scrawled her response.
Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.
Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.
But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.
Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.
I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.
S. Barton
She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.
Dear Serena,
he had written.
She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.
You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.
Will you?
Still yours,
Hugo.
Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.
I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?
I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?
S. Barton
It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.
Serena
—
The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.
I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.
Yours.
There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:
Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.
Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.
I see,
she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter.
You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.
She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—
Her breath caught. A figure appeared in a window on the second floor. She couldn’t make out any features, just a dark silhouette. Still, he could probably see her in sunlit detail. Serena forced her lips to curve into a smile.
The Wolf of Clermont raised his hand.
Before she could lose her nerve, Serena made a fist and delivered an extremely rude gesture. He stood at the window, stock-still, before turning away.
She received his note not two minutes later. She opened it, her heart pounding. But there were only two words on the paper.
Marry me.
She stared at the
Cut line, sir. My sister and I have scarcely a hundred pounds to lose between the two of us. Such infinitesimal reserves will hardly be missed.
Not true, but in her experience, wealthy men never understood the value of money. She nodded fiercely at that, and then played the card that she’d been holding in abeyance for this moment.
But you know—and I know—and all of Mayfair knows—that the duchess will not be pleased if she hears my story. I am not frightened of you; how could I be? I have nothing to lose. I am already ruined.
Clermont, on the other hand… Do remind me. Is it twenty thousand pounds at stake if his wife deserts him, or forty? The gossips never get the figures clear.
I address one final thing. You are not mine, and I’ll thank you not to address me in so familiar a fashion.
S. Barton
She handed her response off to the footman, who actually answered the door for her this time around, and returned to her bench—today, it was vacant. It was cold, but her rage kept her warm. And in any event, she wasn’t kept waiting long. The footman brought Mr. Marshall’s response out to her around noon.
Dear Serena,
he had written.
She was sure he’d addressed her by her Christian name solely to irritate her.
You may pretend all you wish, but you and I both know that no matter how you protest, your resources are all that stand between you and a life on the streets. The duke, of course, might be inconvenienced by a lack of money, but he will be shielded from the true cost of poverty.
Will you?
Still yours,
Hugo.
Serena’s hands had grown cold as she read, but she grabbed her pencil and scrawled a response.
I, at least, have some experience with poverty. I don’t relish repeating it, but I am positive I will make do. Can your duke?
I have some tips for him on frugal living; I shall be sure to pass them along if his wife abandons him completely. Here’s one: Did you know that a mixture of two parts vinegar, two parts oil, and one part treacle makes a passable lemonade?
S. Barton
It took a little more than half an hour for a response to arrive.
Serena
—
The vinegar solution was actually quite disgusting, which I presume was your intent. In the interest of fairness and gentlemanly conduct—two things that I cannot pretend that I normally aspire to—I must award you the upper hand in that particular bout.
I say this in all seriousness: It would give me the greatest sorrow to destroy your future and crush your spirit.
Yours.
There was a line crossed out beneath that, so darkly that she couldn’t read the original words, and then:
Postscript. I am not indifferent to your welfare, even if it seems otherwise. I can see you from my office window. It cannot be good for you to pace so frantically.
Serena swallowed, and then glanced up. The windows of Clermont House reflected the dying afternoon sun. She could see movement behind the curtains—vague shadowy figures, as of housemaids going about their duties dusting—but nobody that looked like Mr. Marshall.
I see,
she wrote slowly on the reverse of his letter.
You’ve been watching me. If you’ll look out your window now, I have a special surprise for you.
She handed this to the butler and then stood by her bench, waiting. Her heart pounded. Her hands were clammy. God, Freddy had it right—she jumped into everything without thinking, and now look what—
Her breath caught. A figure appeared in a window on the second floor. She couldn’t make out any features, just a dark silhouette. Still, he could probably see her in sunlit detail. Serena forced her lips to curve into a smile.
The Wolf of Clermont raised his hand.
Before she could lose her nerve, Serena made a fist and delivered an extremely rude gesture. He stood at the window, stock-still, before turning away.
She received his note not two minutes later. She opened it, her heart pounding. But there were only two words on the paper.
Marry me.
She stared at the
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