The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes, their parents are exiles from your homeland and they’re penniless. Fortunately there’s a nearby lodging house that provides free board for such people, paid for by a generous but unknown benefactor. And we’ve found a teacher, Miss Murphy, who knows some French, though since you’re here, maybe you’d speak with them? Let me introduce you—’

  But she stopped, because as they approached the children one little boy was already grabbing his friend and calling out in French, ‘Look who it is! It’s the rich monsieur. We know him! We know him!’

  Silence fell as, one by one, every person in the room turned to look at him—the children, Serena, her friends. As well as—what was her name?—Miss Murphy, who’d hardly taken her eyes off him anyway.

  There was no help for it. He would have to tell them the truth. He said, ‘On my arrival in London last year, I heard about the lodging house you mention. It was a new venture and was struggling, so I felt obliged to offer some financial help.’

  ‘Some?’ said Mary a little faintly. ‘Or all of it, Monsieur Lefevre? As I mentioned, I have been told of a very generous benefactor.’

  He bowed his head. ‘All of it. You see, I know what it’s like to be a stranger in a foreign land. But I must make it plain that I would prefer my connection with the place to be kept a secret.’

  ‘So you are their saviour!’ said Beth a little breathlessly. Serena looked stunned and he noticed how her friend Joanna had moved close to her.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I’m very far from being a saint,’ he said quietly. I am not what you want me to be, he was saying silently to Serena. And I never can be.

  * * *

  And so, yet again, Serena found herself badly shaken. Lefevre was a benefactor, but wasn’t happy with it being revealed. Why not? Who was this enigma of a man who presented himself as an idle pleasure-seeker, but was hiding so much else? Of course her three friends were clearly seeing Raphael Lefevre in a new light. Even Mary had completely melted. But Serena wasn’t sure of anything now. Of her own tumultuous feelings least of all.

  Her friends expressed their eagerness to show him round the entire school and did so, describing the lessons and their plans for the future; but she could see he looked rather distracted and after a while she intervened. ‘Monsieur Lefevre,’ she said, touching his arm. ‘I wonder, would you kindly take me home now? I have other commitments and I’m sure you must have too.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said.

  She believed he was just as relieved as she to escape from her friends’ avid interest. As the two of them climbed into the waiting cab he was silent, which confirmed anew to her that he had never wanted his benevolent actions to be exposed. She shook her head. He was a rakehell. A pleasure-seeker. Some would claim that even his support of the refuge for French exiles was just another boastful gesture—yet he’d wanted it kept quiet! There was so much about him she didn’t understand. The Marquis of mystery, she whispered to herself. And his unexpected tenderness towards those children had caught at her heartstrings.

  The space inside this cab was confined, making her far too aware of his physical power. She was too conscious also of the subtle scent of his fresh-starched linen and his spicy cologne; even worse, she was conscious of that utterly frightening sense of vulnerability, together with a yearning to be closer to him.

  How close? Just how close, you fool?

  No doubt about it: her world was being turned upside down. All she’d wanted after Lionel’s death was to be independent, with no need of any man to prop up her life, let alone a notorious rogue who’d manipulated her into a disastrous agreement in order to bolster his own pride and to crush hers. She gazed out of the cab’s grimy window, seeing little. But then—quite unexpectedly—he spoke again.

  ‘I’m sure you’d rather I was an outright villain. It would be easier for you, I imagine. Perhaps it might help if you remind yourself you have only a limited number of days to endure my company, Lady Serena.’

  She’d stopped breathing at his words. And he was watching her, as if he knew how her heart pounded.

  ‘Are you crying?’ he asked suddenly.

  She dabbed furiously at her eyes. Stupid. So stupid of me. Trying to collect her scattered senses she replied, ‘No. No, of course I’m not. You make our four weeks sound like a prison sentence, monsieur.’

  He gave an apologetic smile. ‘That bad?’

  ‘Maybe. But we made our bargain, so I must keep my side of it.’

  His eyes went darker. ‘I’ll just say this,’ he replied. ‘Keep up your scorn for me by all means, if it makes this easier for you. As I’ve said, you don’t have to endure our liaison for much longer. So—no more tears, I hope?’

  She struggled a moment, then she looked straight at him. ‘It was the children,’ she whispered. ‘Those poor children. Their plight. Their courage. They always make me cry a little.’

  ‘You have a tender heart. It must have been a personal tragedy that you never had a child to remember your husband by.’

  ‘What? What are you saying?’ Each word was choked with emotion. Raphael looked bewildered.

  ‘I said,’ he repeated, ‘that you must have been sorry not to have children. Yours was a very happy marriage, wasn’t it? Which is why you are so desperate to protect your husband’s name.’

  Enough of pride. Enough of pretence. The unhappiness of the past rose up from her soul and could not be stopped. ‘Monsieur Lefevre,’ she said, ‘my marriage was never a happy one. And when Silas Mort told me my husband was running like a coward when he was shot, I didn’t even think to doubt him. Do you know why? Because that was exactly what Lionel was like. In fact, he’d done all he could to avoid active service.’ She lifted her eyes to his and now they were quite clear of tears. ‘I felt no grief whatsoever at his death, but as you’ve told me before, I’m too proud—and it was my pride that forced me to keep up my pretence of devotion. For Lionel to be revealed publicly as a coward was something I could not endure. So you see, I’m a coward, too. And now you can feel free to despise me just as much as you like.’

  * * *

  Raphael had always thought his understanding of the English language to be good, but now surely he had misunderstood. Of course, there were tales that Lionel Willoughby had enjoyed all the usual male frivolities. But Raphael had assumed that Lady Serena, like many aristocratic wives, forgave her husband his foibles because she loved him—and her often-repeated declaration that she would never marry again was seen as proof of her devotion.

  ‘You said just now that your marriage was never a happy one,’ he said carefully. ‘May I ask why?’ He saw her emotion betray itself in the way she twisted her delicately gloved hands together.

  Then she said with what was clearly an effort, ‘There were the usual reasons. He had affairs. He preferred his friends’ company to mine.’ She shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I’d built up this foolish image of married life and, in doing so, I’d deceived both myself and him.’

  ‘So you thought the failure of your marriage was all your fault?’

  She nodded. Once more he remembered the way she’d spoken to those urchins at the school: drawing them close, touching their grubby hands, consoling them. She’d been tender. Caring.

  She surely had a heart full of love, with nowhere to bestow it.

  Just at that moment a ray of sunlight arrowed through the cab’s window and he saw how several silky strands of her hair had tumbled from beneath her plain bonnet to be transformed into spun gold. He also saw how her skin was like cream, her lips as pink and lush as crushed berries.

  And suddenly Raphael wanted to make her believe in love again.

  A crazy idea; because he had no right to. But how he longed to banish that sadness from her eyes, if only for a while.

  And destroy her trust in men for ever? There was no future for him here. Mentally cursi
ng his stupidity, he said, ‘I don’t think you’re a coward. I do not despise you and I don’t see how anyone who truly knows you could do anything but admire you. At the risk of repeating myself, let me tell you that I think your charity school is actually rather wonderful.’

  She appeared to have regained her calm. ‘I’m glad you agree that the education of the poorer classes is vitally important. But I still feel that I’m doing far too little.’

  ‘Lady Serena, most women of quality don’t even notice the existence of anyone below their own rank unless they happen to be servants or dressmakers! You and your friends are different—you actually feel for the poor and you’re helping them in the most practical way possible—’ He broke off and grinned. ‘Mon Dieu. You must remind me that if I continue with this worthy talk, I’ll be in danger of losing my devilish reputation.’

  She smiled back and he was glad. She said impishly, ‘So you’re not going to declare that you’re a reformed character from now on?’

  He laughed. ‘No. Oh, no.’

  ‘Then I can’t raise my hopes that you might decide to cancel the remaining days of our agreement?’

  ‘Now, that,’ he replied, ‘is equally impossible. Though rest assured that I’ll say nothing of what you’ve just told me about your marriage. It helps me understand why you’ve never encouraged any admirers.’ His voice hardened a little. ‘But there’s a certain gentleman—a Mr Wolverton—who appears to entertain hopes in your direction. Tell me, do you offer him any encouragement?’

  She looked surprised and a little annoyed. ‘Jeremy Wolverton? Goodness, most certainly not. And even if I did, it’s none of your business!’

  ‘I’m rather afraid it is,’ he said softly. ‘For the duration of our agreement, I’d prefer you to keep your contact with Wolverton to the minimum.’

  She stiffened. ‘Do you know, you’ve made me feel like embarking on a mild flirtation with Mr Wolverton the very minute I see him again.’

  ‘He’s an extremely earnest man, though, isn’t he? I can’t imagine him indulging in anything as light as flirtation. His intentions would be far more serious.’

  She still looked rather heated. ‘Are you jealous of him?’

  ‘No, but I’d prefer you to keep away from him. Is that understood?’

  Her eyes flashed defiance. ‘I calculate there are around two and a half weeks left of our agreement,’ she said softly. ‘I shall draw up a calendar and mark off the dates, Monsieur Lefevre.’

  He was still thinking up a reply when he realised the cab was slowing down. ‘I do believe we’ve reached Curzon Street,’ he pronounced. And moments later he was climbing out to help her on to the pavement outside her house.

  He led her to her front door, where she smiled brightly up at him. ‘Well, Monsieur le Marquis. I declare, I have had such a delightful time! Indeed, I cannot wait for our next outing together!’

  She was turning to go, but he kept hold of her hand. ‘Let me ask you. What would you really, truly like to do, Lady Serena?’

  She looked surprised. ‘Why, whatever you suggest, of course.’

  ‘No. What would you enjoy?’

  She said, rather hesitantly, ‘My brother once took me to Richmond Park in his carriage. And I loved it.’ She looked up at him as if she was embarrassed by her choice. ‘I felt as if I was truly in the countryside. It was like...’

  ‘Like Yorkshire?’ He smiled a little. ‘Well, we shall have to see what we can do about that.’ He bent his head to touch his lips lightly to the back of her hand. And with a bow he left her, thinking of her smile. Remembering the softness of her lips when he’d kissed her that night in Covent Garden.

  He set off on foot to Grosvenor Square, thinking, Damn it. Once this is over, I am going miss her.

  He reminded himself that his plan was going well. Every time Serena appeared at his side in public, she made it look as if the sun shone out of his eyes, just as he’d hoped. Better than he’d hoped. No danger now of her pressing on with her meddlesome enquiries about his past or his present. The trouble was, he did not feel pleased in the slightest.

  As he walked he found himself recalling details of the hours they’d so far spent together. He remembered the way her eyes darkened with trepidation if he tried to tease her and the way she sometimes trembled a little when he touched her. He thought he understood now. It must have been her husband’s callous treatment that had led to those moments of vulnerability, which he noticed but no one else had ever seen.

  He’d always thought she was sophisticated, worldly wise; but it turned out that despite her privileged background she’d been unlucky indeed. Now her ill luck continued, because she had him to contend with. As he approached Grosvenor Square, he felt a shaft of self-contempt so powerful that he almost groaned aloud.

  All of society knew by now that he’d made a conquest of her. It was yet another feather in the cap of Raphael Lefevre—after all, there’d been whispers in plenty about his amours since his arrival in London and he didn’t trouble to deny them, since they served to disguise the fact that Raphael had other, far weightier matters on his mind.

  Was he proud of himself, for using Lady Serena in such a manner? Was he proud of himself when he observed how her trust in him seemed to be growing day by day? Of course he wasn’t. From the first moment he’d seen her he’d thought, This woman is different. Different and overwhelmingly desirable. That memorable night when he’d danced with her, he’d felt the silken fragility of her body and inhaled the delicate scent of her skin. He’d noted the fascinating colour of her eyes and the involuntary fluttering of her thick lashes as she defiantly held his gaze.

  And today, he remembered how she’d flinched as he’d said, ‘Like it or not, my lady, we look perfect together.’

  She’d reacted with horror. Yet there was something between them. She couldn’t deny it. If only...

  If only things were different. Dear God, he could all too easily imagine her resistance melting as he softly caressed her—and that hard punch of desire in his gut clamped even tighter. But then he remembered how today he’d briefly seen a look that was almost despair in her eyes and it had touched a raw nerve deep inside him. Don’t, he reminded himself. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t let her ruin all you’ve worked for. Not even if she is the first woman to make you feel not only physical need, but the desire to protect and to comfort her.

  He reminded himself that she despised him, so the words need and desire had to be eliminated from his vocabulary as far as Lady Serena was concerned. Yes, he wished things were different, but they weren’t. And the action he was taking to keep her under control was all too necessary.

  * * *

  Once he was home, he was told straight away by his butler that Sir Dominic Southern had arrived a good half-hour since. ‘I’ve shown him into your library, my lord,’ Surtees told him and, indeed, Raphael found him there pacing the floor—good, loyal Dominic, who looked at him anxiously as Raphael closed the door.

  ‘I thought you’d be back long ago.’ Dominic gripped his hand. ‘Jacques said you’d set off to visit somewhere in the East End with Lady Serena. You surely didn’t go to that school she and her friends set up in Spitalfields?’

  ‘I did.’ Raphael pulled off his hat and coat and slung them across his desk.

  ‘Was that wise?’

  ‘No, because unfortunately I was recognised. There were several French children there from the refuge in Spitalfields.’

  Dominic gave a low whistle. ‘Well. That’s your reputation as a careless wastrel somewhat tarnished. Isn’t it? What did the Wicked Widows say?’

  Raphael pointed to a chair and took one himself. ‘As you can imagine, Lady Serena and her friends are now in a state of some confusion about the rakehell Marquis.’

  Dominic creased his brow in thought. Then he said, ‘You know I’m on your side in all this, Raphael. But I’ve always
rather liked Lady Serena. Tell me, just to reassure me—she’ll be glad when all this business between the two of you is over, won’t she? She’s not going to be—you know—hurt in any way?’

  ‘She’s counting the days till she’s rid of me,’ answered Raphael as he rose to pour them both brandy from a decanter. ‘She’ll be heartily glad when it’s over.’

  Dominic took his drink. ‘Regrets, Raphael? About forcing her into this?’

  Raphael, seated again, turned his own glass so it caught the light. ‘I can’t afford regrets. You know better than anyone how I had to stop her asking questions about my past. You also know that she has friends I don’t trust.’ He looked straight at Dominic. ‘Learning about my connection with the refuge startled Serena. But I’m sure she’ll easily slot me back into my usual role as a degenerate scoundrel.’

  ‘I think,’ said Dominic slowly, ‘that you’re finding all this rather harder than you first thought.’ He placed his glass on the desk and leaned forward. ‘Listen. Last time we met, you asked me to see if I could find out more about Wolverton—the fellow you marched out of the Duke of Hamilton’s ball last week.’

  ‘I didn’t march him out.’ Raphael gave a cold smile. ‘I merely suggested his presence was surplus to requirements. Did you discover anything?’

  ‘In a word, no. He has the worthiest reputation you can imagine, both in his private life and his business. I discovered that he pays all the taxes due on his fabric imports with great diligence—and I’m really not sure why you have such an objection to the fellow.’ He sighed. ‘I can only guess it’s because he’s formed a tendre for Lady Serena and you resent it.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Raphael shook his head. ‘The man made some damnably rude comments about me in my hearing. Big mistake. Have you any other news for me?’