How To Bed A Baron

by English, Christy

  “I am so sorry, Serena. So sorry for your loss.”

  She felt tears rise to blind her and to block her throat. She swallowed convulsively in a vain effort to control herself, but two tears escaped anyway. This man had never doubted her father’s ability or his work. This man had written to them long after the rest of the College stopped, until the lines of communication had been cut completely by Napoleon’s stranglehold on Italy.

  “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  “You stood by him, as no one else did, as no one else could. He loved you more than anything in this world. I want you to know that.”

  Gillingham peered at her from behind rimless spectacles, the blue of his eyes two points of light that, instead of making her want to weep, gave her strength. She took a deep breath, and released it slowly, straightening her back.

  “Thank you, Professor. He loved you, too.”

  His father’s old schoolmate waived one hand, suddenly embarrassed. She watched as he turned to ring the bell, no doubt to bring in a porter with tea and scones. She stopped him by opening the satchel that stood on the table between them, and taking out the piece her father had given all his adult life, and all of her youth, to acquire.

  Professor Gillingham froze, his hand on the bell pull, and watched as she unwrapped the statue, first from its oilcloth, and then from its layers of gauze, until it was completely unveiled.

  Gillingham stopped cold, and stared.

  “Chester found this with his dig,” he said.

  “He found a good deal more, but most of that is in Paris now, or in Berlin.”

  Gillingham swallowed convulsively, as she had just done, not over the death of her father, but over the culmination of his life’s work.

  “It is exquisite.”

  The reclining couple lay together, their hands touching, their long plaited hair streaming behind them as if not carved in sandstone but drawn in river water. Their very souls seemed to peer out from the sarcophagus lid, as if to say, We loved, we lived, and we love still.

  “This is only the sculptor’s model,” Serena said. “The final piece, found with it, was taken to Paris almost at once. But my father hid this for almost ten years. No matter which power took over his dig, he kept this back from them, so that he could bring it here, to you.”

  “And when he could not, you carried it for him.”

  Serena smiled. “It’s not the first burden I carried for my father.”

  “But it is the last.”

  Gillingham seemed as moved by that as she was. But she did not weep, and neither did he.

  “The French were dogging my steps the whole way home. They know I have something, but I don’t believe they know what it is. They will know where I’ve gone, most likely. They might try to approach you…” Serena did not want to say that they might try to steal it away, or threaten him, but Gillingham held up one hand to silence her.

  “It will be safe here. I will keep it so. All our College will. It is beautiful piece, and a great legacy. Your father’s name will go on the find, of course. They will all know who to thank for it.”

  Serena shuddered, feeling a bit of the fear go out of her. She had accomplished what she thought at every check point, and at every border, on every road between London and Parma, between London and Oxford, simply could not be done. She did not realize how much she had doubted herself, all along the way, until now, when the fight was over.

  She felt the strength go out of her legs, and moved to sit, but found Arthur’s hand under her elbow steadying her, shoring her up.

  “Forgive me, Professor,” Arthur said at last. “We would take tea, but I fear we have a few miles to go before the sun sets.”

  “But the sun does not set until late,” Gillingham protested.

  “And my mother dines early.”

  Arthur bowed, and Serena pressed the old man’s hand.

  “Take care of his legacy,” she said.

  “I will,” Gillingham said, as if swearing an oath. Then his eyes fastened on Arthur. “And you take care of her.”

  ***

  Once tucked into the carriage with Arthur beside her, Serene slept like the dead. She did not stir even as the afternoon light began to fade until the carriage stopped at last in front of his mother’s door. She woke at once then, reaching for the bag, feeling it light under her gloved palm. For one hideous moment she thought she had lost her father’s legacy, but then she saw Arthur’s kind blue eyes on hers, and remembered. The statue was safe, as she was.

  Her old friend smiled at her, the planes of his face more attractive than she remembered them. He had been a boy when she left, but now, there was no doubt that Arthur Farleigh was a man.

  He handed her down from the carriage without waiting for a footman to do it. He did not let her go at once, but kept her hand in his, tucking it into his elbow. She stood close, breathing in the long forgotten scent of his skin. Then she remembered. He did not take her arm for his pleasure, but because he hoped to fool his mother.

  Serena did not have another moment to think, but heard Lady Sara’s voice drift from the entrance hall as she came out to meet them.

  “The prodigal has returned, and not too late for dinner, God be praised.” Lady Sara stopped in mid step, and there was a moment of clarity when Serena was certain that the lady remembered her. But the moment slid by like water over smooth stones, and Serena bent down so that Arthur’s mother might kiss her cheek.

  “Welcome, Catherine. You are a good deal taller than Arthur’s letters led me to believe.”

  Serena sketched a curtsy, hoping it was a passable one. She forced herself to smile. “I hope he mentioned my red hair.”

  Lady Sara laughed out loud at that, and Arthur had the grace to look chagrined. “Indeed, he did not. But your hair is lovely, as is the rest of you. Welcome to our home.” Lady Sara raised one brow at her son. “I was surprised to get Arthur’s note this afternoon, but I am very happy to see you both.”

  “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice, Mother.” Arthur accepted the kiss Lady Sara offered him, and his face softened as he looked at her. Serena was touched to see his care for his mother. She thought his idea of fooling the lady daft at best, but she could see it was motivated by love.

  “This is your home, Arthur and you are always welcome here. I am glad to have you back from the dirt of London. Town simply does not suit you any more that it suits me.”

  Arthur smiled and Serena found herself wishing that he was smiling at her.

  “I am glad to be here.”

  Lady Sara pressed her hand. “Come in then, and take your ease. Dinner will be served in an hour. There is plenty of time for a bath.”

  Warm water on her skin was one of the best things Serena could hope for in that moment. She did not look to Arthur, but followed his mother up the stairs and into the house. He was not far behind, carrying her bag, which he refused to relinquish to a footman.

  With a sly smile, Lady Sara left them alone in front of the guest room door, going off to dress for dinner herself. Arthur did not surrender the bag at once but stared down at her as if he would memorize her face.

  “Thank you for helping me,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Serena was breathless from his nearness, and waited to see if he might say or do anything else. But all he did was bow and walk away as if the hounds of hell were on his heels. As Serena watched his delectable backside leave, she wondered what might happen if she abandoned all common sense, and let herself feel engaged, if only for one night?

  Lady Sara’s maid helped her sponge and press her emerald green gown, so she was dressed in silk for the first time in over a year, staring at her own reflection in the looking glass, working up her courage to go down to dinner when Arthur’s mother opened her door.

  “Forgive the intrusion,” Lady Sara said. “But I must speak with you before we sit together through the farce my son has created.”

  Serena felt a sinking i
n her stomach, knowing that his mother was aware of the strange deception he had attempted. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Lady Sara raised one hand.

  “My son is a stable, sensible man, as you are well aware. I am not entirely certain why he felt the need to pass off the daughter of an old friend as his fiancée, but he has.”

  “I am not Catherine Middlebrook,” Serena said.

  “Of course not, dear. With your vivid coloring, you could only be the late Sir Chester Davenport’s daughter.”

  Serena swallowed hard, and for lack of anything better to do, she curtseyed.

  Lady Sara laughed. “I thought your father was cruel to drag you off when you were so young to make your way among foreigners and heathens in Italy.”

  “Catholics, ma’am.”

  “What have you.” Lady Sara waved a dismissive hand toward anyone born outside the Home Counties. “I think you must be a brave woman to have survived such an ordeal with your grace and your honor intact.”

  Serena did not blush at the mention of her honor.

  “I am grateful you are home,” Lady Sara said. “And I am grateful that you have agreed to marry my son. He is alone in the world, save for me, and he needs someone at his side who will look after him once I am gone.”

  Lady Sara kissed Serena’s cheek, making her feel even more guilty. “Whatever his bizarre reason for passing you off as a chit fresh from the school room, I will let it rest for tonight. But tomorrow, he will have to present you as the woman you are, or I will make short work of him and his shenanigans. I wanted to give you fair warning.”

  Serena wanted to tell this kind woman that, though she wore his ring, she was not truly engaged to Arthur. No doubt Arthur wanted some sweet, biddable, schoolroom miss to bear his children and to keep his home in quiet splendor. He did not need a ruined woman who had spent the best part of her youth in Italy, digging in mud.

  Serena could not tell Lady Sara that however, for Arthur’s mother was looking at her with the bright eyes of a hopeful bird. Instead, Serena curtseyed one more time.

  “Warning received, my lady.”

  Chapter 5

  Arthur did not get a word in edgewise throughout the entire meal. Which was just as well, since he had swallowed his tongue.

  His mother had served his favorite dishes, roast quail braised in rosemary and butter, honeyed carrots and well cooked greens. He ate every morsel on his plate, knowing that while she had not cooked the meal herself, his mother had overseen every aspect of it.

  He listened to her, trying to drink in her presence, to record it in his memory for the time when she was gone. He knew that she was ill, though he had no idea how ill, nor how long she might linger with him. He loved his mother, but for most of his youth, he had gone his own way, studying literature, writing sonnets that he showed no one, and meeting with the Royal Society to hear the work of other men.

  He was a dutiful son and visited home as much as he might, especially over the holidays and in summer, but Arthur Farleigh had lived his own life apart from the last of his family. And now that his mother was dying, he regretted those years, wishing he had come home more.

  He could not undo those years, but he could give her a daughter-in-law.

  Arthur knew he should apply his keen mind to the problem of finding another bride in the height of summer, when all and sundry had no doubt already left London at the close of the Season. He racked his brain for friends he might impose on, house parties he could attend where he might find some quiet, suitable, biddable girl to bring home. He tried to plan this course of action, to strategize his future as if he were going to war, but he found that with Serena Davenport in the room, he could not formulate a thought of anyone but her.

  When he tried to speak, he found that he could not. He had loved this woman all his life, but he had thought his memory had painted her in too brilliant hues, that no one alive could be larger than life as she was in his memory. But as he sat at table with her, he knew that he had been wrong. If anything, she was more vibrant, more brilliant, than any memory could ever have been, more than any woman he had ever known.

  Never at a loss for words, Serena seemed not at all chagrined that his mother did not remember her, but instead seemed to accept blindly the fiction they had concocted that she was Catherine Middlebrook, debutante from Devon. He listened, as his mother did, to stories this new “Catherine” regaled them with, tales about a long-lost cousin who had gone on a dig in the wilds of Italy, hunting Etruscan artifacts with her father. She told entertaining, if hair-raising feats of derring-do that her “cousin” and “uncle” had undertaken to do their best to deceive the French and the Germans alike, and to retain some artifacts and remnants of the past for King and Country.

  His mother’s pale face was flushed with laughter, and Arthur found himself wishing that they were to marry in truth.

  He knew he was being absurd to even think it. No doubt this dynamic woman would make her way into some other adventure, leaving him behind as she had over ten years before. He told himself this truth, but found that the allure of fantasy was so much sweeter.

  “So you must take Miss Middlebrook to look at the portraits,” his mother said as the evening meal drew to its close.

  “I beg your pardon?” Arthur asked.

  “You must acquaint Miss Middlebrook with our illustrious ancestors, since she is soon to become a Farleigh.” His mother smiled serenely, but there was a glint in her eye that he did not like, almost as if she were plotting something. But surely dowager ladies did not plot, especially sick ones. No doubt he was imagining things.

  Serena did not seem to think anything amiss, but accepted his mother’s kiss on her cheek as if it were her due, and started up the staircase without him. Of course, Serena knew very well where the portrait gallery was. They had played there as children, concocting war strategies beneath the gloomy presence of the Barons Farleigh of old.

  Arthur kissed his mother and murmured a distracted good night, before following Serena up the staircase. With his eyes on her delightfully rounded posterior, he did not notice his mother’s cat-in-the-cream smile.

  Serena stood staring at the portrait of his father. The butler had been there before them, for the candles were lit in the gallery, along with the wall sconces. There was not as much light as there would have been come morning, but the sunset still lingered beyond the western facing windows, and Arthur could see his father glaring at him even from the doorway.

  “He was never pleased with me,” Arthur said. “I was a disappointment to him until the day he died.”

  Serena leveled her green gaze on his face, and he felt exposed as he never was in the presence of anyone else. There was no pretense between them, and never had been. She was forthright and lovely as always, more so now that she was a woman, and not a girl. It was a woman’s gaze that took him in, a woman’s eyes that measured him in silence. It was the woman, not the girl of his memories, who spoke.

  “Then your father was a fool.”

  The harsh criticism of the paragon who had ruled over his early life and youth with an iron fist hung in the air between them, lingering in the silence like the tone of a bell. Arthur turned to the portrait of his father, half-expecting the man to step down from it and demand satisfaction, or at the very least, an apology. But the portrait stayed still, for it was as silent and as dead as his father was.

  Serena spoke again into the silence, not giving his father another glance. “You are the best, most honorable man I have ever known. If your father could not see those qualities in you, he was not worthy of his son.”

  Arthur felt a hard knot form at the back of his throat, and he swallowed it. Strong emotion was something he had trained himself to live without. Since his father’s death, he had not even felt anger very often. He felt love for his mother, and sorrow over her illness. He has been somewhat annoyed earlier that morning to be left on the roadside by his intended and her hulking Scot. But Arthur Farleigh was a man in control of him
self, as his father had taught him to be. Only today, in this woman’s presence, had feelings he had long suppressed rise up. They did not come as a long-dried spring, gently seeping from the ground, but overcame him like a river’s torrent.

  Arthur felt the tears in his eyes, the first he had shed since he was a boy, when Serena had first gone away. She was at his side then, the generous bounty of her breast pressed against his arm. Her slender arms went around him, as no one else would have dared to do, and her lips were on his cheek, pressing close, taking away the one tear that had fallen.

  “I am sorry for your loss,” she said. “I know you loved him, even if he was an ass.”

  Arthur drew her close, burying his face in the fragrant wealth of her auburn hair. He shook with the need to touch her, as well as the myriad feelings seeing her again had brought to him. He felt for one horrible instant as if he were drowning, as if Serena Davenport were the only thing on God’s green earth holding him up.

  Then she raised her lips to his, and kissed him.

  Chapter Six

  Serena did not know what possessed her. Arthur should have been a near-stranger, after so many years apart. But her heart did not know it, and her head went unheeded as she acted like a brazen, wanton woman and pressed herself against him. At first she thought to comfort him, but when her lips touched his cheek, she felt the old fire in her belly that she had felt only once before, when she was eighteen and he had kissed her, asking her to stay.

  She had not been free to marry him then, and she knew that could not marry him now. But she was a woman now, and about some things, she could make her own choices.

  Serena felt his arms go around her as soon as she stepped close. They tightened only when her lips moved to his.

  The taste of him was sweet, a long-remembered warmth that she had longed for since the day she left him. He tasted of braised quail and honeyed carrots. He tasted of sunlight. He tasted of home.