The Widow's Scandalous Affair

by Lucy Ashford

  ‘Serena? Is that you? Serena?’

  She jumped with shock, because her brother George had appeared from one of the paths leading into their glade with Joanna at his heels. And the moment of intimacy was over.

  Joanna hurried to Serena’s side as George confronted Raphael head on. ‘You’ve no right, Lefevre. No right at all to lure my sister into this secluded place! What the deuce were you thinking of?’

  Raphael had tensed beside her, but Serena was the first to reply to her brother. ‘George. Please listen, will you? It was I who asked Raphael to bring me here—I wanted to explore the woodland walks!’

  By now some onlookers had been lured by the raised voices and George looked even angrier. ‘Serena, don’t you realise this man is making a public spectacle of you?’

  It was Joanna’s turn to enter the fray. ‘George, it’s you who’s making a public spectacle, not the Marquis! Please, everyone, calm down.’

  But Serena felt a primeval urge to defend the man she was supposed to hate. Why? Couldn’t he defend himself a hundred times over? He was clearly ready to. By now, his usual polished veneer of indifference had vanished; anger made his mouth harsh and uncompromising while his silver-grey eyes looked almost black. She said in a low, urgent voice, ‘George, I appreciate you’re saying all this out of concern for me. But you’re making completely false assumptions about my relationship with the Marquis—besides which, I’m twenty-five years old and I can take responsibility for myself! So please don’t treat me like a foolish seventeen-year-old!’

  She swept to Raphael’s side and thrust her arm through his, aware that her heart was thumping badly. At last George said stiffly, ‘Maybe I should escort you home, Serena.’

  ‘No,’ she said, her chin tilting defiantly. ‘No, George. I’m sorry. But I’m with Raphael, not you.’

  Even more passers-by were stopping and Joanna was tugging at George’s arm. ‘Come along, George. You’re making a public scene. Your sister is quite right—she’s well able to take care of herself.’

  There was a tormented silence before George said, ‘Very well. I’ll speak with you tomorrow, Serena.’ He gave his sister a curt bow, regarded Raphael with acute dislike and said, ‘Come along, Joanna.’

  Joanna mouthed regretfully to Serena, Oh, dear. What a pickle you’re in, darling! Then George headed back along the path with Joanna following, but Raphael didn’t move.

  He said quietly at last, ‘Serena. May I ask exactly why you took my side and defended me against your brother?’

  Because I’m falling in love. With you.

  Dear Lord, the thought terrified her. Joanna was quite right—what a pickle she was in. But she said calmly, ‘What else was I supposed to do? I thought George was quite wrong to say the things he did. I know I was unhappy with our agreement, but you’ve not made me a laughing stock—which my brother nearly did just now with that unpleasant scene.’

  The group of watchers had moved on, but a party of boisterous revellers were strolling along the path in their direction, some of the men drinking from bottles of champagne they carried. Raphael instantly drew her aside. ‘Those men,’ he said. ‘I don’t know them, but I’m afraid we might be recognised. And if they talk—’

  She silenced him by reaching up to put her arms around his neck and clasping the back of his head. ‘I think,’ she said defiantly, ‘that in that case, we should give them something to talk about.’

  And she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him.

  Fireworks? The ones they’d seen earlier were nothing compared to this.

  She thought, This is what I have been waiting for. This is what I’ve dreamed of ever since I was a girl. She forgot to care if anyone was watching. She forgot everything. She tasted him, but it was like having a tantalising fragment of a feast, because it meant she wanted more, so much more of the silken pressure of his lips on hers, more of the intoxicating scent and feel of him.

  He pulled away, just enough for her to catch her breath and steady herself, though she was still dizzy, because his mouth was so temptingly close. His hands rested on her shoulders, clasping her lightly but possessively, as if he might reclaim her lips any moment and enfold them both once more in that wild, dizzying heat.

  He caressed her jaw with one tender finger. ‘Serena. Why...?’

  Why, indeed? Her heart thudded with desire still. What was happening to her? One thing was obvious—her feelings for this man were running far deeper than she’d ever meant them to. When George had insulted Raphael, she’d not hesitated to defend him; just as when Raphael had told her the story of his brother, she’d longed to somehow take his pain away.

  Those revellers had moved on, but somewhere in the distance she could hear musicians playing a haunting tune that spoke of loss and love. She said on impulse, ‘Take me to a place where nobody knows us. Where neither of us has to pretend.’ She tugged at his hand. ‘Where we can just be us. Please?’

  ‘But your clothes. Even in that cloak, Serena, you can’t help but look wealthy!’

  She drew her cloak tighter across her bosom and pulled her hair from its pins. ‘There.’

  He was shaking his head. ‘Oh, my God. You still look expensive.’

  ‘Then people will think I’m your mistress,’ she said. ‘Let them.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  When they’d arrived at Vauxhall Raphael had sent his carriage home, intending to take Serena back to Curzon Street by hired cab. Now, though, everything had changed unbelievably. And so on leaving the Gardens he hailed a cab to take them not to Mayfair, but to the Strand, from where he led Serena to a lowly tavern in King Street. Serena’s brother would be truly appalled.

  Afterwards, when his brain had cleared just a little from the impact of what this honest and beautiful woman had said to him earlier—Help me to believe in you—he had asked himself: Why did he take her there, of all places?

  The answer came to him as soon as he led her through the door. She’d wanted to know more about him and maybe this was the best way. The tavern was one that many French exiles had made their own—the poorer ones, to be precise. In fact, he guessed the rich Frenchmen in London didn’t even know places like this existed, but to Raphael it was like home, filled as it was with the scents and sounds of his native land: the food, the wine, the tobacco—and, of course, the voices of his fellow countrymen.

  Their talk reminded him of his army days, of old tales and jokes shared with long-gone friends, bringing back memories of the world that existed before the Revolution overturned the life they’d all known. There was music, too, provided by a fiddle player and someone on a flute. As he and Serena entered a dozen or so of the younger folk were dancing in a ring, stamping their feet as they moved and clapping their hands in time to the beat. Guiding Serena past them to one of the few empty tables, he ordered red wine, bread and cheese.

  Mon Dieu, he thought to himself. Was he truly taking a lady of such aristocratic lineage to a common tavern? Yes, he was. Had he gone mad? Quite likely. But she hadn’t run—yet—so he said to her, ‘I don’t know about you, but that supper we ate at Vauxhall Gardens was like bird food and I’m ravenous.’

  Then he tried to assess her mood.

  Tonight he’d been astonished by the way she’d stood up for him against the head of her family, to whom everyone said she was devoted. And after that she’d actually kissed him—only briefly but, dear God, her kiss was so sweet that he could almost have believed that theirs truly was a love affair.

  Cynic though he was, he had been rocked by a wave of extraordinary desire for this woman. Even more worryingly, physical lust was only the part of it. A rather overwhelming part, admittedly, but Raphael also realised that he wanted to find ways to light up her eyes again with pleasure. The pleasure known only by intimate lovers...

  For God’s sake, man. Furious with himself for his lustful imaginings, his mood darkened anew.r />
  His initial plan had all seemed so simple. He’d resolved to entangle Serena in the appearance of an affaire, with the very robust intention of halting her persistent enquiries about his past. After the stated four weeks he would casually discard her, thus ensuring that any future criticisms of hers would be seen merely as the snipings of a bitter ex-mistress. It should have been easy. But, of course, life had a habit of never making things easy.

  They were sitting side by side at a corner table, both with a full view of the crowded hostelry’s occupants. Raphael was looking out of habit for potential enemies, though Serena clearly had no such worry. Having eagerly eaten her bread and cheese, she was watching the dancers and for once her lovely eyes were unclouded by doubt or uncertainty.

  She’d loosened her cloak so that her green silk gown was on show. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said when she saw his frown. ‘As I said, people will think I’m your mistress, that’s all.’

  He sighed. She was enjoying herself, he realised. If only briefly, she was free of the burden of being Lady Serena Willoughby with a reputation to uphold. And he was light-headed with her presence at his side, intoxicated by her beauty. He’d realised tonight that he didn’t want all this to end once the time was over. Had realised it the moment he saw the fire in her eyes when her brother had insulted him—and he certainly would never forget the words she’d used to defend him. He’d wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her, though somehow—God knew how—he’d managed to resist. Only then, she’d broken down all his carefully built defences by kissing him instead.

  Again and again he relived the shy but passionate kiss she’d offered, imagining he could still feel her warm and silken lips on his. He’d been warned by his companions that she was cold and proud. But ever since their paths had crossed, she’d taken Raphael by surprise, every single step of the way.

  He’d seen beneath the mask she wore in public. Seen how she could be warm and funny with her female friends and deeply affectionate with the children at that school. She’d unwittingly probed his own hard-won defences, for not even to Dominic had he spoken about his boyhood or those other memories which still caught at him every so often like an unhealed wound.

  But he had not told her why he was here in London. Initially he’d had no intention of explaining his search for Madeleine, partly because of her hostility and also because of her apparent friendship with some of his enemies. He’d not, so far, had to worry about her feelings because she’d declared, on frequent occasions, her utter indifference to him.

  But tonight, that indifference had melted away. She’d kissed him—and it had been exquisite.

  You treacherous bastard, Lefevre, he rebuked himself. You are the one who should be exerting some willpower, because you’re getting in too deep. And try as he might, he’d reached a dead end in his search for Madeleine. What if he never found her? Damn it, he had—he simply had—to tell Serena everything. But now? Did he have to spoil the magic between them now?

  He suddenly realised that Serena had drunk almost all her rather large glass of red wine and her eyes were sparkling in the light of the tallow candles fastened to the rough-cast walls. She put her hand on his arm. ‘Raphael,’ she said, ‘please, could we join the dancing?’ She was raising her voice to be heard above the sound of the music. ‘I want to dance,’ she repeated. And the next minute she’d shed her cloak and was on her feet, pulling him up with her. So what could he do? Already people were making room for them in the ring; already he saw her delight as she picked up the rhythm and the movements.

  Raphael had often danced like this in his homeland with a pretty girl on his arm. This, though, was different. This was Serena.

  ‘No wager this time,’ she murmured to him as he took her hands in his.

  He said, ‘No wager. And there wasn’t one last time. It’s very important that you believe me.’

  She nodded. ‘I do.’

  As he swept her into the dancing she clung to him at first, unsure of herself. But her confidence grew, even though the pattern of the steps meant that from time to time they were separated. Of course, she encountered partners who were delighted to dance her round the ring; indeed, one of the Frenchmen said to Raphael, as he handed Serena back to him, ‘Votre dame anglaise. Elle est belle, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘she’s beautiful.’ Beautiful indeed in her ravishing green gown, with all her golden hair tumbling to her shoulders. And she’s mine, he wanted to add.

  But she wasn’t. Could never be. And that was the trouble.

  * * *

  Such a perfect two hours together, though. They shared the simple pleasures of the wine and the dancing and the companionship of the tavern’s other customers, who sat with them for a while. ‘I’m afraid my schoolgirl French is atrocious,’ Serena apologised to Raphael. But she listened and tried hard to understand those people in the tavern, as they talked not only about the tragedy of the Revolution, but also told tales of the vineyards and the villages they’d left behind. The happy times that they hoped would some day come back.

  Raphael translated for her and she said earnestly in French to them all, ‘But of course they will.’

  He saw how her beautiful smile cast more light around that dingy tavern than a hundred fine wax candles could have done. And then he danced with her again, realising he could easily become addicted to the feel of her in his arms; addicted to that intoxicating shiver of delight that he would swear ran through her every time he clasped her close. Not only did he ache to kiss her, he felt an even more powerful need pulsing deep in his loins...

  Stop there, he told himself fiercely.

  And at that very moment, his attention was riveted elsewhere, because a young woman came up to touch him on the shoulder. She said, in French, ‘You have been looking for Madeleine, haven’t you, monsieur?’

  He froze. ‘Oui, madame. Yes, I have.’

  ‘Then call at my lodgings in Cheapside, above the haberdashery shop. Ask for Therese.’

  A moment later the woman had gone and Raphael stood there, his brain reeling, his heart pounding like a drum.

  The hour was late. Many couples had already left the dancing and were finding dark corners in which to exchange kisses. Serena hadn’t understood what the woman said and she glanced at him uncertainly.

  ‘Raphael. You look anxious. Was that someone you know?’

  He shook his head. ‘She mistook me for someone else.’ He forced a smile. ‘And now, Serena, I think it’s time I took you home.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Of course.’

  He saw her try her best to hide it, but as she fastened up her cloak she looked crushed, no doubt because she knew that once again he wasn’t confiding in her. Loathing himself, he led her from the tavern with the intention of heading for the Strand to hail a cab, but she’d drunk two large glasses of wine. And as they stepped out together into the cobbled street, she stumbled on an uneven stone and he had to catch her.

  ‘Too much wine,’ she said, laughing a little. ‘Too much wine—but oh, Raphael, it has been a lovely evening!’

  She was in his arms. She was gazing up at him with such yearning in her eyes. What could he do but kiss her? Only lightly at first, but she sighed with happiness, then reached up almost wonderingly to touch his cheek. ‘Raphael,’ she murmured. ‘My Marquis of mystery.’

  He crushed her slender body to his. Once more their mouths met, only this time he wanted more, plundering her soft lips until they drifted open. He deepened the kiss, exploring her mouth properly this time. The taste of her was addictive and sensual and heady, just as before, but this time her tongue twined boldly with his, demanding still more, and Raphael thought, I’m falling headlong for her. Falling badly.

  He wanted to say something, to acknowledge that the unthinkable had happened. To warn her that the nature of their relationship was changing, only he knew that it couldn’t an
d he must think of some way to explain that reality without making her hate him again. He’d barely begun to concoct the impossible words when out of the darkness three men came charging towards them, carrying clubs.

  Their clothing was rough and the lower parts of their faces were concealed by black woollen scarves. There was something about them. He’d seen them recently, but damn it, where? He whirled to confront them, his fists raised, his body planted firmly in front of Serena’s.

  He was already admitting that, this time, the odds were dire.

  * * *

  One moment Serena was standing outside the tavern in Raphael’s arms, her lips warm from his tender kisses. So few days to go, she was warning herself. But this couldn’t be the end yet. It couldn’t be...

  The next minute she was crying out in horror as the three men appeared out of the shadows. ‘Well, my fine French lord,’ came the voice of one. ‘We’re here to tell you to stop your damned meddling. Your interfering. Got it?’

  And then they launched themselves at him with their cudgels. She saw how Raphael managed to knock aside the first two with his fists, but of course the odds were impossible. Whenever one stumbled, another ran up to rain more blows. What could she do?

  Suddenly she realised that music was still coming from the tavern behind her and, after heaving the front door open, she ran inside, calling out to anyone who would listen. ‘Please. They’re attacking Raphael out in the street. I’m afraid they’re going to kill him!’

  The English landlord leapt into action. ‘What, my pretty lass? Pickpockets, are they? Damn them! Come on, lads, look lively! Let’s show the blackguards what happens to villains who lurk outside my tavern!’

  And out they flew, the landlord and his barmen and the drinkers, too. They fell on those three men, pulling them off Raphael, then continuing the attack until the ruffians hurried off down the street, no doubt feeling lucky to escape alive. Meanwhile Serena, heedless of her gown and cloak, was kneeling in the gutter at Raphael’s side, horrified by his closed eyes and the blood on his forehead. She could hear a voice from somewhere—was it her voice?—calling out into the night, ‘Is he dead? Oh, dear God, no. Please, no...’