Between a Rake and a Hard Place

by Connie Mason

“How can you think that?” He stood before her, naked and magnificent and with an intense expression that dared her to read his mind and heart.

  But he wasn’t saying any of the words she needed so desperately to hear.

  “Do you love me?” she asked in a whisper. She hated herself for asking, but she had to know.

  Jonah’s chin dropped to his chest. Serena counted ten beats of her heart before he raised his eyes to meet hers. The misery in them matched the sinking feeling in her own belly.

  “Whether I love you or not makes no difference. You must choose your own path, Serena. You always have. But if you decide to wed the duke, don’t imagine there will be any more of us.” His face hardened into an unreadable mask. “I’ve no wish to be the pet of a royal duchess.”

  Serena felt as if her mare had kicked her in the gut. She should have remembered that Jonah was a rake. How could she have imagined that he loved her? Something inside her had died, and she felt close to joining it.

  Then she remembered who she was.

  She was Lady Serena Osbourne, daughter of the house of Wyndleton, and if she accepted the Duke of Kent’s suit, she might well become the mother of a future monarch. She straightened her spine and walked out of Jonah’s bedchamber without a backward glance.

  Twenty-eight

  The Hymen Race Terrific has pounded along for nearly three months now. Some of the fillies are tiring, but for one, at least, the finish line is looming large on the horizon. Word has reached our ears that an offer for Lady S. may well be forthcoming from a certain royal duke.

  One hopes Sir J.S., who’s been rusticating in the country as part of the house party at the Wyndleton estate, has saved his blunt. He could be called upon to settle the wager into which he entered with Rowland Osbourne concerning the latter’s lovely cousin. Of course, the lady is not directly named in the wager ledger at Boodles, but it doesn’t take a gypsy to read these particular tea leaves.

  Or should one say “coffee grounds”?

  From Le Dernier Mot,

  The Final Word on News That Everyone

  Who Is Anyone Should Know

  “Hurry, Serena,” Amelia urged as they moved swiftly down the wainscoted corridor toward the marquis’s study. “Your father is waiting.”

  “Do you know something you’re not telling me, Amelia?”

  The older woman blinked at her. “Only that the duke’s courier arrived shortly after breakfast after riding all night, and Lord Wyndleton has been closeted in his study since that time.”

  “Then you don’t know for certain whether you’re trying to rush a future royal duchess or not,” Serena said wryly.

  “Oh.” Amelia clapped a hand to her mouth and slowed her pace. “Forgive me, my lady.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, I was only joking,” Serena said. “Since when do you and I stand on ceremony?”

  “We may well have to begin to very soon if the offer is what we hope.”

  “You mean what my father hopes.”

  Her usually mild features stricken with a look of concern, Amelia stopped her with a hand to her forearm. “You want this too. At least, you used to. You were full of plans for the education and molding of the character of the future monarch of England. What’s happened? Has that Sir Jonah said—”

  “Jonah has nothing to do with this.” Serena sighed. “Believe me, the man has no opinion at all about whether I marry Kent.”

  “Good. I mean, this is none of his business in any case.” They walked on, but Amelia stopped her again just outside the door to her father’s inner sanctum. “I wish there’d been time to apply a touch of rouge to your cheeks. You don’t look at all well, dear. Are you ill?”

  Serena was sick at heart, but she couldn’t confide in Amelia. It was a hurt she had to bear by herself. Once she’d made her way back to her bedchamber after leaving Jonah, Serena had wept till she had no more tears and then, dry-eyed, she watched the sun rise. It made no sense that the rest of the world continued to turn when hers had been so completely upended, but since the people around her persisted in the fantasy that life went on, she had no choice but to indulge their whims.

  “I’m fine,” Serena assured her. “I simply haven’t been getting much sleep.” That at least had the ring of truth.

  Amelia rapped softly on the door to the marquis’s study.

  “Come,” her father’s voice sounded through the heavy oak.

  Stiffly, she entered the room and crossed to greet Lord Wyndleton. Her father came around his massive desk and took both her hands. Serena experienced a sense of unreality, as if she were dreaming and would wake presently or as if her spirit had somehow floated up to the ceiling and she was watching herself from outside her own body. Surely it was someone else who was about to receive a proposal of marriage from a royal duke.

  “My darling girl.” He raised Serena’s knuckles to his lips. When Amelia made to go, he stopped her with an upraised hand. “No, stay, Miss Braithwaite. You’ve played such an important role in my daughter’s life. I want you to be present for this momentous occasion.”

  Both the marquis and Amelia beamed at her.

  Serena realized she was expected to say something and was mildly surprised when a coherent sentence formed on her lips. “I understand you have news.”

  “And not just any news. The news.” Her father’s face couldn’t have been more radiant, and Amelia gasped with joy. “My allies in the House of Lords have prevailed and His Royal Highness has finally agreed to take an English bride.”

  Serena fought to keep her shoulders from sagging. Not only was she blessed with a loveless match, she was facing a reluctant bridegroom who’d had to be strong-armed into choosing her to boot. “How very…flattering.”

  “Indeed!” her father exclaimed, totally missing the irony in her tone. He moved around to the other side of his desk and picked up a piece of foolscap. “I’ve taken the liberty of drafting a letter of acceptance for you, my dear. All that’s needed is your signature, and plans for the royal nuptials can begin.”

  Serena took the letter from his hand and pretended to read it, but she couldn’t seem to make her eyes focus. A few words leaped out at her. She’d be entitled to style herself “Her Royal Highness.” An extravagant dowry was named, which her future husband would control. If the rumors about the royal duke’s debts were true, the funds still wouldn’t be enough to make him totally solvent.

  This probably pleased her father since it rendered the duke still beholden to the House of Lords, upon whom he would continue to depend for his income. Her father was fond of saying “He who holds the purse holds the power.”

  “Of course, there are more details to be agreed upon, but you needn’t concern yourself with those,” her father said as he settled onto his throne-like chair with the air of a pasha dispensing favors. “Since the royal duke is much your senior, in addition to your dowry, I wish to convey a trust upon you which will support you independently should he predecease you.”

  “That’s very generous, Father,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. Serena had known for months in an abstract sort of way that a match with the royal duke was a possibility.

  In the same way I know it’s possible for a meteorite to fall to earth and land on my head.

  Now her father was talking about dowries and trusts and predeceasing husbands. Oh, it all sounded so very final.

  Why couldn’t it have been a meteorite?

  Serena’s knees gave, but she covered her weakness by sinking into one of the chairs before her father’s desk. “May I see the preliminary agreement?”

  Her father’s brow beetled, but he handed over an oilskin packet which contained a thick sheaf of papers. Serena pulled them out and leafed through them. Written by a royal scribe’s overly elaborate hand and all festooned with curlicues to make them seem celebratory, they were still horribly official-looking.

  Serena laid the packet on her lap. The weight of it made her feel as if she were about to sink into the floor. She c
hose her next words carefully. “While I’m sensible of the honor bestowed upon me, Father, you have always counseled me to be circumspect about serious decisions.”

  “Decisions? What is there to decide?” A blotch of red marred her father’s neck just above his cravat and began to creep upward to his tightly locked jaw. “You only need sign your name to this letter and you’re on your way to becoming the mother of a future sovereign of the realm.”

  Serena steepled her fingers in her lap and studied them with absorption to avoid her father’s eyes. “Might I have some time to read through the documents?”

  “You don’t need to read them. Good God, girl, do you have any idea how I’ve moved heaven and earth to make this happen?” As he rose slowly to his feet, the volume of his voice rose as well. “The arm twisting, the concessions I’ve given, the favors I’ve called in—”

  “My lord.”

  Serena’s head snapped up at the sound of Amelia’s voice. She’d never interrupted the marquis before. How did she dare do it now when he was in such high choler?

  “I put it to you that Serena’s request is a reasonable one. This is a momentous occasion and one that might daunt a stouter heart than your daughter possesses.” Amelia came forward and placed a hand on Serena’s shoulder. “Why don’t you allow her until teatime to read the documents and consider the matter?”

  Her father’s jaw worked furiously for a moment, and Serena wondered why Amelia didn’t cower under his fierce scowl. Then he drew himself up to his full height and tugged down his waistcoat. “Very well. Consider the matter. Consider it carefully, and while you’re considering, be certain to consider the fealty a daughter owes her father.”

  Each time he said “consider” it sounded more and more like a curse. Serena decided to make good her escape. Hugging the oilskin packet to her chest, she stood, dropped a curtsey, and forced herself to walk away sedately.

  She really wanted to flee like a hare from the hounds.

  ***

  Fortescue Alcock had been standing with his ear to the keyhole, but the damned door was solid English oak and he’d only been able to hear one word in three. Now he barely had time to duck into a nearby curtained alcove to avoid detection by Lady Serena as she bolted from Lord Wyndleton’s study.

  He peered through the slit in the rich damask in time to spy the royal insignia blazing on the thick packet Lady Serena carried. If the Duke of Kent were turning his eyes to the princess on the Continent, he wouldn’t have sent so much blasted paperwork to this English miss.

  Damnation! Sharp had failed. Lady Serena’s honor was still fully intact and unless Alcock was much mistaken, she was in possession of a formal proposal from the royal.

  In his eavesdropping, he’d pieced together enough to gather that the lady wasn’t entirely enamored by the idea of the match. The angry voice of the marquis spilling out into the hallway now seemed to confirm his suspicions.

  He crept out to listen again.

  The more conciliatory tones of the one-time governess didn’t carry as well as Lord Wyndleton’s, but she seemed to be taking her employer to task. Alcock didn’t have time to puzzle out that social oddity, but filed the information away for future use. He was more anxious to keep Lady Serena from making a formal acceptance of the duke’s suit.

  Alcock stole down the hall and back to the more public portions of the great house. Once he returned to London, he’d begin proceedings to bring Sir Jonah Sharp up on charges of treason for his role in the Maubeuge disaster. Sharp would have no defense. Alcock had a long list of people willing to perjure themselves on his say-so, many of them bit players on Drury Lane. Politicians and judges always loved good theatre.

  He’d leave Warrington and Colton out of it since they’d at least had the goodness to marry the virgins he assigned to them to spoil, though personally he’d have preferred the scandal of having the ladies publicly ruined.

  Never let a good scandal go wasted. That was one of his favorite political mottoes.

  His plan to thwart the royal duke’s courtship wasn’t lost yet. Alcock pulled his pocket watch out and checked the time. If Lady Serena kept to her usual schedule, she’d go riding in half an hour.

  He smiled as he remembered another favorite motto.

  If you want something done well, do it yourself.

  Twenty-nine

  There seems to be a rash of our young London dandies and their chosen ladies thumbing their noses at tradition. They refuse to wait for the banns to be read for three consecutive Sundays. Some even eschew paying for a special license so they can hurry along their nuptials, haring off for a wedding over an anvil at Gretna Green.

  Is it, we wonder, because fathers of marriageable girls often intimidate the would-be bridegrooms so much, they don’t dare step forward to ask for the lady’s hand like a gentleman? Of course, if the fellow is unable to beard the old lion in his den, shouldn’t a sensible young lady ask herself if it’s worth leaving the pride for a suitor with no teeth of his own?

  From Le Dernier Mot,

  The Final Word on News That Everyone

  Who Is Anyone Should Know

  “Leonard, you mustn’t try to force the girl,” Amelia said, her usually sweet face now a mask of determination. “Serena has never responded well to the stick.”

  “What better carrot could I offer than the chance to wear a crown?” Honestly, if he lived to be a hundred he’d never understand the female of the species.

  “There’s something she wants even more.” Amelia sank into the chair his daughter had just vacated. “Your approval.”

  The marquis paced before the fire. “All she has to do is sign the letter accepting the duke’s suit and she’ll have it.”

  “Dearest, she ought to have it no matter what she decides,” Amelia said in that infuriatingly conciliatory tone that meant she felt she possessed the high ground in their argument. It never failed to grate on his last nerve. Especially since it meant she was probably right. “Don’t you see, husband? Love with conditions is not love. And Serena needs yours most desperately.”

  He stifled the urge to stomp his feet in frustration. “This is preposterous. How can she doubt that I love her? Haven’t I arranged the best match in Christendom for her?”

  “She may not see it that way.”

  “What other way is there to see it?”

  With the grace that had first drawn his eye to her after his wife died, Amelia rose and came over to put her arms around him. “Serena wants what we have. She wants a love match.”

  He drew her close and buried his nose in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She smelled so good. It was impossible to keep up spirited discussion, much less an argument, with a woman who smelled like springtime. He sighed. “Then there’s no hope she’ll see reason.”

  “I didn’t say that.” Amelia kissed his cheek. “She hasn’t said no to the duke. So long as she hasn’t made a definite decision and set her feet, we have reason to believe that she’ll come around to your side.”

  He bent and kissed her. “At least I know you’re on my side.”

  She smiled up at him. “Never doubt it, Leonard.”

  He’d have covered her mouth with his again, but someone interrupted by pounding on the door as if they were demanding entrance to an alehouse that was closed for business. Amelia wiggled out of his arms and skittered across the room as the door opened without waiting for his permission.

  Sir Jonah Sharp strode into the study. “My lord, I’ll have a word with you.”

  Leonard had meant to summon Sharp later, but now he narrowed his eyes at the upstart baronet who’d interrupted a perfectly good stolen moment with Amelia. He’d miss the clandestine aspect of their marriage once it became common knowledge, but for now, he had business to attend.

  “This is fortuitous, Sir Jonah. I have a few words for you as well. Will you kindly leave us, Miss Braithwaite?”

  ***

  Once Amelia glided from the room, Lord Wyndleton’s expression tu
rned icy.

  “Someone should have warned you that I don’t suffer fools gladly, Sharp,” the marquis said as he took his seat behind the ornate desk. “And barging into my study uninvited is by definition foolish.”

  “I’m not here to curry favor.” Jonah had little time for fools either. When he was planning this little interview, he decided his best course of action was to keep the marquis off balance. Blustering his way into the lord’s presence seemed a good start. “I’m merely here to serve notice that I intend to marry your daughter.”

  Wyndleton’s eyes blazed. “Out of the question.”

  “You’re mistaken, your lordship, if you think I’m asking your permission.”

  Lord Wyndleton’s Adam’s apple bobbed furiously. “You insolent puppy. How dare you—”

  “I dare because I love your daughter, and I mean to make her mine if she’ll have me.”

  “If she’ll have you,” he repeated. “Have you spoken to Serena of this ridiculous notion?”

  “No. I’m waiting to see if she turns down the Duke of Kent first. I understand his courier has arrived.”

  The marquis confirmed it with a curt nod.

  “Has she accepted his offer?” The marquis’s mouth twitched, and Jonah read irritation there. “So she hasn’t then. When will she give you her decision?”

  Lord Wyndleton’s fingers drummed a frustrated tattoo on the top of his desk. “We should know by teatime.”

  Jonah cocked his head at the man who routinely destroyed his political enemies in the House of Lords but appeared totally stymied by his own daughter. “You haven’t tried to force her, have you?”

  Some of the vinegar went out of the older man’s expression. “No. Why haven’t you asked her to marry you?”

  “For the same reason you haven’t imposed your will on her. She’s not like other women. She’s…” Jonah waved a hand as if he could pull the right word out of the air to describe the unorthodox woman who’d so tangled up his heart he’d never be free. But words failed him. He dropped his hand back to his side. “I love her, but she needs to be free to make her own choice.”