as if the sky was falling down when she thought of a future without him. She loved him. She wished with all her heart it had been possible, just once, to make love with him. Now her only consolation was that he had no idea of how she felt. And that was how it must remain, for if ever he had an inkling of her feelings—knowing Nicholas—he’d probably see it as another form of entrapment.

He helped her into the coach, his expression unreadable. Serena disposed herself beside her boxes as he took the seat opposite. The coachman pushed shut the door and they were away. She leaned back against the squabs and closed her eyes. She was exhausted, but sleep would be impossible with Nicholas sitting so close that his knees brushed hers. He was angry still. She knew better than to try to coax him out of it, could only hope that at some point on the long journey ahead his mood would mellow. Today should be a time for looking forward to whatever her new life would bring. She had an uncle, an aunt, perhaps even cousins. She was rich. She was in the fortunate position of being able to suit herself, neither beholden to an employer nor dependent upon a husband. The future was hers to define. Yet she could not bring herself to think about anything other than the brooding man sitting impassively opposite her. As they left High Knightswood behind, Serena fell into a troubled doze, her head resting awkwardly on her shoulder.

Nicholas watched, torn between frustrated desire and guilt. A surfeit of brandy last night had failed to prevent their last conversation replaying over and over in his mind. Serena was right, she had not really deceived him. He had asked Frances Eldon to investigate her because he knew her story was not the whole truth. And she was, unfortunately, right about his willingness to be deceived. He wanted her so much that he had deluded himself. Had failed to examine closely the inconsistencies in her story, the apparent contradictions in her character. It was a bitter pill to swallow, that she had also ultimately saved him from breaking his own damned rules. He had not compromised her, but he could not stop imagining what it would have been like if he had.

This morning he had an aching head and an unusually active conscience. Time would cure the former. The latter, having little experience of, he was less sure how to tackle. He owed her an apology at the very least. She had every right to reproach him for the things he had said yesterday, but she had not. He still couldn’t understand why, if her claims to innocence were the truth, she had allowed him such liberties. It didn’t make sense. He wished to hell she hadn’t. He wished to hell she’d allowed him more. He wished—he didn’t know what he wished any more. The only thing of which he was certain was that he was not ready for Serena to quit his life.

As the horses slowed to turn into the yard of the posting inn for the first change, Serena was startled into wakefulness. Reaching up to straighten her bonnet, she smiled at Nicholas, an unaffected smile, forgetting for a moment all that had gone between them.

‘We should take some refreshment while they put the horses to the traces,’ he suggested.

She nodded her agreement. ‘Coffee would be most welcome.’

Nicholas helped her down the step, calling imperiously to the landlord to see to her request. It was late afternoon, the day dull and damp, not actually raining, but the smell of rain was in the air. Serena stretched her aching limbs, removing her gloves and reaching up to rub the stiff muscles on the back of her neck. She looked over to find Nicholas watching her, and smiled tentatively.

‘I must apologise for my overreaction yesterday,’ he said stiffly.

She put a hand on his arm. ‘Don’t say any more. We both spoke in haste. Let us cry friends and forget about it.’

‘Friends with a woman,’ Nicholas said with a rueful smile. ‘That will be a first, but for you, mademoiselle—Lady Serena—I’ll try.’

The ostlers made the final adjustments to the tackle holding the four new horses to the chaise, then they were back in the carriage and on their way. The atmosphere was restored—almost—to the easy camaraderie of Knightswood Hall.

Lulled by the motion of the coach, Nicholas slept fitfully. Dusk approached and darkness began to fall. Serena was cold despite the rug she had tucked round her knees and the swansdown muff enveloping her hands. Outside she could hear the pounding of horses’ hooves, the occasional snatch of conversation between the two coachmen. Once, she heard the hooting of an owl.

Opposite her, Nicholas stirred restlessly against the squabs, one leg stretched forward, resting against her knees. She longed to sit beside him, to pull his head on to her shoulder, to smooth his silky black hair away from his brow, to feel the warm, reassuring heat of his body against hers.

In an effort to distract herself, she stared out at the night sky, where a waning moon could just be seen through the scudding light cloud. Surely it could not be much longer before they stopped for the night? She was stiff and sore from the journey. Nicholas mumbled, shifted in his seat, and quieted again. The sharp crack of a shot startled her from her reverie.

The coach jolted forwards as the horses reared at the noise, throwing Serena from her seat. Strong arms clasped her, preventing her from falling. A solid wall of warm muscle supported her. A reassuring voice asked her if she was hurt.

‘No, no, I’m fine. Nicholas, I think I heard a shot.’

He pulled her up on to the seat beside him and held her close as the coach slowed to a stop, feeling in his pocket for his pistol. ‘I didn’t hear anything—are you sure?’

‘Yes, it was quite unmistakable. Nicholas, do you think…?’

The words died on her lips as the door was wrenched open. A man stood framed in the doorway, his body muffled from head to toe in a black frieze coat, a large handkerchief wound up over his face so that only his eyes showed. The muzzle of his pistol pointed directly at Serena’s head.

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