by Lucy Ashford
‘I travelled back to Montpellier and found the situation even worse than I’d feared. The Revolution was poisoning the lifeblood of the entire country and I could see that Guy was in danger. I tried to persuade him he should flee abroad with his wife, if only for a short while, but he refused. Unlike me, Guy believed the best of people, but I knew he was wrong. I’d seen, in Paris, how other noblemen were sending their money overseas, because the banks were no longer safe from the grasp of the Revolution’s manic leaders. I urged Guy to do the same, but again he refused—so I went to Paris myself and pretended to be my brother. I arranged for a large sum of money to be sent to London for him, then I travelled back south to the chateau.’
He paused. God, how it hurt him still to even think of it. ‘I arrived,’ he went on, ‘with the intention of trying again to persuade him to leave. I was too late. The place was in flames and the peasants who’d stood by Guy’s side had been slaughtered wholesale by a Revolutionary mob. I should have been there. I shall never forgive myself for not being there.’
She was gazing steadily at him. ‘You told me some of this before. Oh, Raphael, to think that even in his own home your brother wasn’t safe!’
‘They beat him to death,’ he said tonelessly. ‘He died in my arms.’
‘But even if you’d arrived earlier, you could not have saved your brother singlehandedly against so many people!’
He nodded. ‘They were bloodthirsty maniacs. My brother, on the other hand, was selfless and kind to everyone.’ His hands clenched on the bedsheet. ‘You know, when I gave the money to that refuge for the homeless French in London, I told myself it was for Guy. Guy was a truly good person—which I am not.’
Serena could hardly bear the self-contempt in his voice. ‘You must stop blaming yourself so!’
He looked weary. ‘There’s more I haven’t told you. More that I need to tell you.’
Pulling himself up, he reached to where she sat by his bed and took her hand. He half expected her to snatch it away, but she let it remain firm and warm in his—as if she was offering him something that was steadfast and true. Like her, he realised. Yes—steadfast and true. After a moment he continued. ‘I set off north again, because there was something that I’d promised to do. Jacques was with me—he’d been my companion since my soldiering days. But in Lyons, we were captured by the citizens’ army and thrown into the gaol there.’
He saw her draw in her breath. ‘What was your crime?’
His mouth curled bitterly. ‘My crime lay in being wealthy, yet still being alive. Though I tell you, Jacques and I put up an almighty fight before they locked us in chains.’
‘Oh, Raphael. How long was your sentence?’
‘You don’t quite understand, Serena. None of us was given a date when we would get out, because we’d all been condemned to death.’
She pulled her hand from his in her shock. ‘All of you?’
‘Indeed, all. Some lasted months in there, some only days.’ He closed his eyes briefly. ‘There was a big clock tower above the gaol. Every day when it struck noon, our warders came into the cells to drag out a prisoner or two, or even three—it depended on how the fancy took them. Then the prisoners would be hanged in the courtyard. Our gaolers were drunk most of the time. They used to laugh at those who pleaded for mercy.’
He saw her close her eyes briefly. ‘How did you...?’
‘How did I escape? I was in luck. A bunch of soldiers turned up and told our guards they had orders to transport us all to Paris, so we could be sent to the guillotine as entertainment for the crowds. Our guards, drunken sots that they were, objected and fought them. They’d been enjoying their rule over us, you see. And during the general chaos, Jacques and I managed to escape.’
‘That was when you came to London?’
A shadow crossed his face, ‘Eventually, yes. My brother’s money was there, after all. As you know, I arrived here a wealthy man.’
She said, slowly, ‘You told people you’d been travelling in Europe. Staying in Vienna and other cities.’
‘I lied,’ he said in a curt voice. ‘I lied, because the months after my brother’s death and the time I spent in prison were not subjects I wished to talk about.’
‘Of course. But, Raphael, after your brother’s murder, you must have known your own life was in danger. So why on earth didn’t you try to escape from France straight away? Why end up imprisoned in Lyons?’
He looked at her very steadily. ‘Because I was looking for someone, Serena. I was searching for my brother’s wife. Her name was Madeleine.’
* * *
The rush of understanding that filled her was almost enough to make her unsteady. Silently she damned Wolverton and his sly insinuations. ‘Your brother’s wife,’ she repeated. She enunciated the words with great care. ‘Why did you never tell anyone? Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘Because I guessed that Madeleine had been brought to London against her will.’
‘As a prisoner, you mean? But why?’
His grey eyes were dark as night. ‘Serena,’ he said, ‘you must know that young women without money are vulnerable in ways that you aren’t. I’d heard that the mob who killed my brother had sent Madeleine north, along with other prisoners. So I followed their trail and got as far as Lyons when I was thrown into prison. After I escaped, I headed for Paris with Jacques to continue my search—and there I heard that she’d escaped and fled to Calais. So I went to the coast and heard of a smuggling ring which offered to help fleeing aristocrats to reach England. Only these smugglers weren’t doing it out of kindness. They only agreed to take certain passengers on their ships.’
He looked at her. ‘They wanted women, Serena. I imagine you’ll know there are many kinds of predators, many kinds of victims; but young women with no money and all alone in a foreign city are the most vulnerable of all.’
She said, ‘I gather you’re saying that they’re forced into prostitution.’
‘If they’re young and attractive, like my brother’s poor wife, then, yes. And that’s why I travelled here last autumn. I’ve been searching for her ever since, in the kind of places I feared she might have found herself.’
‘You’ve been searching the brothels.’ Serena murmured it almost to herself. This explained Raphael’s pose as a bon viveur, a rakehell—it was to mask his true purpose. ‘Though why,’ she said, this time reaching forward from her seat to clasp his hand, ‘couldn’t you have asked someone in authority to help you? If there are other women suffering in the same way as poor Madeleine, surely these evil men should be prosecuted and put in gaol?’
‘Of course.’ He let his hand rest in hers. ‘But for the time being my search for her has to be in secret, because I fear the men holding her might actually kill her if I look likely to expose their trade.’
‘I understand,’ Serena said quietly. ‘But, Raphael, the things you’ve let people say about you!’ She felt bitterly ashamed that she’d not seen through his masquerade earlier. No wonder he’d been so angry that she’d been asking all those stupid questions about his past. How brave he’d been, to endure the slights thrown his way.
He smiled, but without humour. ‘I was content to have those labels thrust upon me—rake, lecher, whatever people chose—since they helped disguise my search. I’d always realised the people who have Madeleine might harm her and harm me also, to keep their evil trade a secret.’
She looked up suddenly. ‘Those men who attacked you. Do you suspect them of being involved?’
‘Definitely. But now I have to ask you something really difficult, Serena. I have to ask you to keep quiet about everything I’ve told you and to keep up the pretence that we’re a couple for the remainder of our agreement. I believe I’m very close to finding her, you see.’
A huge sense of impending loss invaded her whole being. He was reminding her that she was part of his effort to divert
attention from his real purpose in London—nothing more. She understood that—after all, she was Lady Serena Willoughby, who’d vowed to guard her heart always. At the moment her heart was all too vulnerable, but her only option was to never, ever let Raphael know he was on his way to breaking it.
When she spoke again, her voice was perfectly calm. She was proud of that.
‘Do you know,’ she said as she rose to her feet and went over to the tray the housekeeper had left to pour him a glass of water, ‘I never could quite believe the things that were said about you. I know I turned against you after that stupid ball last year, but that was because I was...’ She thought a moment. ‘Disappointed.’
‘Disappointed?’
‘Yes.’ She handed him the water. ‘You see, I’d heard people maligning you, of course. But I’d always imagined you to be somebody different. Somebody courageous and forthright and full of...integrity. Yes, that’s the word—integrity.’
He sipped some water, but then said bitterly, ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, because I’m worthless, Serena. I’ve lied to you constantly.’
She reached across to take the glass, at the same time pressing his hand lightly. ‘I think, Monsieur le Marquis, that you are the bravest, most noble man I have ever met.’ She tried to smile. ‘Only look at the way you saved me from that ridiculous tangle I’d got into with Silas Mort—’
‘Don’t,’ he grated out. ‘Don’t.’
She felt fresh hurt lashing through her. Why was he so angry? What had she said this time?
He drew his hand across his forehead. ‘Serena. I’m afraid I lied to you about that also.’
And then he told her. He told her how he’d known all along that she was due to meet Mort that night in Covent Garden; how he’d organised his arrival as if by chance and had made arrangements for his companions to witness that scandalous scene. ‘Serena,’ he said heavily, ‘forget what I said earlier. You must consider our agreement cancelled, from this minute. Perhaps you’d do me the final favour of sending one of your servants for Jacques to take me home. In the meantime I’ll get myself dressed. I see my clothes are over there.’
He swung his legs out from under the covers and planted his feet firmly on the floor. Loose shirt, breeches—they were enough to cover his modesty, but even so Serena realised that this was Raphael Lefevre in the raw, stripped of his fine tailoring and his mask of indifference.
She said, trying to keep her voice light, ‘I’m afraid you can’t leave my house yet, Raphael, because the doctor is due this morning to check on your progress. You were knocked unconscious the other night—remember?—and he ordered that you must stay exactly where you are, to rest.’
He spoke more fiercely this time. ‘I must go. Then this nightmare I’ve imposed on you will be over!’
She rose to face him. She hoped her gaze was still steadfast, though inside she was tense with the effort to repress her emotions. ‘You claim you deceived me by knowing in advance about my meeting with Silas Mort. But you still saved me from him, Raphael. Try as you might, you can’t dispute that.’ She said it almost flippantly; even tried to smile. ‘Soon enough, I’ll go back to being a Wicked Widow and I’ll be perfectly happy in that role, believe me. But I want you to know that I trust you. You keep telling me not to, but I do.’
He was shaking his head. ‘Serena. I think it’s you who took that blow to the head, not me. You don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘But I do, Raphael,’ she said softly. ‘I know this has to end soon. But you see, in our time together you’ve made me feel...different.’ She hesitated, struggling for words. Maybe silence would have been wisest, but she wasn’t wise—how could she be at this moment, knowing that this man had trusted her with some of his darkest secrets?
If you can’t be wise, she lectured herself, be sensible. But she was weary of being sensible, so she went on, ‘You’ve actually made me feel that perhaps some day I could learn to love someone again.’
He gripped her shoulders so hard he was almost hurting her. ‘Serena. Listen to me. I’ve been a gambler and a wretched idler half my life. My father judged me as worthless and I obliged him by fulfilling his every expectation. So you’re still correct in your assessment of me and, for your own sake, you should hold fast to hating me.’
Hate him? Her hand reached up to tentatively touch his jaw and the faint rasp of his unshaved beard sent a shock tingling to all her most sensitive parts. An almost physical ache squeezed her chest and she felt her blood pounding. He’d gone very still and was gazing at her with that darkness in his eyes so she lifted her hand a little further, to brush one finger across his lips. You fool, Serena. Whatever do you think you’re playing at? The air in the room seemed charged with tension, like the stillness before a thunderstorm. He would reject her, of course. She knew that. He would move her hand aside while making some muttered excuse and she would flee from the room in embarrassment, her heart shrivelling as she cursed her own stupidity.
But instead, what did he do?
Raphael Lefevre, the most notorious rakehell in London, let out a half-sigh, half-groan, and reached for her face, cupping her cheek with his right hand. Then he pulled her towards him with both strong arms. He was going to kiss her. She knew he was going to kiss her and she longed for it, but she tried to push him away. ‘Raphael. You were hurt. They tried to kill you...’ The bandage on his forehead signalled Danger. Danger.
And what did Raphael do? He laughed. He took her in his arms, reclaiming her. ‘They tried,’ he said, ‘but now I’m well again, apart from the scratch on my forehead. Come here, Serena.’
The command was low but compelling. And when he pressed his lips to hers, Serena felt her entire world shaking around her. Shaking and shattering, just like the time they’d kissed at Vauxhall Gardens, only this was more, so much more—indeed, after this, nothing could ever be the same again. She also realised that she didn’t care. She was deliciously intoxicated by the feel of his mouth on hers as he gently prised her lips apart; she was entranced by the teasing of his tongue that made her shivery yet hot at the same moment. She loved the way that his tongue went on tantalising, then began thrusting slowly but surely between her lips, until she felt her whole body thrilling with sensation.
She’d been married for three long years. Her husband had taken his pleasure with her on occasion, but the question of what she wanted had never arisen. She hadn’t known what she was missing. But she was learning fast.
Somehow—was it her, or him? She suspected it was her—both of them were seated on the edge of the bed, their bodies entwined. She buried her hands in his thick hair and kissed him in a way she hadn’t known she was capable of—wild, unrestrained, greedy. He uttered a low moan at the back of his throat and at the same time he was running his hands up and down her body, stroking her breast through the fabric of her gown until she felt her tautening nipple leaping exquisitely to his knowing touch. She closed her eyes and let out a soft cry as a sense of wild abandonment possessed her.
She heard him whisper, ‘Ma petite perdue.’
Her eyes flew open. ‘Raphael. What does that mean?’ Her voice was hoarse with the tension of the sensations rippling through her.
‘It means My little lost one.’ And then he was kissing her again and she revelled in the fact that she’d found him, she’d found this, and because she wanted—no, needed—so much more, she was tugging at the edges of his shirt and running her hands down the glorious contours of his chest while feeling her nightgown slipping away as he pressed kisses on her throat and her breasts. She experienced a rush of pleasure that was as sweet as honey melting her insides.
And then he stopped.
Her eyes had been closed in bliss, but now they were wide open. She saw how his gaze had darkened. How his mouth had thinned.
Her heart beat steady hammer blows of doom. What was wrong? Did he think her too eager? A slut even? Perhap
s he was right. She had indeed been shameless to bring him into her house like this, to tend him herself like this. Making a fool of yourself again, Serena.
Feeling cold and stupid, she began to slide away from him rather shakily.
He grabbed her and pulled her back. ‘What in the name of God is this?’
He was pointing to her right breast and she quickly tried to draw her gown up. Her heart was chill as she said, ‘It’s nothing. Nothing at all—just an old scar.’
‘How did you get it?’ His voice was almost a growl. ‘For God’s sake. It looks like a knife wound!’
She tried to moisten her dry mouth before whispering, ‘Not a knife. Scissors.’
‘And who the hell used scissors on you?’
‘It was,’ she said, ‘my husband.’
Chapter Eighteen
Life was cruel. Raphael knew that. But to have this glimpse of the suffering endured by a beautiful, warm-hearted woman shook him to his core. His emotions were in tumult.
He’d been fighting against his feelings for Serena from the moment he’d cruelly forced their pact on her. He’d only managed to maintain his emotional detachment by using grim determination, for he knew this attraction between them must not be allowed to develop. It would be disastrous for her, for him, for everything he’d planned with his life.
But Dieu, he wanted this woman. He’d wanted her, if he was honest, from that very first dance last November, when she’d struck him as so lovely, yet so vulnerable. She’d hated him after that, he knew; she’d sought any way she could to denigrate him in the eyes of society, so much so that she’d endangered his sole purpose in life: to find his brother’s wife and fulfil his vow to make her safe.
But he’d not been able to put Serena from his mind. God forgive him for the fantasies he’d entertained time after time, the fantasies of silencing her insults by kissing her beautiful mouth and melting the frost in her soul. Well, now the ice had melted to reveal the fire beneath. The barriers she’d put up to guard herself were in tatters and her sensuality was laid bare. Already the deliciousness of her was driving him wild. What stopped him—yes, what really stopped him in his tracks—was the scar. It was about two inches long and scarcely more than a faint silvery seam. Inflicted by her husband?
