There was no question in Serena’s mind about her own interest. Yet during all her daydreams about this night, which had seemed nothing more than impossible a few months ago in Market Weighton, never could she have imagined it more perfect than Lord Matthew Blackwood had made it.
The Courtship
“Serena, wake up at once!”
The insistent voice interrupted a particularly pleasant dream: Lord Blackwood was sweeping her up in his arms, about to enter a bedchamber. It was probably just as well the dream ended abruptly, because the novels were somewhat vague about what happened next.
“Serena, child!” The booming voice came again.
Slowly Serena forced her reluctant lids open. The sight of Aunt Lavinia, her graying hair falling about her shoulders, clad in nothing but a ruffled jonquil dressing gown, brought her bolt upright in bed.
“Aunt Lavinia, what is amiss? Papa?” she gasped, her sleep-numbed mind grasping at what might be the only logical reason for her aunt to be out of bed at such an unseemly hour.
“No! This!” She flung open the bedchamber door to admit three upstairs maids and two downstairs maids, each carrying an enormous bouquet. Yellow primroses, pink gillyflowers, blue cornflowers, white and red roses, filled their arms. Two giggled self-consciously.
“Don’t gabble about there. Back to your duties.” Lavinia waved her hand in dismissal before rounding on Serena. “There is even more downstairs. A veritable garden! The house is abuzz, so my maid woke me, knowing full well I would want to immediately discover who is so extravagantly courting you.” She thrust a cream envelope under Serena’s nose. “Here! Open it at once.”
Serena did as she was bid, even though she already guessed who had sent them. It was confirmed a moment later as she gazed down at bold black handwriting.
“A piece of your garden to ease thoughts of home. Until we meet again. Blackwood.” Serena folded the note over in her palm and looked up into her aunt’s startled face.
The owl-like eyes stretched so wide in surprise, Serena feared it must be painful. When Aunt Lavinia demanded a chair, Serena scrambled out of bed to assist her.
She collapsed into the fragile gilt chair, muttering to herself. “What could the boy be about?”
Standing barefoot in her night shift, Serena hovered over her, the precious note clasped securely in her fist. “Aunt Lavinia, are you all right?”
Lavinia seemed to collect herself. “All right! My dear girl, a duke’s son! And not just any, but Avalon. And a chance to be a duchess; for the heir, the Marquess of Longford, is such a dissolute hellion, he’s bound to come to an untimely end. Then…! Oh, I can hardly stand the sheer pleasure of informing your dear papa how brilliantly I have launched you.”
Surging to her feet with an energy Serena had never before witnessed, Aunt Lavinia clasped her in a snug, lavender-scented embrace. “After breakfast we will return to Madame Bretin’s for at least two more evening dresses.”
“But I thought we had spent all the money Papa had allotted?”
“Penny-pinching was fine when I thought you could look no higher than a baron. But now we must spare no expense! Be ready in two hours,” she commanded, before sailing out of the room triumphantly.
Alone, the delicate mingled scents of bouquets the maids had placed on all the surfaces surrounding her, Serena clasped her hands together. Could Aunt Lavinia be right? Had Blackwood been as shaken by their meeting as she? He was a soldier, a distinguished one according to her aunt. Could he be laying siege to her heart? She chewed unconsciously on her bottom lip as she bent over the cornflowers. Had he known they were nearly the same color as her eyes?
She had no time to spin romantic dreams! Really, she must get a grip on her absurd new fancies! She knew why she was in London for a Season: it was her duty to make a good match which would enhance her family lines. She was the granddaughter of a baron, niece to the present Baron Fitzwater, a niece by marriage to the late Lord Charlesworth, and cousin to the present, Frederick. Although her lineage was not as old and noble as some, she had her place in the ton and her duty to perform.
That that duty would make her heart pound in her throat and turn her icy cold yet too warm at the same time had never entered her head. At least, not until she’d put aside the weighty books on sermons and religious philosophy which had made up most of her reading matter and daringly took up her first novel. In truth, the fragile idea of a love match had only flitted through her mind then. Now, she admitted, since being bowled over by Lord Blackwood, the idea had taken wing.
Despite her better intentions, she was still sitting, musing, when a gentle knock upon the door heralded the maid’s entrance with her usual breakfast of hot chocolate and dry toast. Spurred into action, she sipped and nibbled as she hastily performed her toilette so as to not keep Aunt Lavinia waiting.