Scoundrel in the Regency Ballroom: The Rake and the Heiress / Innocent in the Sheikh's Harem

Nicholas bowed and moved towards Serena, an arm outstretched in greeting. A pink flush tinged her skin, which had little to do with the heat of the fire crackling away at her back. Amusement lurked as he watched her struggling to make sense of the situation, taking advantage of her confusion to usher her compliantly into a wing-backed chair beside the fire while he took the matching seat opposite. ‘Coffee will be here any moment. You look as if you could do with some, Miss Cachet.’

He was relishing her embarrassment. Serena sat up straight in her chair, forcing her countenance into a look of cool composure completely at odds with the mixture of humiliation and fury she was feeling. ‘Sir, you have already misled me once as to your identity. I beg you not to do so again.’

‘I did not mislead you, madam. I said I had the honour of serving the estate and I do. I rather fancy it was you who jumped too quickly to the wrong conclusion. Perhaps your judgement was clouded by your alltoo-obvious enjoyment of the base spectacle on offer?’

‘There is no need to indulge in more jibes at my expense,’ Serena said icily. ‘I am here to meet Mr Nicholas Lytton on a matter of some import.’

‘As I said, I am Nicholas Lytton.’

‘But—you can’t be! No, no, that’s ridiculous. The man I have business with is an old friend of my father’s.’

‘Ah. I expect you refer to my father.’

‘Yes, that must be it. Of course, your father,’ Serena said with enormous relief. ‘May I speak with him?’

She leaned forwards eagerly. Her flushed cheeks blushed bright against the creamy smoothness of her skin. With her guinea-gold hair and cornflower-blue eyes framed by startlingly long dark lashes, she looked quite breathtakingly beautiful. Nicholas drank in the vision of loveliness she presented, regretfully shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid that will be quite impossible. He’s dead these last ten years.’

‘Dead!’ Many times in the past few months she had pictured this scene, but this particular twist had never occurred to her. Serena sank back dejectedly in her chair. ‘Dead. I did not expect—that is, I’m sorry, but it’s rather a shock.’

What on earth was she to do now? Trying desperately to rally her thoughts, she took covert stock of the man opposite. She knew nothing of him save that he could box well and that he took outrageous liberties. Exactly the sort of man Papa would have taken great care to keep well away from his daughter. Perhaps because their life was somewhat unconventional, her father had always been very protective, almost overly so. Naturally, she was banned from the gaming salons. Since their somewhat ambiguous position in society made it impossible for her to socialise in more respectable circles, however, the opportunities to meet men—eligible or otherwise—were few and far between. In fact, Nicholas Lytton was the first man to have kissed her, though she wasn’t about to tell him that. He was insufferably arrogant enough as it was. Serena grappled for a solution to what appeared to be an insoluble problem. She was to trust no one save Nick Lytton. Yet Nick Lytton was dead. There seemed to be no way to avoid confiding in his son if she were not to leave empty-handed.

Still, instinct that had nothing at all to do with Papa’s urge to secrecy and everything to do with Nicholas Lytton himself made her reticent. That fight. That kiss. The unexpected effect the man himself was having on her. The watchfulness that lurked there, despite the nonchalant way he sat in the chair. Recalling the scene in the stable yard, a heat swept through her, which had naught to do with embarrassment. Shocking though it was to admit it, she had enjoyed the sight of Nicholas Lytton semi-naked, his muscles rippling. When he kissed her, her first instinct had not been to draw back as propriety demanded, but to pull him close, to feel for herself the warm skin, the crisply curling hair, the cord-like muscles and sinew. She had never had such lustful thoughts before. Now was certainly not the time to have them again. Looking up, she became aware of his close scrutiny.

Giving herself a mental shake, Serena sat up straight and licked her lips nervously. A raised brow encouraged her to speak. ‘Your father’s death makes my errand more problematic, but it does not make it any the less urgent. I believe I must enlist your help.’

‘Must? I sense a reluctance to confide, Miss Cachet. Don’t you trust me?’

He was toying with her. ‘Why? Would I be unwise to do so?’

‘That you must decide for yourself, when you are better acquainted with me.’

‘Sadly, I do not intend to spend long enough in your company to become so,’ Serena replied tartly. ‘I am come to reclaim some papers, which my papa entrusted to yours. They are personal documents that he did not want to risk losing on the Continent. You must know that we led a—well, an itinerant life there.’

‘You’ve just recently arrived in England then?’

‘Yes, from France. This is my first visit.’

‘Allow me to compliment you on your command of our language.’

‘I am, in fact, English, Mr Lytton,’Serena said stiffly. ‘My father was English, we always spoke that language at home. I can understand your being suspicious—my turning up here unannounced must give a strange appearance—but I assure you I am no fraud. Nor am I a French spy, if that is what you are worried about.’

‘Touché, mademoiselle. I’m afraid you’re doomed to disappointment, though, as I know nothing about your papers. I’ve been through all my father’s effects long since. If they were here, I think they’d have turned up by now.’

‘But they must be here! Are you sure he said nothing before he died—could he have perhaps lodged them with his lawyer?’

Nicholas frowned, puzzled by the earnest note in her voice. ‘No, I would have been informed if he had.’

‘You must remember something. Surely your father mentioned Papa’s name at some point?’

Her desperation aroused Nicholas’s curiosity. Whatever her tale, she had quite obviously not told him the whole of it. Her lovely face was fixed on him with such a look of entreaty as would melt all but the hardest of hearts. He could not but wonder what effect gratitude would have on her. ‘Perhaps if you could tell me a little more, it may prompt my memory.’

‘They are private papers, of no value to anyone else. My father’s name is on them.’

Her very reluctance to expand was intriguing. ‘Cachet?’

Serena bit her lip, more aware than ever of his too-penetrating grey eyes. Though he maintained his relaxed posture, she was under no illusions. Nicholas Lytton distrusted her, and she could not really blame him. ‘Not Cachet, Stamppe.’

‘Stamppe? Then Cachet is your married name? My apologies, I must have misread your card, madame.’

‘I’m not married. My name is also Stamppe.’

‘Yet your card says Cachet.’

‘Yes, because—oh dear, this is most awkward.’ Serena risked a fleeting glance up, caught her host’s sardonic expression, and looked quickly down again. Nicholas Lytton was smiling sceptically. In her lap, her fingers twined and intertwined, weaving a complex pattern of their own devising, which all too clearly betrayed her discomfort. She clasped them together and forced herself to meet Nicholas’s gaze properly. ‘Cachet means seal. My real name is Stamppe, though I did not find that out until my father informed me of it on his deathbed. He had a whimsical sense of humour.’

At this, Nicholas gave a twisted smile. ‘Amazing what facing mortality will do to a parent.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I sympathise, mademoiselle, that is all, having had a similar experience. It must have come as a surprise.’

‘A shock. Papa died very suddenly; he was the victim of a violent robbery. I find it difficult—I still find it hard to accept.’ She paused to dab her eyes with a handkerchief plucked from her reticule.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,’Nicholas said more sympathetically. ‘Do you have other family?’

‘No. No one. At least—no. Maman died when I was ten, and since then it has always been just me and Papa. Now it is just me.’

‘I find it hard to believe that someone so very lovely as you is wholly unencumbered. Are Frenchmen quite blind?’

‘Perhaps it is just that I am quite choosy, Mr Lytton. We seem to have strayed some way from the point.’

‘Ah, yes, the point. Your papers, which have lain unclaimed with my father for—how long?’

‘Over twenty years.’

‘And you have known about them all this time?’

Serena inspected her gloves. ‘No. Only since…’

‘Don’t tell me, Papa told you about them on his deathbed.’

She laughed nervously. ‘I know, it sounds like a fairy story.’

‘Exactly like one.’

‘I see you don’t believe me.’ And no wonder, she thought, rising to leave. She would just have to face the lawyer without her documents. ‘I won’t waste any more of your time.’

Though he did not doubt that her papers, if they ever existed, were lost, Nicholas was not ready to allow Serena to leave just yet. He was bored beyond measure and she was quite the most beautiful creature he had clapped eyes on in a long time. With her air of assurance and her cultured voice she could pass for quality, but he was not fooled. No gently bred young woman came calling on a single gentleman unaccompanied. Of a certainty, none allowed themselves to be diverted from their call into watching a mill. The more he saw of her, the more certain he became that her gratitude would be worth earning.

‘Don’t be so hasty, mademoiselle, give me a moment to reflect. Your father’s name—his real name—does sound familiar. Is there nothing else you can tell me that would help?’ He was simply teasing her, drawing out her visit in order to while away the time, so her reply surprised him.

‘The last rose of summer left blooming alone. I was to say those words so that your father would not doubt my identity.’ She smiled in reluctant response to Nicholas’s crack of laughter. ‘I know, it sounds even more like a fairy tale now.’

‘Perhaps it’s a clue,’ Nicholas said, pointing to the panelling. He meant it as a joke, having no faith at all in his visitor’s story, but Serena’s reaction gave him pause.

‘Of course,’ she said excitedly, clapping her hands together. ‘A hiding place. How clever of you to think of that.’

A long curl of hair the colour of ripe corn tangled with her lashes and lay charmingly on her cheek. Her vivid blue eyes sparkled like turquoise. She smiled at him quite without guile and he remembered the feel of her soft lips beneath his own. Delicious. She was really quite delicious and he was really very, very bored. ‘Of course,’Nicholas agreed lightly, ‘a clue. Why not? This house is Tudor, after all, it’s absolutely strewn with roses. There are roses on the panelling in almost every room, to say nothing of the ones worked into the stone on the fireplaces, and even hidden away on some of the original furnishings. What’s more, when it was built the family were Catholic. We’ve priest holes, secret passages, concealed doors, the whole kit and caboodle. It could take weeks to search it thoroughly.’

‘Weeks!’

Chasing rainbows seasoned with a little light dalliance would pass the time most agreeably, he decided. He had planned to quit the Hall within the week for London or, depending on the news he was awaiting, the Continent. He could not bring himself to care which. Why not indulge the so-charming mademoiselle with some tapping on panels in the meantime? Such enforced intimacy was bound to bear fruit. Delicious, forbidden fruit. ‘Perhaps just days, if you have someone to help you—someone who knows where to look,’ he said with an innocent look.

‘You mean you,’ Serena said cautiously.

‘Yes, who better? Though you should know that you’d be keeping company with a murderer.’

She could see from the tightening of his mouth and the frown that brought his heavy black brows together that he was no longer teasing her, yet she could not take him seriously. ‘I hope you jest, Mr Lytton.’

‘No jest, I assure you, although I am not quite a murderer yet. I fought a duel two weeks ago. A stupid thing, but I was in my cups, and my opponent was so very insulting I could not resist the challenge.’

‘My papa was given to saying that it is better for gentlemen to fight it out fairly and in cold blood than to resort to what he called fisticuffs in the height of a quarrel.’

‘A man of sense. That is exactly what we did. My opponent is a poor swordsman, whereas I am attributed somewhat better than average. I pinked him, a mere warning cut, a perfect lunge that caught his shoulder and disarmed him at the same time. Harry Angelo, my fencing master, would have approved, but my opponent, I am sorry to say, was merely angered. I turned away, assuming all was over. He picked up his sword and lunged at me. I had no option but to fight back, and, in being caught unawares, caused him an injury that may yet prove fatal. So here I am, rusticating and awaiting the outcome, ready to flee to the Continent from the hands of the law should he avenge himself upon me by dying, for duelling is become illegal now, you know. And so you see why I am quite happy to put myself at your disposal.’

The glint in his eye made her uncomfortable, for she could not help wondering what he might want in return. ‘That is very kind, but I can’t help thinking it would be an imposition. And in any case, it wouldn’t be proper for me to spend time here alone with you.’

‘Proper! No, indeed, I was very much hoping that it would be quite the opposite.’

Startled by his bluntness, Serena got hastily to her feet, blushing wildly. ‘I fear my coming here unaccompanied has misled you as to my character.’

He remained quite annoyingly unflustered. ‘That, and the way you kissed me.’

She wrestled with the fastening on her glove, and her flush deepened. ‘Well, Mr Lytton, let me put you to rights. Even if I agreed to accept your help—which I have not done—and accepted the risk to my reputation which being here alone with you would engender, I am not the type of female to reward you with kisses.’

‘Aren’t you? Then I am to assume the kiss after the fight was out of character?’ Nicholas took her wrist and dealt expertly with the recalcitrant button.

She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to it. His fingers were warm through the soft leather of her glove. They were long and slender, the nails trimmed and neat. His knuckles were grazed and bruised from the fight. His touch seemed to flicker from her hand up her arm, raising goose bumps on her skin under the long sleeve of her dress. Nervously, Serena gazed up at him, her hand still lying compliant, knowing she should move, yet caught as before in a trance of awareness. His intentions were unmistakable. He was going to kiss her again. ‘No,’ Serena said in that curiously breathy voice that did not belong to her. ‘I will not pay for your co-operation by allowing you to take liberties. You mistake me.’

‘You would kiss a ruffian in a stable yard, but not a gentleman in a parlour,’he teased. ‘I did not take anything from you that wasn’t freely given, and I won’t now.’

‘Then let me go.’

‘I will, just as soon as you persuade me you want me to, mademoiselle.’

That look of his again—it made her feel as if he could read her thoughts, which meant he would see all too plainly the war between ought and want going on her mind. It was just a kiss, nothing more. If he could treat it lightly, so surely could she.

‘It’s just a kiss, after all,’ Nicholas whispered persuasively, echoing her thoughts so precisely she wondered if she had spoken out loud. ‘A kiss to seal the beginning of our quest together.’

She opened her mouth to say no, but somehow the words did not come and he took it for an invitation. His lips were cool, exploring, gentle. Questioning. For a breathless moment she hesitated. His mouth stilled. Then she felt her free hand reach up of its own accord to stroke the silken hair at the back of his head. She opened her mouth like a flower to the sun. Softening her lips against his, she melted into his embrace, savouring the taste, the smell, the power. Lost in the newness, the strangeness of it all.

And then it was over. Nicholas took a step back. ‘Enough for now, I think; any more would be a liberty. I am a gentleman, despite my earlier appearance, and I meant what I said, I will never take anything you do not want to give.’

Serena shook her head, resisting with difficulty the urge to touch her hand to her lips, for they were tingling. ‘I have agreed to nothing.’

‘Come, come, mademoiselle, you cannot possibly be thinking of leaving without these precious papers of yours. What are you afraid of?’ Nicholas asked in a perturbingly confident voice. ‘Is it perhaps yourself you don’t trust?’

No, frankly, she didn’t! He was a wolf in wolf’s clothing from whom she should run as fast as she could. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Serena replied tartly, ‘I have every confidence in my ability to resist your charms.’

‘Then you’ll allow me to help you?’

It was simple really. Without his help she could not claim her inheritance. She could seek out her father’s lawyer, but unless she had the papers—it would be useless. She searched his face for reassurance. ‘I have your promise that you will behave properly?’

‘I have already given you one promise, mademoiselle. I see no need for another.’

They had reached an impasse, and he knew it! Serena fumed inwardly. ‘Oh, very well,’ she finally conceded rather ungraciously. ‘With such a knowledgeable guide as yourself, it can’t possibly take too long, after all.’

‘Very sensible. Do you wish to start immediately?’

She tried to collect her senses, which by now were utterly scrambled, not least by her own shocking responses to being kissed. And not once but twice! ‘Thank you, Mr Lytton, but, no, I have had quite enough excitement for one day,’ Serena responded drily. ‘I think it best that I return to my lodgings in the village for now. I’ll come back in the morning, if that is acceptable to you?’

Nicholas grinned. ‘My dear mademoiselle, I can think of little regarding you that wouldn’t be most acceptable to me. Until morning, then.’

‘Until morning, Mr Lytton.’

Chapter Two

Serena arrived at her rooms in the small village of High Knightswood, just over a mile’s distance from the Hall, to find Madame LeClerc awaiting her. Madame was a Parisian modiste anxious to make her fortune in London. On hearing that Serena was leaving for England, she had offered to accompany her. ‘To lend you countenance, chérie, as the bon papa would have wished. I want to set up my own establishment,’ Madame LeClerc had gone on to explain. ‘These wars have prevented the English ladies from enjoying the benefits of our French couture. Now that we are friends again, it is time for the rich mesdames to learn how to dress properly. Like yourself, mademoiselle,’ she added obsequiously.

Serena had accepted Madame’s offer gratefully, being well aware that Papa would not have expected her to travel unaccompanied. Sadly, she soon discovered that the price for Madame’s companionship was significantly higher than the generous salary and lodgings the modiste had demanded. Madame lent her countenance, but her company was tedious in the extreme.

The journey on the packet steamer made Madame heartily sick. She continued to be sick the entire road to High Knightswood, punctuating bouts of nausea with trembling complaints of everything from the carriage springs to the state of the post roads and the dampness of the sheets at the post houses. She spoke very little English, obliging her employer to intervene when things became difficult. With a shudder, Serena recalled a particular episode involving Madame, the land lady of the Red Lion, and an unemptied chamber pot. Nor could Madame come to terms with the English climate. ‘Il pleut à verse. Rain, rain, rain,’ she exclaimed every day, regardless of whether the weather was inclement or not.

As Serena divested herself of her bonnet and pelisse, Madame LeClerc subjected her to a lengthy diatribe on the subject of English food. ‘I am sick to my stomach with the rosbif. All this meat and no sauces, I am starving.’

Eyeing Madame LeClerc’s ample figure, hovering over her like a plump vulture, Serena found this last claim difficult to believe.

‘Look at this! Just look, Mademoiselle Serena! This débâcle is intended to be our dinner. Please to tell me how I, a good Frenchwoman, am meant to eat this?’ With a dramatic gesture, Madame indicated the serving dishes, which were set on the table.

Reluctantly, Serena lifted the covers. She had to acknowledge that their landlady’s cooking was somewhat basic, but after the day she’d had, she was in no mood to sympathise. ‘It’s pigeon, madame, with peas, and perfectly edible. Eat it or not, I don’t care, but please sit down, I have something to tell you.’

Serena served them both before embarking upon the tricky matter of informing Madame that they would of necessity be delayed in High Knightswood while she resolved a ‘personal matter’. Madame, chomping her way steadily through two whole pigeons, distaste writ large on her face, listened in sullen silence. As soon as her plate was cleared, however, she launched into a bitter tirade.

‘You promised me we would be headed straight for London. The Season has already started, I need to find my clientele now, before they have all their gowns. This delay will ruin me!’ A plump white hand fluttered against her impressive bosom. Serena’s companion was for some time loudly inconsolable.

The vague notion she had entertained, of asking Madame to accompany her on her visits to Knightswood Hall, faded from Serena’s mind as the modiste’s anguish grew. She tried to imagine what Nicholas Lytton would make of her companion. Like as not he would send Madame below stairs if he did not send her packing. Serena would then be responsible for the inevitable fracas between Madame and Nicholas’s chef, and no further forward in observing any of the proprieties.

She retired early to bed, but sleep eluded her. In the next chamber she could hear Madame LeClerc’s rhythmic snoring all too clearly through the thin walls. Loud enough to rattle the windowpanes, Serena thought grumpily, plumping the bolster in a vain effort to get comfortable. It had been a trying day. The news of Nick Lytton’s demise had been a shock, though she supposed it should not have been. She was annoyed at herself for having been so unprepared. His son’s promise to help was a mixed blessing. Nicholas Lytton had made it quite clear he did not think her at all respectable.

Nicholas Lytton was a man who gave off danger signals as he entered a room. It would be foolish indeed to ignore them. He carried about him an edge of excitement, as if always on the verge of committing some wild act, about to trespass the safe confines of conduct just for the sport of it. It was this, Serena realised with a start, that drew her too him, rather than the more basic tug of physical attraction. She must be on her guard with him at all times. Despite her unorthodox life, her reputation was spotless. She could not afford to tarnish it now, though it would be a lie to say she was not tempted. A fact of which, unfortunately, Nicholas Lytton was all too well aware.

Perhaps after all she should induce Madame LeClerc to act as her protector. A particularly loud snore came from next door, making Serena giggle. Not even Nicholas Lytton would be tempted to overstep the mark in Madame’s presence. But then he would simply get rid of her. Serena closed her eyes. She was going round in circles, far too tired to argue with herself any more. Surely Knightswood Hall was too remote from London for anyone to care what did—or did not—go on there?