appearance of frailty, the delicately hinted weaknesses, the inability to totter more than a few yards on dainty little feet in satin slippers. Serena cared not a jot for those who considered women unappealing if they thought for themselves, had political opinions, spoke their minds. Her father, an eccentric Scottish earl, had encouraged an unconventional upbringingfor his only child, and his influence on Serena had been more lasting and important than her mother’s more orthodox beliefs. Sebastian had loved the vigorous to-and-fro of their discussions, the frequent arguments that had always ended the same way … in a passionate tangle between the sheets.
His body stirred as the memories flooded back. But it was over. There was nothing between them now but the arid wasteland of a memory turned sour. They simply had to find a way to coexist as civil but distant acquaintances in the same four square miles of the city. He walked off towards Upper Brook Street, hoping that Jasper would be at home. For some reason, he needed the bracing presence of his elder brother’s somewhat caustically humorous view of the world.
Serena walked quickly back to Pickering Place. The butler opened the door to her knock, and she entered the hall, automatically looking around to check that the salons were being prepared for that evening’s gaming. In the daytime, the house appeared like any grand gentleman’s residence. The transformation came as darkness fell.
The tables were laid in the dining salon; the small, private card room on the opposite side of the hall, which was reserved for the deadly serious games among fierce competitors, was prepared, the baize table brushed so not a hint of lint or dust could impede the fall of thedice, new packs of card waiting to be cut, fresh candles on every surface, the decanters fully charged.
Satisfied, Serena hurried upstairs. The grand salon was still being prepared, but everything looked as it should. She gave a few instructions for the placement of candles and had turned to go to her own bedchamber in the opposite wing when the door to the library opened and her stepfather emerged. “Thought I heard your voice, Serena. Come in here. Burford is here, wants to wish you good afternoon.” He rubbed his hands together in genial fashion, but there was an edge to his voice and a hard glitter in the gaze he bent upon his stepdaughter.
Serena loathed the Earl of Burford. But she knew he held the mortgage on the house on Pickering Street; it had been the only way the general had been able to set himself up in such style. The assumption was that the house would pay for itself in no time, and the mortgage could be paid off in no more than two years. Serena had always thought such optimism misplaced, but her opinion had been neither offered nor asked for.
“I’m just going to take off my hat and pelisse, sir.” She moved towards the corridor.
“You can do that later. Burford wishes to see you.” The general put a restraining hand on her arm, and the grip was firm enough to be painful.
Serena jerked her arm free. “Very well. But I would think I could make his lordship more welcome if I wasnot in my street clothes.” She stalked past her stepfather into the library.
The Earl of Burford was a widower in his late fifties. A thick mane of silver hair crowned a distinguished, leonine head. His eyes were disconcerting; so light as to be almost colorless, they were impenetrable, giving no indication of his thoughts or emotions. His complexion usually bore the roseate bloom of a man well into his burgundy, and this afternoon was no exception.
Serena curtsied from the doorway. “Good day, my lord.”
“Ah, the lovely Serena. Come close, my dear.” He beckoned her. “Let me look at you. I haven’t see you since Brussels.”
Serena, aware of her stepfather close behind her, had no choice but to move farther into the library. “When did you arrive in London, my lord?”
“A week ago, but I had
His body stirred as the memories flooded back. But it was over. There was nothing between them now but the arid wasteland of a memory turned sour. They simply had to find a way to coexist as civil but distant acquaintances in the same four square miles of the city. He walked off towards Upper Brook Street, hoping that Jasper would be at home. For some reason, he needed the bracing presence of his elder brother’s somewhat caustically humorous view of the world.
Serena walked quickly back to Pickering Place. The butler opened the door to her knock, and she entered the hall, automatically looking around to check that the salons were being prepared for that evening’s gaming. In the daytime, the house appeared like any grand gentleman’s residence. The transformation came as darkness fell.
The tables were laid in the dining salon; the small, private card room on the opposite side of the hall, which was reserved for the deadly serious games among fierce competitors, was prepared, the baize table brushed so not a hint of lint or dust could impede the fall of thedice, new packs of card waiting to be cut, fresh candles on every surface, the decanters fully charged.
Satisfied, Serena hurried upstairs. The grand salon was still being prepared, but everything looked as it should. She gave a few instructions for the placement of candles and had turned to go to her own bedchamber in the opposite wing when the door to the library opened and her stepfather emerged. “Thought I heard your voice, Serena. Come in here. Burford is here, wants to wish you good afternoon.” He rubbed his hands together in genial fashion, but there was an edge to his voice and a hard glitter in the gaze he bent upon his stepdaughter.
Serena loathed the Earl of Burford. But she knew he held the mortgage on the house on Pickering Street; it had been the only way the general had been able to set himself up in such style. The assumption was that the house would pay for itself in no time, and the mortgage could be paid off in no more than two years. Serena had always thought such optimism misplaced, but her opinion had been neither offered nor asked for.
“I’m just going to take off my hat and pelisse, sir.” She moved towards the corridor.
“You can do that later. Burford wishes to see you.” The general put a restraining hand on her arm, and the grip was firm enough to be painful.
Serena jerked her arm free. “Very well. But I would think I could make his lordship more welcome if I wasnot in my street clothes.” She stalked past her stepfather into the library.
The Earl of Burford was a widower in his late fifties. A thick mane of silver hair crowned a distinguished, leonine head. His eyes were disconcerting; so light as to be almost colorless, they were impenetrable, giving no indication of his thoughts or emotions. His complexion usually bore the roseate bloom of a man well into his burgundy, and this afternoon was no exception.
Serena curtsied from the doorway. “Good day, my lord.”
“Ah, the lovely Serena. Come close, my dear.” He beckoned her. “Let me look at you. I haven’t see you since Brussels.”
Serena, aware of her stepfather close behind her, had no choice but to move farther into the library. “When did you arrive in London, my lord?”
“A week ago, but I had
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