Holford’s knock interrupted them. Lucien bade the servant to enter, and the man opened the portal for Niles to enter. His sister, Lady Raddington, followed closely behind.
“Did we come too early, old chap?” Niles asked, glancing back and forth between Lucien and Serena.
Lucien rose to greet his guests. He and Niles shared a hearty handshake. “Not at all.” He briefly kissed Anne’s hand. “Good evening, my lady.”
Niles’s sister raised her gaze, piercing Lucien with her censure. “Are you certain this is wise?”
Her question brought forth the painful reality. If Serena had never wed Warrington, Lucien might have desired to court Serena, woo her, win her. And under different circumstances, she might have welcomed his suit.
But maybes and might-have-beens were irrelevant. The only relevant fact was that he would soon wed an adulteress who carried his child.
He looked across the room to Serena. Her eyes showed a mixture of anger and the desperation of a hunted animal. He suppressed an urge to shelter her in his arms, tell her he would never be the ogre she imagined. Raking a hand through his hair, he sighed. He had always been a fool for a pretty face.
A moment later, Holford ushered in the clergyman.
****
The jovial old vicar smiled at Lucien, then his eyes alighted on Serena, and the smile widened. “I hope you are feeling better, my dear. It’s dreadful to postpone such a happy occasion for an illness.”
Serena’s gaze flew to Lucien. His stare dared her to refute his story. And she wanted to, the Lord knew. But she curbed her anger. To display it here, before virtual strangers, would be to stoop to Lucien’s vulgar level. Instead, she murmured to the white-bearded man, “A shame indeed.”
“Shall we begin?” With a smile and a merry wink, he added, “Your groom is eager.”
Nausea and resentment swirled within her. A hasty marriage would only make her slightly less scandalous than allowing the ton to know she had conceived Lucien’s child during her marriage to Cyrus. Either way, she was certain to be the center of gossip. Her indiscretion would undoubtedly dredge up Mama’s past. Comparisons between mother and daughter would be made. And her own child would be denounced before he or she was even born.
She glared at Lucien. “He indicated his impatience.”
“Bodes well, an eager groom,” the old man said. “I was eager, and Tessie and I have been married nigh on thirty years.”
But Tessie probably had not been forced to the altar. Serena glared at Lucien again.
The vicar spread out the kneeling mats he had brought with him, then motioned for both Lucien and Serena to join him before the fireplace.
He opened his prayer book, then paused. “Ah, I do hate to be indelicate, my dear,” he directed to her, “but are you planning to wear . . . that?”
Serena looked down onto the severity of her plain black bodice. A wedding in funeral garb? In this case, it seemed appropriate. Resolutely, she nodded.
In her peripheral vision, Serena saw Lucien whip his gaze to her face. At his furious glare, she raised her chin defiantly. “I will not change. I’m in mourning.”
Lucien looked away and swore beneath his breath.
“Begin,” he snapped at the vicar.
With a puzzled shrug, the old man flipped open The Book of Common Prayer and read. Serena barely heard his words.
How had her life come to this? Fighting tears, she vividly recalled the brilliant spring morning she and Cyrus had exchanged vows. Innocence and hope had filled her heart, so much different from the heart-churning dread and despondency she felt now. With this marriage, she would pay for one night of searing ecstasy with the rest of her days. Lucien had seen to that.
A moment later, Lucien nudged her ribs with his elbow. Startled, she looked first to him, then the clergyman. Clearly, both expected an answer.
“I apologize,” she said. “Could you repeat the question?”
The old man smiled. “What’s your name, my dear?”
She answered, and the clergyman resumed the ritual. “Wilt thou, Serena Mary Elizabeth Boyce, have this man to thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy state of matrimony? Wilt thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor, and keep him in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?”
She tried not to notice that Lucien looked excessively masculine with his broad shoulders stretched tightly into a coat of midnight blue. Or remember the way he’d commanded her body and her pleasure with every single touch. She tore her gaze away.
“Do I have a choice?” she whispered.
Lucien gripped her arm, exerting a light, but nonetheless demanding, pressure. “No.”
Eyes closed, fighting tears, Serena replied, “I will.”
And silently pledged to hate Lucien for the rest of her days.
“No need to be nervous,” the vicar soothed, then turned to Lucien and repeated the vow.
“I will.” His strong voice echoed in the room.
Though she knew it was dangerous, Serena slid her gaze in his direction again and met his stare. Those brilliant emerald eyes mesmerized her, held her heartbeat captive, making it pound harder with his fierce, yet knowing expression.
Something in the tense set of his face called to her, something needy. He roused unwanted, excessively clear remembrances of their night together. He slid his thumb to her wrist, which began a little dance on the sensitive, blue-veined skin inside. When her pulse raced even faster under the pad of his thumb, he sent her a slow, seductive smile.
The impact of that expression trapped her breath in her lungs. It looked far too much like the one he had flashed during their greatest intimacies—as he rolled down her stockings, stretched his magnificent, naked length beside her, and eventually filled the female part of her body with the most male part of his. Flushing, Serena jerked her gaze away.
The clergyman laid the ring on the book and blessed it, then instructed Lucien to place the ring on her finger. Under the holy man’s curious eye, Lucien took her hand and did so.
As the vicar began to recite scripture, Serena looked down to discover this was no ordinary golden band. Instead, it was encrusted with small diamonds in three rows that encircled the length and width of the ring.
When he released her, she automatically touched the band, her fingertips moving across the smooth, shimmering surface in awe. She turned to him, her face silently questioning his reasons for such an elaborate symbol of their marriage. For all that she and Cyrus had been content, he had never gifted her with any but simplest of wedding rings. A part of her proclaimed Lucien’s ring worldly, a sinful display of wealth. Her other half could only acknowledge its beauty. Was it a family piece or had he bought it with her in mind?
The old man pronounced, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Lucien led her to a writing desk. On it lay the registry. From the corner of her eye, she saw him lift the quill, before he placed it directly into her hand.
“Sign, dear,” the watchful vicar prompted with a smile.
Serena hesitated. Signing this document would make their marriage legal, official . . . binding. Then she felt the pressure of Lucien’s hand at the small of her back as he whispered, “Sign it now.”
With both the clergyman and Lucien looking on, she did. And choked back her tears.
She had come here tonight expecting to talk Lucien out of this outrageous wedding. Instead, she found herself with a new husband. What could she have done to prevent it? He had devised the perfect threat. And the certainty she was indeed with child was strong now. This morning, and again this afternoon, she had lost what little food she had put into her stomach.
Lucien took the quill from her numb fingers and signed the registry himself. The vicar added his scrawl before Lord Niles and Lady Raddington witnessed the document.
The clergyman gave Lucien his compliments, then bowed over Serena’s hand before depa
rting.
Holford closed the door behind the reverend, leaving Serena alone with her new husband, Lord Niles, and his sister. She collapsed into a chair in the far corner of the room, away from Lucien. She wished desperately she could drift into peaceful slumber and forget this mess. Better yet, she wanted to wake up and discover this mock marriage was no more than a sleep-induced nightmare.
“Let’s celebrate!” Lord Niles suggested, spurring Serena from her preoccupation.
Lucien and Niles lifted glasses of brandy in toasts to wedded bliss, partaking of the bridal cake one of the servants had ushered in moments ago. She was married now to a sinful ogre of a man, bound to a man who drank, cursed—and seduced like the devil. Serena’s stomach churned. She declined her piece of cake.
To her surprise, Lady Raddington declined her slice as well and trod across the room to sit beside her. “Are you well, Lady Daneridge?”
That name! It sounded so foreign. So telling. But it was hers now, for the rest of her life. “I shall be well soon.”
The slightly older Lady Raddington smiled in sympathy. “You need to rest. You look quite pale.”
Serena found herself returning a weak smile. “Not surprising, for that is how I feel.”
“Relax. I shall fetch you a glass of wine.”
Lady Raddington rose before Serena could protest the liquor. She needed it; anything to take the edge off this harsh reality, if only for a moment or two.
A moment later, Lady Raddington returned with some sherry. Serena sipped, not wanting to consider how low her morals had slipped. One sunny June day she had been a married lady of chaste virtue and upstanding morals. On that rainy night, she had become a wanton adulteress who consumed both alcohol and passion. She had slipped into her mother’s skin. What could a glass of sinner’s drink hurt after her plethora of sins?
“Do not frown. Happiness may yet come your way,” Lady Raddington offered.
At those words, Serena lifted her gaze to Lucien. She found his stare riveted on her, all too captivating. The hunger in his green eyes reminded her of the hot desire that had spilled between them during their night together. He was remembering, too.
Drawing in a shaky breath, she turned away. “Thank you for your concern.”
Lady Raddington took her hand in a gesture of comfort. “Of course. Let me know if I can do anything else to help.”
Serena watched as Lucien set aside his glass and started across the room to her. She held her breath when, moments later, he wrapped hot fingers around her arm and lifted her from her chair.
“You can do something,” she whispered to Lady Raddington in return. “Pray for me.”
Lucien bid their guests a good night and escorted her from the withdrawing room, down the hall, toward his bedroom. In the hallway, she jerked out of his hold.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
With a scowl, he pulled her before one of the doors. “To your chamber. You looked ready to nod off in that chair.”
“I will not sleep here,” she insisted. “I will not live here! I have a house of my own.”
He halted before her, set aside his cane and grabbed her arms. “You will live here. Despite the fact you dislike it, we are now husband and wife.”
“I may be your wife, but I am not your servant, and I will live where I please. And I please to live in my house!”
His brows drew together in a furious frown. The grasp on her arms tightened. “You are my wife now, and my wife lives under my roof with me.”
“Like the first one?”
As soon as the jibe was out, Serena stepped back from the palpable anger he radiated.
“Simple military intelligence training instructs an officer that he cannot protect a target of violence from afar. You will stay here. You may send for your things come morning.”
Alastair. She had forgotten about his threats in the midst of Lucien’s. She swallowed, supposing her new husband was right. He could hardly protect her from down the street and round the corner.
“Very well, but know it’s only the possibility of Alastair’s evil intent that keeps me here.”
His eyes narrowed. “I don’t give a damn why you stay as long as you do,” he retorted.
“Stop swearing,” she hissed. “It’s obscene.”
He ignored her. “If you want, redecorate the chamber. I never bothered to do so after my ex-wife left.” His eyes narrowed with anger. “It’s vulgar. She was fond of red. Then again, you may like it.”
With that, he found his cane, pivoted away, and disappeared into his own rooms.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Red indeed, Serena mused once inside the boudoir that had been Ravenna Clayborne’s domain. A sea of scarlet glared around her, papering every wall, covering the floor, draping the sumptuous bed. The color was unrelieved throughout the room, except for a pattern of black woven into an occasional cushion and the gold trimmings on the carpet. Porcelain knick-knacks, red glass jars, and a gilt-handled brush and mirror set rested undisturbed on a dressing table, as if their mistress had been gone moments instead of over a year.
Serena wandered around the room, taking in the garish decor, only semi-conscious of the fact her mouth hung wide open. What kind of a woman wanted her bedroom to appear so . . . carnal? A complete wanton. The kind of woman who left a handsome, exciting husband for one of his best friends.
And Lucien thought she would like this? She dropped her forehead to her palm tiredly. He must think her very much like his ex-wife. In truth, she didn’t understand Ravenna any more than Lucien did.
The room said everything about his ex-wife, and nothing at all. Certainly, it shouted her taste for the dramatic, as evidenced by the bed’s blood-red velvet coverlet and the four gilt posts surrounding it. But who had Ravenna Clayborne been? What had motivated her to leave Lucien?
Turning in a slow circle, Serena saw a red dressing screen painted with gold and black dragons, Chinese fashion, and the fabric-draped door to a dressing closet. Curiously, she opened the door—and stood rooted in shock.
Sunken into the floor lay a round tub of red tile. The rim consisted of a series of hand-painted tiles depicting men and women, utterly naked, intimately entwined in various positions.
Gasping, Serena backed away, scalded by the sight, and slammed the door behind her.
Then she saw the painting.
Immediately to her left hung a portrait of Ravenna a lá Venus, signed by the artist, Vigee Le Brun. Ravenna had been captured partially reclining on red silk, holding a wine goblet. The nearly transparent Grecian drape she wore outlined her curves and threatened to bare her breasts. The look in her dark eyes could only be termed lazy satiation. Black hair, loose and tousled, framed her face and clung to her sides. The end of one strand lay above the mound of her femininity, as if pointing there to draw the viewer’s gaze.
This woman was a beautiful temptress, a sensual creature of abandon. Serena didn’t wonder why men, including Lucien, were driven to possess such a wild soul. Cyrus had explained such male fantasies to her. Then, as now, they left her feeling inadequate, for she could never tempt men to sin as the ivory-skinned, ruby-lipped Ravenna obviously had. Not that she wanted to possess such an ability. She favored Christian morals to wallowing in secular pleasures of the flesh.
A vision of Lucien, his face dark with stubble, flushed with intent as he had thrust inside her flashed into her mind, mocking her morals. Had Lucien made love to Ravenna with that same slow purpose or with mindless, driving desire? And why did the memory of Lucien’s hands on her body incite a hot, sinful burn?
“Good evenin’, me lady,” a cheery voice called from the doorway, startling Serena from her guilty thoughts.
A flush crept up her cheeks as Serena bade the woman to enter.
“Me name’s Mildred,” the plump fortyish woman offered, bobbing a curtsy. “His lordship sent me to care fer ye, since yer without yer own maid tonight.”
Serena nodded, and before she could eve
n take a breath, the servant continued, “I see yer lookin’ at the first Lady Daneridge’s likeness.”
“Yes. It’s . . . unique.”
“Is that why yer blushin’?” Mildred teased, then leaned forward in a conspiratorial whisper. “I served the first Lady Daneridge while she lived here. She was a wild one.”
Serena stared at the likeness of her husband’s former wife, inferiority bleeding through her again. “She was beautiful.”
“Aye, no mistaking that. Every man who saw her wanted her. And she wanted them, too. The young, handsome ones, anyway.”
Serena had the urge to ask Mildred a hundred questions about Lucien’s marriage to Ravenna and what had gone awry, but she quelled it. Encouraging such gossip was irresponsible. And knowing the extent of Lucien’s feelings for Ravenna would only disturb her.
At Serena’s bidding, Mildred helped her out of her dress. “There are a few of the first Lady Daneridge’s dressing gowns here, if you be wantin’ to wear one until ye can send fer your own.”
She thought nothing of Ravenna’s could surprise her further, but was astonished when Mildred held up a nightgown in transparent red gossamer, another in black silk, and yet a third in an exotic green satin, embroidered with black flowers.
Had Ravenna worn one or all of these for Lucien and seduced her husband? Had he pulled the garments from Ravenna’s body in his haste to make love to her? Serena tried not to care about what Lucien and Ravenna had done together while married, but as she stared at those erotic gowns, the questions haunted her.
“I’ll sleep in my chemise.”
Mildred gave her an approving smile. “I agree. These’re naught but Satan’s tempters.”
Serena said nothing as the maid braided her hair. Afterward, Mildred pushed her toward the bed. “Ye best lie down. Ye look plum ragged.” Serena thought to protest, but the maid said, “Don’t ye worry. I’ll see to ye. Bring ye chocolate in the mornin’ and send fer yer clothes, I will.”
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