The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  All that filled her head was the constant speculation in the air.

  “The Marquis and Lady Serena—together, again! How astounding, when we thought they were sworn enemies.”

  And Serena recalled the Marquis’s cool comment: Lady Serena has announced her intention to reform me. In her own, very special way.

  Oh, that silky voice of his. It was devilish. It was totally dangerous in the way it slid like purest silk over her skin. His words made her shiver, because they hinted that he was wicked. Unredeemed. Experienced in all kinds of pleasures... Serena had to face up to facts. There was no way for now that she could escape her situation and, until she could think of something, she had to play her part. It must look to the outside world as if they were completely at ease in one another’s company.

  Author Note

  As ever with my writing, I’ve enjoyed exploring different facets of history. A while ago I was pondering the plight of the many French exiles fleeing to England after the revolution of 1789. Were they welcomed warmly? The answer was often “no,” because whether the refugees were rich or poor, the centuries-old suspicion with which the English viewed their continental neighbours lingered on.

  In London my heroine, Lady Serena, is definitely unimpressed by the extravagant lifestyle of the dashing Marquis of Montpellier, and the sparks fly. But might an entente très cordiale be about to develop? Here is their story.

  LUCY ASHFORD

  The Widow’s Scandalous Affair

  Lucy Ashford studied English and History at Nottingham University, and the Regency era is her favorite period. She lives with her husband in an old stone cottage in the Derbyshire Peak District, England, close to beautiful Chatsworth House, and she loves to walk in the surrounding hills while letting her imagination go to work on her latest story. You can contact Lucy via her website, lucyashford.com.

  Books by Lucy Ashford

  Harlequin Historical

  The Major and the Pickpocket

  The Return of Lord Conistone

  The Captain’s Courtesan

  Snowbound Wedding Wishes

  “Twelfth Night Proposal”

  The Outrageous Belle Marchmain

  The Rake’s Bargain

  The Captain and His Innocent

  The Master of Calverley Hall

  Unbuttoning Miss Matilda

  The Widow’s Scandalous Affair

  Visit the Author Profile page

  at Harlequin.com.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Maiden and the Mercenary by Nicole Locke

  Chapter One

  May 1794—London

  It was past nine o’clock by the time Serena, swathed in a dark hooded cloak, paid off the hackney cab driver at the corner of Henrietta Street and headed towards Covent Garden. The crowds that gathered nightly here were in search of pleasure, but she felt as if she was heading straight into her worst nightmare.

  Overhead a full moon rode high in a pitch-black sky, but its silvery glow was nothing compared to the bright lamps that beckoned from the many taverns and gaming houses. The May night was warm and women in scanty attire paraded themselves brazenly in front of the piazza, exchanging banter with the young bucks who’d stopped to ogle them. Hucksters roamed the streets, selling food, flowers and fruit they’d scavenged from the day’s market, while by the church a fiddler played lively tunes and some men—clearly inebriated—attempted a clumsy jig. Serena had to jump aside as the dancers flung themselves about.

  I am late, she chided herself desperately. The meeting was supposed to take place here, at the corner of King Street, but so far there was no sign of the man she expected to see. She tried to fight down her rising panic. Whatever next? Perhaps he’d changed his mind...

  Hope rose and was dashed. If he didn’t turn up she would face shame. Dishonour.

  She let out a low cry as a rough hand tugged at her shoulder and a man pulled her round to face him growling out, ‘You the lady who’s come to meet Mr Silas Mort?’

  ‘I am.’ Serena pulled out of his grasp, her heart hammering painfully. ‘And please don’t touch me again. Do you understand?’

  He laughed. He did more than that—he sneered. ‘Strayed a bit far from your fancy home, haven’t you, my lady? This is a different world to what you’re used to, eh?’ He jerked his thumb in the direction of a narrow passageway. ‘Mr Mort’s down there. And he don’t like to be kept waiting.’

  He set off along the alley, not even bothering to check if Serena followed. And of course she did. But she held her head high, because even though she was terrified, she knew she must not let the man know it. She’d learned that, if nothing else. Fear made you weak. Fear made you a victim.

  She realised she was being led towards three men lurking in the shadows of a tavern and found herself wrapping the cloak she’d borrowed from her maid even more tightly around her shoulders, trying to ensure its hood covered her striking blonde hair. Though what was the use of attempting to disguise herself? They knew exactly who she was—and anyway, the minute she opened her mouth to speak she would give herself away as someone who just didn’t belong here. You might as well have worn your best satin cloak and silk bonnet, Serena, you fool.

  ‘I have an appointment with a man called Silas Mort.’ She was amazed that her voice sounded so calm. ‘Which of you is he?’

  ‘Which of you is he?’ one of the men jeered, mimicking her educated tones. ‘Well, our Silas has picked himself a fancy piece to keep himself warm this time, hasn’t he, lads?’

  Her heart lurched as his meaning struck home. ‘No,’ she began, ‘you don’t understand—’

  Then she broke off, because she recognised the black-clad man with the scarred face who was limping towards her.

  ‘So you’re here, then?’ He nodded in approval. ‘As well for you, my fine lady, that you decided to keep our appointment.’

  With a flick of his hand, he beckoned to his three comrades to stand back, giving Serena time to reassess the grim welt of the scar that ran from his forehead down across one eye to his cheekbone. Her pulse was pounding dizzily. ‘Mr Mort,’ she began, ‘I have come to pay you the money you demanded. I must also inform you that if I hear any more from you after tonight, I shall most definitely set the law on you. Do you understand?’

  She hoped she’d sounded confident, but all Silas Mort did was burst out laughing. ‘You’ll set the law on me, will you, Your Ladyship? That’s a likely tale. So you’re saying, are you, that you’re ready to squeal to the magistrates about this meeting of ours tonight? Oh, I think not. Because if you do, the whole world will know about the rather juicy piece of scandal you’re so eager to hide.’ He jabbed a finger at her, not laughing now, but snarling. ‘So let’s have no more of your threats.’

  He turned to his comrades. ‘Such a sad picture, eh, lads? A pretty little widow, still grieving the loss of
her hero of a husband over two years ago...’ His gaze swung back to Serena. ‘You’d better pay up, my lady. And fast.’

  Serena already had her purse in her hand. ‘Here are twenty guineas,’ she declared. ‘And in return, Mr Mort, I expect a complete end to your greed.’

  He snatched the purse and examined the coins inside. ‘Looks like it’s all here. But are you accusing me of greed, milady? You, with your fine house and carriage and jewels?’ He thrust his face close to hers. ‘Just for that, I think you owe me rather more, don’t you? Another twenty guineas at least.’

  Serena closed her eyes for a moment. Taking a deep breath, she said, ‘Oh, no. I absolutely refuse to pay any more. You are a crook and a scoundrel—’

  Silas Mort lifted his hand and his three companions surged forward to surround her. One tugged her hood away and she felt her pinned-up blonde curls falling loose. ‘Pretty,’ the man murmured lecherously. ‘So pretty...’

  Desperately she tried to push him away. She thought she’d learned some sense in the past few years, but surely she’d been the stupidest person on earth to fall headlong into such a nightmare. She struggled to break free, but her enemies were too many and too strong.

  Only then, from behind her, came another voice. An upper-class male voice with just a trace of a foreign accent saying calmly, ‘Gentlemen, pray pardon my intrusion. But do you know, I rather think you’ve made a mistake here.’

  The next minute a tall man wearing a plain, dark coat and a hat that shadowed his face was ambling towards the ring of men. Putting one hand possessively on Serena’s arm, he looked round at her startled enemies. ‘Perhaps I should explain,’ he went on, ‘that this particular lady happens to be under my protection. So I’d be mightily obliged if you’d leave us to enjoy our rendezvous. I’m sure you understand.’

  There was something lurking in his polite declaration—a hint of steel, Serena felt—that made Mort’s men hesitate. But even so, he was one against four. They’ll kill him, was her first thought. Dear God, they’ll surely kill him.

  They didn’t. But neither did they retreat. The newcomer tugged Serena closer, his hand firmly round her waist. ‘Say nothing,’ he ordered in a low voice. Again, the hint of steel. ‘Leave this to me.’

  She couldn’t have spoken if she’d wanted to. In fact, shock had robbed her of her voice. Because now—now that she dared to look up at him properly—she realised who he was.

  His name was Raphael Lefevre. He was a French nobleman who’d come to England last year to escape the aftermath of the Revolution that had engulfed his homeland. As had many of his countrymen; but Lefevre was different, because instead of declaring his horror at what was happening in France, instead of giving aid to the victims and doing anything he could to stir up public awareness of his countrymen’s plight, he cheerfully announced that he would be pleased if he never returned to his native land.

  ‘In heaven’s name, why should I?’ he’d drawled. ‘London suits me perfectly.’

  Which he made all too apparent.

  Thanks to an English education—for his father, the Marquis of Montpellier, had sent him first to Eton, then to Oxford—his command of the language was almost perfect. On returning to England a year ago at the age of twenty-eight, he’d met up with former friends and made many more, not least because of his wealth. He’d stirred up plenty of criticism also, especially since he was often seen in the company of London’s most notorious pleasure-seekers, but he could be utterly charming when he chose and by many he was described as handsome, with his thick dark hair and strange, silvery-grey eyes.

  Indeed, Serena herself had once almost fallen for his honeyed words and devastating smile. Never again, she’d vowed; but unfortunately they were too often forced into one another’s company at society’s most exclusive events. And those eyes of his—mocking, laughing—seemed to follow her everywhere.

  Only a few days ago at Lady Sunderland’s ball, she’d had the misfortune to be standing near to him when the subject of loyalty to one’s country came up. He’d made some cynical dismissal of the subject and she couldn’t help but retaliate. ‘Of course, we all know where your duty lies, Monsieur le Marquis! Many of your fellow countrymen stayed behind in an attempt to restore order to your sad homeland. But you have made pleasure-seeking in London your chief priority!’

  There had been some murmurs of agreement, but Raphael Lefevre’s usually languid voice had hit back at her with blistering speed. ‘Ah, madame. Such a fiery temper! Long may you remain content to be a widow. You see, I might lack sympathy for my homeland, but not for my fellow men.’ He’d gazed at her assessingly. ‘It would be a brave suitor indeed who took you as his wife.’

  The barely stifled laughter from his companions had been burning in her ears ever since. And now he was here, the detestable Marquis who took nothing seriously, holding her close to his side. Was this another game of his?

  ‘The lady and I,’ he said calmly to Silas Mort and his crew, ‘have an appointment to meet here because she expressed a wish to explore somewhere a little livelier than her usual haunts. Ours is a rather private affair, you understand? Though I’m afraid I was late in arriving—and for that I must beg Her Ladyship’s forgiveness.’

  ‘No,’ Mort began, ‘look here, she came to meet me!’

  ‘Really?’ Lefevre raised his eyebrows in disbelief. ‘My good man, you’ll forgive me if I find your claim rather bizarre. Wouldn’t you say so, Serena?’

  He looked down at her then, his voice mild, but his hard-angled jaw somehow dauntingly uncompromising. Giving silent orders to her. Ours is a rather private affair, he’d claimed—yes, he’d actually said it aloud. Was he crazy?

  He was mocking her, of course. Getting his revenge for her past taunts. But she was aware that by now a small crowd of passers-by were gathering, eager for fresh entertainment. Gambling dens and cock-fighting pits were common fare round here, whereas the humiliation of a fine lady was rare indeed. Serena guessed that if the hateful Raphael Lefevre sauntered off as casually as he’d arrived, then absolutely no one else would lift a finger to help her, and Silas Mort’s crew would have her at their mercy again.

  Could there be a more unlikely knight in shining armour than the vain and idle Marquis? He gambled, he took part in all the wilder sports going and he lavished his wealth on fripperies. The younger men of the ton foolishly aped the careless way he wore his expensive clothes and they copied his every mannerism, even his faint French drawl. At this precise moment, though, he was her only hope of protection. And Serena was aware of a most peculiar sensation. As if it would only be natural for her to surrender to his tempting embrace...

  You let this man make you a public laughing stock once before—surely that was enough?

  Tonight his clothing was surprisingly sober, but those silver-grey eyes that glittered above his razor-sharp cheekbones were as sinful as ever. And at this very moment Silas Mort was limping forward, puffing out his chest. Talk about being caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

  ‘Now see here.’ Mort was wagging a gnarled finger at Lefevre. ‘It ain’t wise to go interfering in what’s none of your business.’

  Lefevre’s grip on her never wavered. ‘But it is my business. I told you.’ His words were precise. Steel-edged. ‘Anyone who insults this lady insults me. And that most certainly would not be wise.’

  Her senses tingled, this time not from fear of Silas Mort and his crew, but from something entirely different and far more shocking. Anyone who insults this lady insults me?

  Lies, of course. He was lying—again. She shivered.

  At least his words made Mort hesitate. But then, in a sudden wave of rebellion, Mort’s men were urging their leader forward. ‘Take him on, Silas!’ called one. ‘He’s all fancy talk, the gent. Our money’s on you!’

  ‘Tell him to leave the pretty widow to us,’ jeered another. ‘Tell him we have first claim
on her, right?’

  As Serena felt Lefevre’s strong arm tighten around her she tried to push him away, but then she heard his voice in her ear and the rich, husky depths of it smouldered through her veins. ‘Stop fighting me, Lady Serena,’ he murmured. ‘If I leave you with them, don’t you realise what they’ll do to you?’

  The blood was rushing to her face now and her mouth was dry. They’d clashed often in London’s richest drawing rooms, but she’d never before realised how powerful a parcel of sheer, outrageous masculinity he was. And as she lifted her head she found herself fascinated by his firm yet sensual mouth...

  Do something, Serena. You cannot let yourself be indebted to Raphael Lefevre!

  But Mort and his crew still surrounded them. What could she do except hiss out, so only Lefevre could hear, ‘I do not belong to you. I don’t know why you think you have the right to interfere in my life, and—’

  She broke off because Lefevre was cupping her face almost tenderly with those strong hands of his and murmuring, ‘Stay close, ma chère, and I’ll take care of you.’

  Ma chère? I’ll take care of you? No. No! What was he saying? What was he doing? He must be mocking her, as he’d done so often before! Yet suddenly his thumbs were softly caressing the sensitive hollow below her earlobe, sending some dark and dangerous message to the very heart of her. And then—unbelievably—he was lowering his mouth to hers and the fiery impact of their mouths coming together caused heat to surge like a furnace inside her. She wasn’t pushing him away now. She was melting into him, becoming one with him. For those few moments, there was only the shocking intimacy of his lips branding hers in a firm declaration of ownership. Dear God. No one else existed...

  Until she realised more men had drawn near. The kind of rich wastrels who—like Lefevre himself—amused themselves by visiting the night-time dens of Covent Garden—dipping low, it was called. She knew the names of them all. Lord Giles Beaumaris, the son of a duke. Callum Finlay, who owned vast swathes of land in Scotland. And Sir Simon Hawkesworth, who bred racehorses at his country estate in Berkshire.