However, at her core a little voice nagged—as handsome and dashing as Lord Blackwood was, he was a virtual stranger in all ways that mattered; at least her papa would think so. But her newly discovered romantic streak quickly stifled that voice. Lord Blackwood called to something hitherto unknown within her, and that, she couldn’t ignore.
“Yes, I shall be your bride,” she heard herself saying as if reciting words from a book.
The dimple in his square chin deepened and his face was transformed into such stunning male beauty, she felt her world tilt ever so slightly once again. This fabulous hero wanted her. Wouldn’t that make all London gasp in surprise?
“Serena, I swear I shall make you happy.” He drew her to her feet as he rose from his knee. “I must go to Avalon Hall to inform my parents. By the time I return, your father will have arrived. Will you miss me, sweetheart?” he asked with the whimsical smile that curved his firm mouth in such appealing lines, Serena wished to touch it.
“Yes. Shall we seal our bargain with a kiss?”
Was there a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes? Had she done something amiss? Miss Serena Fitzwater of Market Weighton would never have been so bold, but another side of her was stirring to life. It was a little frightening to realize she’d never even imagined this aspect of her personality, but now its pull was so great, she actually moved one step closer to him.
“I shall truly miss you, Lord Blackwood,” she whispered, gazing up at him before, shocked at the strength of her feelings, her lashes fluttered to her cheeks in embarrassment.
His arm shifted about her waist, pulling her gently toward him. Through the thin muslin, her breasts pressed against his chest. His lips brushed hers with the same gentleness as before, and then, for one heartbeat, deepened, sending a swirl of excitement to lodge in her middle. Immediately he stepped back. His eyes were ebony now in a countenance suddenly rigidly stern.
“My dear Serena, our wedding cannot come quickly enough. Farewell, my love.” Turning on his heels, her betrothed left her without a backward glance.
Her betrothed.
At last all her composure fled. Before her knees could give way, she sat back down upon the settee. That kiss had been more than a brief touching, pleasant as that was. That kiss had seemed to promise … what? Serena didn’t fully understand it, or her feelings. Chewing on her lower lip, she gazed into space not quite believing what had transpired in a few weeks. Whatever had come over her?
She’d arrived in London a month ago, and instantly the hustle and bustle of the city awakened something dormant inside her. Perhaps it had started even earlier, when she’d sullied the high tone of her mind, as dear Papa would lament. Whatever the cause, she was every day discovering unknown facets of herself. How would Papa deal with Serena’s actions? As cowardly as she knew it was, the Reverend Fitzwater’s dutiful daughter wished fervently there were some way to avoid finding out.
She had two days of uncomplicated bliss with Aunt Lavinia cosseting her outrageously before she was awakened to the news her father had arrived during the night and was waiting for her in the breakfast room.
With fumbling fingers she rushed through a hasty toilette. She brushed her dark curls, pulling them back at her nape to tie with a blue ribbon, donned his favorite dress of blue and white dimity, which she’d brought from home. Perhaps if she wore all the trappings of the old Serena, he wouldn’t notice the changes that she feared he wouldn’t understand.
A wave of homesickness washed over her when she saw him sitting at the head of the table consuming his favorite breakfast of kippers and eggs. In that faraway time she’d never have even thought of concealing her feelings from him. Now she was acutely conscious of saying the right words to please him.
Immediately he rose and embraced her in the safe, strong arms that had always been her haven.
“Serena, my dear, I have missed you so.” He held her at arm’s length, peering over the top of his eyeglasses. “Let me look at you. Yes, your aunt is correct, you are glowing. Even Mrs. Buckle said I must look for this glow of happiness, and certainly it is here. But, my dear, this is all so sudden. Are you sure you are ready for such an important step?”
His myopic blue eyes crinkled at the corners with worry lines. Did he look older—his pale skin so like her own nearly transparent, and his wispy gray hair whiter? Never would she do anything to worry him or cause him pain.
“Papa, I thought you’d be pleased. I’ve made a good match, according to Aunt Lavinia.”
With his usual gentle smile, which Mrs. Buckle confided long ago made some parishioners feel like errant children, he settled her next to him in a chair.