by Lucy Ashford
She was still smiling, but her voice was brittle and her eyes over-bright. With tears? Again Raphael cursed himself inwardly.
He realised she was speaking again.
‘There’s one last favour I’d ask of you. Do you mind if we tell people that you’d informed me from the first you’d be leaving soon for a new life in America? It will make me look rather less of a fool, don’t you think?’
‘Very well,’ he said quietly. ‘We shall tell people that. Though no one, Serena, would ever think you a fool.’
‘In my opinion, that’s rather debatable.’ She was still holding the door open and he began to head for it, but he turned suddenly.
‘Don’t forget tomorrow night,’ he said.
‘Tomorrow night?’ She looked blank.
‘We’re due at Lord Rotherham’s ball. Remember?’
For the first time she looked panicked. ‘No. No. You cannot really still expect me to attend a ball with you?’ He saw the physical effort she was making to suppress her emotions; saw the way she briefly pressed her hand to her throat. But then she took a deep breath and summoned a smile. ‘Well. Let me think. A party—after all, why not? It will be almost the final night of our agreement, so it’s rather a pity to give up our pretence at this point, isn’t it? And who knows—maybe while we’re dancing, you and I can laugh a little over our stupid mistakes. My stupid mistakes, in believing all the lies people told about you.’
‘I was the one who ensured those lies were believed,’ he said.
‘And so?’ She waved her hand airily. ‘Let’s treat all this lightly from now on. After all, it’s not as if we’re in love or anything ridiculous like that, is it? Now, would you mind showing yourself out?’
He bowed over her hand, with self-contempt churning through his veins. If she’d wept, he would have understood. If she’d ranted at him, he would have understood. But her courage—her sheer defiance in the face of what fate had thrown at her—cut him to the quick. In the aftermath of her unhappy marriage she’d succeeded in making a new life for herself, but then he’d arrived and thrown her world upside down. It was he and he alone who was responsible for that bereft look in her eyes.
Brave, beautiful Serena. She didn’t deserve this. As he recognised all her qualities afresh, he realised the enormity of the loss he was facing.
Grinling brought him his coat with deference. ‘Save your bows, man,’ Raphael muttered under his breath. ‘You were right first time. I don’t deserve your respect in the least.’
Grim-faced, he stepped out into the London street, remembering Serena’s words: You’re worried that I’ll miss you? Not at all. But he would miss her. A new life lay ahead of him, but already it was as if the light had gone out of his world. He walked back to his house in Grosvenor Square then set out directly for leafy Kensington on horseback, to explain to Madeleine that he was making all the necessary travel arrangements and soon they would be on their way to America. She would settle swiftly, he was sure, with the relatives she remembered with such fondness. But how long would he himself stay in that far-off land? ‘For ever’ had always been his plan. He’d always intended to make a new life for himself; to forget the places he’d lived in, the people he’d known. But to forget Serena? Was that possible?
* * *
A footman showed him through to the sunny garden room where Dominic and Madeleine were playing a game of chess. With great enjoyment, he observed, because Dominic was chuckling. He also noted that the two of them sprang up almost guiltily when Raphael came in. Then Dominic, after warmly shaking his hand, cleared his throat and said, ‘Raphael, my good friend. I have something I need to discuss with you, in private.’
And, very slowly, Raphael began to realise exactly what Dominic was telling him.
* * *
Less than half an hour after Raphael’s departure, Joanna swept into Serena’s private parlour and tugged off her flower-adorned bonnet. ‘Now, I promise I shall not interrogate you any more about what’s going on between you and the gorgeous Monsieur Lefevre. But you will be attending the ball tomorrow night with him, won’t you?’
Serena had been arranging some roses in a vase on the window sill, but now she put down the flower she was holding. ‘Yes, I’m going,’ she said. ‘With Raphael. But it will be our last outing together, Joanna.’
Joanna’s expression changed. ‘Oh, Serena. And I was beginning to hope...’
Serena shook her head. ‘As it’s turned out, we’ve had great fun together. But now we’ve decided that it’s over. Completely.’ She tried her best not to sound as if her world had just fallen apart. With anyone but Joanna, she might have succeeded.
‘Over!’ cried Joanna. ‘No! Serena, darling, I thought that you and he were absolutely marvellous together! I thought it was the real thing!’
So did I. Serena felt her heart contract with fresh pain. ‘What nonsense,’ she said as lightly as she could. ‘We’d promised each other it was a temporary arrangement from the very beginning—because, you see, Raphael is leaving London soon. Leaving the country, in fact.’ She picked up another rose. ‘I’m not sure about this apricot colour. Do you think I should use a yellow one instead?’
Again, Joanna’s face was a picture. ‘Stop fussing over your flowers this minute and look at me! Surely Lefevre’s not returning to France?’
‘He can’t, Joanna. Under the new laws there, the property of all those who’ve left France belongs now to the state. No, he’s sailing for America—New York. He tells me that hundreds of French exiles have settled there and he’s going to join them, to start a new life. Apparently it’s what he’s always planned.’
‘So he’s off to pastures new.’ Joanna frowned. ‘He had us all fooled, didn’t he? Though do you know, just lately, I was starting to rather like him.’ She looked at her friend swiftly. ‘And as for you, my dear, I think you rather more than liked him, didn’t you? This really is unforgivable of the Marquis!’
Serena forced a smile. ‘My friendship with Raphael was surprisingly enjoyable. But I don’t need a man in my life—I’m a Wicked Widow, remember?—and I intend to stay that way.’ She pointed at Joanna and attempted a change of subject. ‘Talking about men, I rather think you’re the one who’s in danger of letting the side down.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you! I cannot believe you’re seeing so much of my brother.’
‘Oh, George,’ Joanna said resignedly. ‘Yes, I’m going to the ball with him tomorrow. I am quite determined, you see, to make him enjoy himself despite all his excuses about business and duty!’
‘Then I wish you luck.’ Serena let her eyes twinkle. ‘But really, what’s the attraction? He is so predictable and so very particular about everything. You should hear him tell his butler exactly how he wants his breakfast cooked!’
‘And he refuses to wear a coat in any shade of blue, only brown or black.’ Joanna chuckled. ‘He won’t wear a cravat in any style other than the very plainest. Yet his taste in furnishings is—oh, goodness, what can I say?’ She glanced at two ornate bronze jardinières that towered on either side of the fireplace and both women burst into giggles. ‘But...’ Joanna sighed ‘...I do think I’m rather fond of him, you see. I’ve never met anyone quite like him before, but perhaps that’s where I’ve gone wrong. He’s so utterly, boringly...reliable.’ She hesitated a moment. ‘Serena, so far it’s a secret. But he’s asked me to marry him—and I think that maybe I’ll say yes.’
Serena hugged her warmly. ‘Dear Joanna, he’ll make you a wonderful husband! And I shall be the best ever aunt, visiting you and all your children at birthdays and Christmas time to shower you with presents!’
Joanna hugged her back, for which Serena was grateful, since a tear or two glistened in her own eyes and she wanted to dash them away quickly before her very best friend should glimpse them.
Chapter Twenty-One
It was almo
st seven in the evening when the message came from Raphael the next day.
I could be late. Forgive me. Please go ahead without me.
By then Serena was in her bedroom and Martha was helping her to prepare for the ball. As she let the piece of paper fall to her dressing table, she felt all remaining hope wither. So their time together really was over. She hadn’t realised that she still harboured a lingering hope inside her, but now all thoughts of a future with him were truly extinguished.
He was going to America. He’d vowed it two years ago as his brother lay dying.
She rose from her seat, aware that Martha was waiting for her to decide what she was wearing tonight. ‘Will it be the pink or the blue, ma’am?’ Martha had already laid out two ornate ballgowns and Serena forced herself to concentrate. Your priority now, she instructed herself, is to remain in control, whatever happens.
If he didn’t turn up at all tonight, it was probably for the best. It would spare her the agonising farewells. But if he didn’t appear, it also meant she’d already said her last goodbye to him. And she would never see him again.
Her emotions were raw. She didn’t care which gown she wore or how her hair should be arranged. Poor Martha, intent on presenting her in full finery, kept making suggestions which Serena rebuffed with scarcely a glance.
‘How about this one, ma’am? The colour looks lovely on you!’
Martha was holding out the peach silk dress that Serena had been wearing on the night she and Raphael first danced together last November. How much had changed since then. How much she had changed. A great tide of missing him surged through her and it was with difficulty that she fought it down. ‘Not that one,’ she said calmly. ‘It’s a little insipid, don’t you think, Martha? Not the blue either. I’ll wear the emerald silk. And my diamonds.’
So she dressed and put on her finest jewels. She sent a message to George’s house—Please will you call for me on your way to the ball tonight? And after Martha had arranged her hair, piling it to the crown of her head with just a few tendrils artfully trailing down her neck, she looked at herself critically in the cheval glass.
Lady Serena Willoughby—fashionable, independent and wealthy. She moved in an exclusive circle of glamorous friends and aristocratic admirers. She knew that many women envied her. But at that very moment she felt she would have changed places with anyone, however humble, who had fallen in love and was loved in return.
* * *
When her brother came to collect her, she halted in surprise as she came down the stairs. Was this George? Elegant black tailcoat, white cravat knotted quite daringly... Joanna’s doing, she guessed. She was about to express her approval, but George was bursting to speak. And she guessed what he would say.
‘Serena, Joanna told me that Lefevre is leaving the country! My dear, I knew he would let you down sooner or later! And—’
‘George,’ said Serena. ‘Not now. Please, not now.’
Shaking his head, he led her out to his carriage, where Joanna made room for her. George helped Serena in, then tapped on the roof to instruct his coachman to proceed. ‘I shall not forgive the rascally fellow,’ he went on as he settled himself opposite the two women. ‘Not after the dance he’s led you, Serena.’
Joanna must have seen the look of desolation on Serena’s face because she said rather tartly, ‘George, you’re not being at all tactful. But then, you never are.’
George sighed and pressed his sister’s hand. ‘I apologise if I’ve spoken out of turn. I hope you’re not going to miss the fellow too much?’
‘Far from it, George!’ Somehow Serena forced a smile. ‘I enjoyed his company for a while, that was all. So I’m perfectly fine, thank you!’
George nodded, mollified, and turned to look out of the window. But Joanna moved closer to Serena and whispered, ‘Fine? Are you sure?’
Serena took Joanna’s hand, but found she couldn’t say anything. Anything at all—let alone tell a lie.
* * *
Lord Rotherham’s ball was almost the last grand event of the Season and by the time they arrived, the mansion in Berkeley Square was packed with the haut ton. Serena danced, greeted old friends warmly and was surrounded by male admirers. She had feared she would be bombarded with questions: Where is the Marquis? Why isn’t he here with you? But she wasn’t. Perhaps this would be easier than she’d feared. Perhaps everyone else had recognised the inevitability of Raphael’s departure from her life, right from the start.
But even so she felt as if there was a great, aching hollow where her heart should be. She realised now that her rakehell Marquis was a man of honour, a man of great integrity—and his vow to his dying brother to find his lost wife, then take her to safety, had to override his own feelings. And, yes, it was unfortunate for Serena that he had to crush her heart in the process, but she completely understood why he’d had to do it.
Though how desperately she would miss him.
She was trying very hard to concentrate on the conversation of a baronet whose name she hadn’t fully registered—was it Sir Christopher? Sir Crispin? She didn’t really care, although he was making huge efforts to impress her with an account of his estate in Lincolnshire.
She nodded to everything he said, all too aware of the unshed tears aching at the back of her eyes. Raphael was completely noble and nobody knew it except her. He wasn’t to blame for her heartache in the least. It was she who had tempted him into that first kiss, she who’d broken the pact that their intimacy was for outward show only. He had known all along where his duty lay. He’d known that his plans could not include falling in love with Lady Serena Willoughby. It was her fault, all hers, that she’d allowed her safe world to be shattered into tiny pieces. Like her heart.
‘And in three weeks, I’m hosting a grand ball at my house in Lincolnshire,’ Sir Christopher—or Crispin—was saying to her eagerly. ‘Might I send you an invitation?’
She knew she ought to say yes, because she was single again now, wasn’t she? She was free. A Wicked Widow again—and she couldn’t have hated the thought more.
* * *
After supper, of which she ate scarcely a thing, the baronet asked her to dance again and she agreed. But when the orchestra started playing that haunting popular melody that she’d heard in the distance at Vauxhall, when she and Raphael had kissed, she broke away from him abruptly. ‘I’m sorry, Sir... Christian, but I’m finding it rather warm. I must go and sit down for a little while.’
‘It’s Crispin, actually. But of course, Lady Serena! Let me offer you my arm...’
Shaking her head, she turned tail and fled through the packed ballroom. He tried to follow her, but she lost him easily enough in the crowd, after which she hastened along a corridor until she came to an unlit conservatory well away from the main reception rooms.
There, in the darkness amid the tall palm plants, she struggled to find that inner core of strength that had helped her to survive her marriage. And you will survive this, she told herself. Though at the moment, it didn’t feel like it in the least. Because that haunting music still drifted through to her, filling her with such desperately sweet yet painful memories that she felt utterly bereft. She went over to one of the tall windows to stare blindly out into the dark night, hurting so much inside that it was as if a vital part of her had been lost for ever.
That was when she heard someone speak her name.
‘Serena.’ It was a man’s voice, low and husky, with just the faintest trace of a foreign accent. Her heart bumped to a stop. Dear God, she must be going mad, because Raphael wasn’t going to turn up, not now. He must know he would only be prolonging her agony...
But she turned round slowly—and, yes, Raphael was there.
His tall, muscular frame was silhouetted by the light coming from the hallway. He looked devastatingly handsome in a dark tailcoat that hugged his frame and a white starched cravat that emphas
ised the stark perfection of his features. He appeared calm and in control. As usual.
But there was something different about him—some uncertainty in the way he held himself. And was that a look almost of desperation in his silver-grey eyes?
She said with precise calmness, ‘Why, Raphael. I gave up hope of your arrival some time ago.’
He shook his head impatiently. ‘I always intended to get here. When I arrived, I was told you’d been dancing. But why are you here, in the near dark?’
‘It was the music,’ she blurted out. To her horror she was unable to keep her voice steady any longer. ‘The orchestra began playing the tune we heard that night at Vauxhall, when we were together and we...’
When we kissed.
She didn’t say it. She didn’t have to, because he realised. He took another step towards her—‘Oh, Serena—’ and then he stopped. The silence hung like doom between them. She wished with all her heart that she didn’t love him so desperately, but, God help her, she did.
She pulled herself together and endeavoured to speak lightly. ‘Anyway,’ she said in a calmer voice, ‘it also seemed a good moment to give myself a brief rest from the dancing and the chatter. It’s been such a busy evening and I’ve met so many friends! You’ve no idea, Raphael, how much I shall enjoying being independent once more. Being free to do exactly as I wish—’
She broke off because he was putting his strong hands on her shoulders now and she couldn’t stop the racing of her blood. Couldn’t stop her body’s recognition of what he meant to her. For he was the one. The only one and always would be. He stood over her, his eyes burning into hers until she felt her heart clench painfully.
They’d said their goodbyes. She kept reminding herself of it, yet still she ached to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers; she wanted it all so much that it physically hurt to hold herself away. This man. This unique, impossible, charismatic man. What had he done to her?