"You must tell me about that infernal box. Why does it squawk? How does it work? Blast it, Serenity, what is going on? That box, it defies explanation. Just what are you involved in?"
She felt his worry, his anxiety. It took the shape of massive black chains sinking heavily on him. She couldn't make light of his uneasiness—not when she could feel and see his concern for her. But she couldn't tell him the truth, either.
She spoke quietly, soothingly. “You shouldn't have taken my recorder, you know. Now that you've seen it, I must have it back. The squawking noise is a type of music.” She studied her hands. “I really don't know how the recorder works. It was a g-gift. I do enjoy listening to the music."
Lame. Her explanations sounded lame. But what was she supposed to say?
"A gift,” he repeated. “Another gift from India—from your aunt?" His knuckles showed white through his tanned skin, and his voice rung steely cold.
"Nick, those things aren't important—they don't matter. I wish I could say more but I can't explain them."
"Cannot, or will not?"
She shrugged. “If you want, I'll get rid of them."
He laughed harshly. “And what about Sarah Flanders? Did you get rid of her also?"
What was he talking about? Serenity stood up and straightened her gown. “You keep mentioning Sarah Flanders. I don't know her. Why would I get rid of her?"
Nick encircled Serenity's upper arm with a tight grip and pulled her forward. “Let us continue this conversation in a more secluded setting."
Not one more word was spoken until they reached a copse. He sat her down in the shade of the fir trees.
"Now, Serenity Steele, you will tell me what nefarious business you are involved in. I mention Sarah Flanders because she is the widow of Lieutenant Gerald Steele. And if she is the true Mrs. Steele, then who the hell are you?"
Good God, Nick knew she was a phony! A green, spongy feeling filled her insides. Oh geez. She hadn't expected this.
"Well?” Nick leaned over her; his muscled body blocked the sun.
"Okay, you win. Why don't you sit? You make me nervous towering over me.” Her stall for time gave her a few seconds to think. “Okay, you're right, I'm not Mrs. Gerald Steele. My last name is Steele, but I've never married. I had a yen to visit London and happened to overhear someone talk about the dead lieutenant. Then I got the idea to pose as his widow. Married women have a lot more freedom than single ladies."
She looked at him to gauge his reaction. His closed expression revealed nothing. He'd make a helluva poker player.
Might as well get on with it. “Things get awfully boring living in a small town, you know, so I decided to give myself a treat. I saved money so I could go to London for one year. When my time's up, I'll return to where I come from. That's the truth, Nick. I'll leave in February. Really, that's the only reason I chose ‘Mrs.’ over my own single state. How far would a twenty-nine-year old miss have gotten in status-conscious London?"
By sprinkling some truth in with the lies, she sounded earnest. At least she hoped so. Nick was no fool. More than anything, she didn't want to hurt him. Her charade was harmless.
He drummed his fingers against crossed arms. “You are nine and twenty?"
She nodded.
"Years of age?” The drumming quickened.
"Yes.” Twenty-nine probably seemed old to Regency folk, but her life was just beginning. Especially now, after knowing Nick.
He refused to deviate from her age. “Serenity, you are an attractive woman. Very attractive. How is it you have eluded the parson's mousetrap?"
She looked at him blankly. “Oh, marriage, you mean. Well, that's a tough one.” She stretched her gown over her bent knees. “I guess I just never met anyone I wanted to marry."
Nick's laugh sent a shiver down her back. She warily watched him.
"Forgive me, m'dear, if I speak indelicately. You say you are choosy about whom you will wed. And yet, I was not born yesterday. Serenity, when you came to me, you had all the knowledge of a fashionable impure. Obviously, you are not so choosy about lovers. Is this how you earn your livelihood—on your back?"
"A prostitute? Is that what you think I am?” Rage consumed her like kindling. She stood. “Damn you, Nicholas Wycliffe. Damn you and your ... your double standards. I don't have to listen to this."
Shaking off his restraining arm, she started running, blindly, without thought.
Of course Nick was faster—and stronger. He blocked her way and dug his fingers into her shoulders.
"What am I supposed to think, Serenity?” He rubbed away tears on her cheeks. “You cannot expect me to believe you, as a spinster, ah, retained your virginity at the advanced age of nine and twenty. Especially after your warm reception of me."
Pushing his hands away from her face, she glared at him. “Advanced age, is it? Spinster? What about you, oh most noble Brockton? You're pushing thirty-six, so Zeena tells me. You never married. I suppose you expect me to believe you've been chaste all these years?"
Nick frowned, a puzzled look on his face. “Don't be preposterous. Men are known to have needs."
"So they tell me.” A bird's cheerful song broke through her words. The sound was so out of place, but she stopped to listen. It was better than counting to ten.
"Look, Nick, women have needs too. But what's past is past.” That was a joke; her past was Nick's future. “Anyway, if you're not comfortable with me and my ... past,” she winced, using the word, “then let's just part now. No hard feelings. Just give me the recorder and I'll head back to London."
She didn't want that. More than anything, she wanted to continue to revel in his touch, share every moment with him, be his lover. But this would have to be his decision.
Nick sat on the grass, and covered his face with his hands. “Hell and damn."
She shouldn't have been so hard on him. After all, he was just a product of his environment, just as she was. How could he understand about double standards?
His voice broke the silence. “Serenity, what hold do you have over me?"
He didn't expect an answer. When she joined him on the ground, his eyes spoke volumes of pain.
"Why can't you trust me with the truth?” he asked simply.
Another tear slipped down her cheek. “God, Nick, I've said as much as I can say. You'll have to take me as I am or ... let me be. I'm sorry."
She hung her head. No one was supposed to get hurt by her research. But Nick was hurting. And she was hurting.
"Answer one question, then I will let this drop. Have you come to London for a husband?"
"That's an easy one, Nick. I told you I'm not interested in getting hitched, um, leg-shackled. No, this is a vacation, of sorts. I'll be returning home this coming February."
She should've been looking forward to February, but now, now she was confused.
"I will accept that then.” Nick pulled her close in a desperate embrace.
Serenity willingly sought his lips to banish her growing melancholy.
* * * *
As the days crept closer to Zeena's wedding, the pace at Reveley Hall grew increasingly frenetic. The only peace that Serenity could find within the mansion's walls came at night—lying in Nick's arms. Though he always returned to his own bed before daybreak, she suspected that Maggie was aware of the nocturnal visits. The maid would keep this information to herself, but how many others were privy to the affair?
No matter. Serenity was blissfully happy; Nick embodied everything she'd ever wanted in a man.
As they walked to the fir tree copse, Nick tightened his hold on her hand. She was beginning to view the secluded area as their private sanctuary.
Nick smiled at her, then nodded at the head gardener and his assistants. All the men pulled off their caps and tugged on their forelock of hair. This gesture reminded her of a military salute. The younger men didn't dare raise their gaze from the ground until she and Nick passed.
Out of respect for Nick's rank? But the head gardener,
somewhat gnarled and curved, gave them an impertinent wink.
"That is old Gibbs,” Nick explained. “Been working at the Hall since he was a young nipper. Used to drag me over the coals for climbing his favorite willow tree. You know which one."
Serenity laughed. In addition to everything else desirable about Nick, he had a sense of humor.
"I'm surprised you didn't play lord of the manor with Gibbs—threaten to dismiss him,” she teased.
Nick put his arm around her and pulled her close. “I did. But Gibbs would tan my hide just the same. His family has worked for mine for generations. The old fox knew he had nothing to fear from a snot-nosed boy—even if that boy was the heir. Smart fellow, Gibbs!"
Entering the copse, Nick suddenly stopped for a kiss. His kisses delighted her, his touch set all her senses a-quivering.
Nick's impatient fingers fumbled at the buttons fastening the bodice of her gown. As her sensitive skin became exposed to the August sunlight, Serenity stepped away from the embrace.
Rebuttoning her bodice, she scolded, “Now, now, Nicholas. You're as impetuous as a schoolboy.” Laughing, she ran farther into the copse.
Nick followed, his disappointment evident from his sigh. “And, pray tell, what is wrong with that?"
She caught a glimpse of color inappropriate for the fir tree setting. Bending her head, she spotted a maroon red cloth billowing out from under the evergreen conifers. The red cloth belonged to Georgiana's dress; she and Harrison Osborne sat, locked in each other's arms.
Serenity pointed to the couple and whispered, “That's why. We're not alone."
Nick gave a low whistle. Strange that though the two men were close, Nick never suspected Harry's feelings for Georgiana.
"Why, damme! If that don't beat the devil.” Nick placed his finger on his lips and, holding Serenity's hand, led her to the preoccupied pair.
Obviously up to more deviltry! Serenity smiled. Georgiana and Harry certainly had taken their time to come together.
Hands on his hips, Nick stood over the couple. “So this is where you have been disappearing in the afternoons. Osborne, of all the underhanded deeds. I see that I shall have to call you out."
Nick turned to his sister. “Georgiana, your wanton behavior is a disgrace to the Wycliffe name."
At Nick's voice, Georgiana and Harry separated—guiltily, but now Harry jumped up and confronted his friend. “Cut line, Brockton. Georgie is of age. We do not need your approval—"
Nick couldn't keep a straight face any longer. His laughter filled the copse. After a minute, everyone else joined him.
Serenity sat beside Georgiana. “I've been waiting for you two to discover each other. Or should I say, rediscover?"
Georgiana blushed and shyly looked at Harry. The four of them now sat comfortably in the shade of the trees.
"Harry and I, well, we have been fond of each other for years.” She slipped her hand in Harry's.
He returned her smile and tightly held her hand. “I have been a fool, you know. When Georgie first went to London, I was just a lad wet behind the ears—one and twenty. What did I know of love? Didn't realize how much I loved her—until she married Trent the following year. Been paying for my ignorance ever since."
Harry only had eyes for Georgiana. And she looked as if the sun took its direction from Harrison Osborne.
"The devil!” Nick interrupted. “All these years and you have been nursing a broken heart, Os? But, after Trent died, why didn't you approach m'sister?"
Though Nick asked the question, Harry gave his answer to Georgiana. “Didn't think you would be interested in me, Georgie. Thirteen years is a long time. Knew how happy you were with Trent."
"Gudgeon!” Georgiana leaned closer to Harry.
It didn't take brains to figure out Serenity and Nick were in the way. She gestured to him. “Well, we'll see you both back at the house."
The lovebirds were mesmerized with each other and didn't respond.
As Serenity and Nick turned to leave, Georgiana came back to earth. “Oh, before you go, my behavior is not truly improper, Serry. You see, Harry and I are engaged. We will get married after Zeena does. Wouldn't do to steal any of her sunshine."
"And not a moment longer, m'dear. I have waited long enough.” Harry pulled her over to him and satisfied his longing with a kiss.
Nick curved his arm over Serenity's shoulders and led her away. “Shockingly public display, what? I confess though, I am humbled. Os has been like a brother to me, and yet I had no idea he formed a tendre for m'sister. Explains why he has never married."
Mulling over his thoughts, he rubbed his hand up and down her arm. Delightful sensations of cedar-scented smoke swirled through her mind.
"What about you?” Serenity inquired. “Why haven't you married?"
His laugh was like a gentle breeze rustling her hair. “For a bluestocking, at times you can be incredibly obtuse. Dear Serenity, I have been waiting for you."
Before she could reply, he captured her lips with his own.
Chapter Twenty-four
Mild, sunny weather greeted the thirtieth of August—a perfect wedding present for Zeena. A small, solemn ceremony held in the chapel at Reveley Hall united the youngest Wycliffe with Sir Rodney Presson.
After the wedding vows were exchanged, an elaborate breakfast awaited the hundreds of guests invited to the affair. Serenity strolled in the shade of the multi-colored pavilions, marveling at the organization needed to successfully pull off this social event. She stopped at one of the blue, red, and white striped tents and touched the soft, undulating material. Felt like silk. Inside, identical place settings for thirty people sat waiting for the guests to begin the feast.
Sylvia Wycliffe had looked so harried these past few weeks, and this was why. Even with an army of servants, the success or failure of this great occasion hung on the shoulders of the mother of the bride.
Serenity turned the corner of the pavilion and bumped into the Marchioness of Rotterham.
"Serry, dear, I was looking for you.” Lady Rotterham straightened her slightly askew turquoise toque. Ever since the Duke of Lyndon's ball, she seemed to wear that color exclusively.
"I'm sorry, did you need my help? I've just been admiring all this.” Serenity raised her arm to include the tents camped out on Reveley Hall's spacious lawn. “The fluttering flags on top of the pavilions remind me of a country fair or an Arabian encampment. And the guests. How many are coming?” Serenity scanned the crowd. Three hundred, easily.
"Oh, about four hundred.” Lady Rotterham waved an unconcerned hand and took Serenity's arm to continue the stroll. “I have decided to take some time off from my hostessing duties, Serry. Edward has matters well in hand. Come, let us walk."
Looking over at her husband, she smiled. The Marquess wandered from guest to guest, making sure everyone held a beverage.
"It is not so difficult to put together a fête like this, Serry. I will teach you when you marr—” She cleared her throat. “Er, I mean, when you must hold an event yourself."
The Marchioness extracted a dainty handkerchief from her reticule and patted her forehead. Funny, it wasn't too hot out.
"But,” she added, “here I am, chattering like a magpie and forgetting what I wanted to tell you. Serry, we just received word—the Prince Regent has decided to attend our breakfast!"
A coup, indeed. Breakfast seemed like an inadequate word for the sumptuous feast being prepared by the Marchioness’ kitchen. And, to be precise, the hour had just passed one in the afternoon. But customs were customs. When would “breakfast” begin?
"I'm glad the Regent is coming,” Serenity said sincerely. “At last I'll be able to meet him.” She'd find out whether the Regent was as charming and as foolish as history books painted him.
"Yes, Nicholas mentioned you had a desire to face the Regent face to face. And he stressed ‘face to face.’ Odd way of phrasing an introduction, don't you think?” The Marchioness’ drawn brows showed her puzzlement
.
Serenity grinned. “Nick can be a devil at times."
Before her hostess could speak, a group of well-wishers descended on Lady Rotterham to congratulate her, then like a swarm of bees, they moved on.
The Marchioness collected her breath with a sigh, “Yes, Nicholas can be full of the devil. And, speaking of him, have you seen that rapscallion son of mine?"
They both searched for Nick's dark head in the crowd but came up empty.
"Not in sight,” Lady Rotterham confirmed. “But, I do see some refreshments.” She led Serenity over to a servant carrying a tray.
The Marchioness took two glasses filled with a light gold, bubbling liquid and handed one to Serenity. “Let us drink to my daughter and Rodney's happiness."
Serenity complied and savored the taste of sparkling champagne. But someone jostled her elbow, and the drink spilled down her pearl-grey gown.
"Egad! I must apologize. Yes, I do apologize profusely!” a familiar voice exclaimed.
Serenity looked down at her wet dress and then up at the brightly dressed man beside her. Not Lord Uffing? She sniffed the air. A strong gardenia smell invaded her nostrils. Yes, it was him.
"I humbly beg your pardon, Mrs. Steele.” He offered her his fragrant handkerchief.
Serenity took it and dabbed at her gown. “It's of no importance, my lord. The champagne will dry clear. Won't leave a stain."
"You are a generous and forgiving woman, my dear. It is a pleasure to encounter you at this glorious celebration. Lady Rotterham, my congratulations on this delightful affair."
Lord Uffing's flowery words matched his flowery fragrance. He certainly was a puffed up pigeon. His term of endearment set her on edge, too. Surely he wasn't going to repeat his offer of marriage?
The Marchioness flashed her fan, coyly. “Lord Uffing, I hear congratulations are in order for you as well."
The man's face reddened to the top of his carrot colored hair. “I am a fortunate fellow, ladies. Miss Piedmont has agreed to become my wife."
Serenity coughed. Patricia? Patricia Piedmont to marry Wilfred Uffing?
"Come, my little dove.” Lord Uffing gently led the sturdy Patricia next to Serenity. “Come and greet our hostess."
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