Marguerite Kaye - The Rake and the Heiress

She opened her mouth to say no, but somehow the words did not come and he took it for an invitation. His lips were cool, exploring, gentle. Questioning. For a breathless moment she hesitated. His mouth stilled. Then she felt her free hand reach up of its own accord to stroke the silken hair at the back of his head. She opened her mouth like a flower to the sun. Softening her lips against his, she melted into his embrace, savouring the taste, the smell, the power. Lost in the newness, the strangeness of it all.

And then it was over. Nicholas took a step back. ‘Enough for now, I think; any more would be a liberty. I am a gentleman, despite my earlier appearance, and I meant what I said, I will never take anything you do not want to give.’

Serena shook her head, resisting with difficulty the urge to touch her hand to her lips, for they were tingling. ‘I have agreed to nothing.’

‘Come, come, mademoiselle , you cannot possibly be thinking of leaving without these precious papers of yours. What are you afraid of?’ Nicholas asked in a perturbingly confident voice. ‘Is it perhaps yourself you don’t trust?’

No, frankly, she didn’t! He was a wolf in wolf’s clothing from whom she should run as fast as she could. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Serena replied tartly, ‘I have every confidence in my ability to resist your charms.’

‘Then you’ll allow me to help you?’

It was simple really. Without his help she could not claim her inheritance. She could seek out her father’s lawyer, but unless she had the papers—it would be useless. She searched his face for reassurance. ‘I have your promise that you will behave properly?’

‘I have already given you one promise, mademoiselle. I see no need for another.’

They had reached an impasse, and he knew it! Serena fumed inwardly. ‘Oh, very well,’ she finally conceded rather ungraciously. ‘With such a knowledgeable guide as yourself, it can’t possibly take too long, after all.’

‘Very sensible. Do you wish to start immediately?’

She tried to collect her senses, which by now were utterly scrambled, not least by her own shocking responses to being kissed. And not once but twice! ‘Thank you, Mr Lytton, but, no, I have had quite enough excitement for one day,’ Serena responded drily. ‘I think it best that I return to my lodgings in the village for now. I’ll come back in the morning, if that is acceptable to you?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘My dear mademoiselle , I can think of little regarding you that wouldn’t be most acceptable to me. Until morning, then.’

‘Until morning, Mr Lytton.’

Serena arrived at her rooms in the small village of High Knightswood, just over a mile’s distance from the Hall, to find Madame LeClerc awaiting her. Madame was a Parisian modiste anxious to make her fortune in London. On hearing that Serena was leaving for England, she had offered to accompany her. ‘To lend you countenance, chérie , as the bon papa would have wished. I want to set up my own establishment,’ Madame LeClerc had gone on to explain. ‘These wars have prevented the English ladies from enjoying the benefits of our French couture. Now that we are friends again, it is time for the rich mesdames to learn how to dress properly. Like yourself, mademoiselle ,’ she added obsequiously.

Serena had accepted Madame’s offer gratefully, being well aware that Papa would not have expected her to travel unaccompanied. Sadly, she soon discovered that the price for Madame’s companionship was significantly higher than the generous salary and lodgings the modiste had demanded. Madame lent her countenance, but her company was tedious in the extreme.

The journey on the packet steamer made Madame heartily sick. She continued to be sick the entire road to High Knightswood, punctuating bouts of nausea with trembling complaints of everything from the carriage springs to the state of the post roads and the dampness of the sheets at the post houses. She spoke very little English, obliging her employer to intervene when things became difficult. With a shudder, Serena recalled a particular episode involving Madame, the land lady of the Red Lion, and an unemptied chamber pot. Nor could Madame come to terms with the English climate. ‘ Il pleut à verse. Rain, rain, rain,’ she exclaimed every day, regardless of whether the weather was inclement or not.

As Serena divested herself of her bonnet and pelisse, Madame LeClerc subjected her to a lengthy diatribe on the subject of English food. ‘I am sick to my stomach with the rosbif. All this meat and no sauces, I am starving.’

Eyeing Madame LeClerc’s ample figure, hovering over her like a plump vulture, Serena found this last claim difficult to believe.

‘ Look at this! Just look, Mademoiselle Serena! This débâcle is intended to be our dinner. Please to tell me how I, a good Frenchwoman, am meant to eat this?’ With a dramatic gesture, Madame indicated the serving dishes, which were set on the table.

Reluctantly, Serena lifted the covers. She had to acknowledge that their landlady’s cooking was somewhat basic, but after the day she’d had, she was in no mood to sympathise. ‘It’s pigeon, madame , with peas, and perfectly edible. Eat it or not, I don’t care, but please sit down, I have something to tell you.’

Serena served them both before embarking upon the tricky matter of informing Madame that they would of necessity be delayed in High Knightswood while she resolved a ‘personal matter’. Madame, chomping her way steadily through two whole pigeons, distaste writ large on her face, listened in sullen silence. As soon as her plate was cleared, however, she launched into a bitter tirade.

‘You promised me we would be headed straight for London. The Season has already started, I need to find my clientele now, before they have all their gowns. This delay will ruin me!’ A plump white hand fluttered against her impressive bosom. Serena’s companion was for some time loudly inconsolable.

The vague notion she had entertained, of asking Madame to accompany her on her visits to Knightswood Hall, faded from Serena’s mind as the modiste ’s anguish grew. She tried to imagine what Nicholas Lytton would make of her companion. Like as not he would send Madame below stairs if he did not send her packing. Serena would then be responsible for the inevitable fracas between Madame and Nicholas’s chef, and no further forward in observing any of the proprieties.

She retired early to bed, but sleep eluded her. In the next chamber she could hear Madame LeClerc’s rhythmic snoring all too clearly through the thin walls. Loud enough to rattle the windowpanes, Serena thought grumpily, plumping the bolster in a vain effort to get comfortable. It had been a trying day. The news of Nick Lytton’s demise had been a shock, though she supposed it should not have been. She was annoyed at herself for having been so unprepared. His son’s promise to help was a mixed blessing. Nicholas Lytton had made it quite clear he did not think her at all respectable.

Nicholas Lytton was a man who gave off danger signals as he entered a room. It would be foolish indeed to ignore them. He carried about him an edge of excitement, as if always on the verge of committing some wild act, about to trespass the safe confines of conduct just for the sport of it. It was this, Serena realised with a start, that drew her too him, rather than the more basic tug of physical attraction. She must be on her guard with him at all times. Despite her unorthodox life, her reputation was spotless. She could not afford to tarnish it now, though it would be a lie to say she was not tempted. A fact of which, unfortunately, Nicholas Lytton was all too well aware.