Part 17 (2/2)

Serena felt as if some other language, some code perhaps, was being spoken. Her confusion must have shone from her eyes as she looked to Drake, for he was quick to step in.

”Sheath your claws, Maria. The d.u.c.h.ess is unused to such frays, and you would do well to make some allowances.”

Maria pouted at him and then shrugged a nearly bare shoulder. ”You cannot blame me. It is so very easy.”

”All the more reason for restraint.” He sounded like a stern father lecturing a child.

Maria turned to one of the gentlemen who had entered with her and, with a bored sigh, indicated her desire to leave. The three men gathered themselves in response, bowing to Serena and telling her outrageous lies-how ravis.h.i.+ng she was and how they should like to call on her and take her riding in the park. Confused at such offers when they knew she was married, she could only smile and nod and remain silent.

When they left she leaned against Drake's arm for a moment, then looked up into his eyes. ”Whatever did all that mean?”

His warm laugh washed over her as he turned her to her seat. ”You will get used to it. Now, let us sit. The opera is about to begin.”

During the performance, Drake watched Serena from the corner of his eye. The glow from the stage bathed her face in creamy light, lending an aura of luminosity to her skin. Her delight in the production only added to his enchantment.

Stop it, you fool!

He forced his gaze back to the actors. He mustn't look at her like a lovesick calf! The world, his world, believed she was his stepmother . . . and it was going to be harder than he thought to pull it off. One thing was made certain tonight: He would not be able to keep her in society long. The women would eat her alive and have her believing all sorts of things about him-some true, but many exaggerated. He'd never really cared before, but now he suddenly didn't want her hearing the worst of his past. He rather liked her devotion.

How long do you think that devotion can last in a climate such as this? The thought plagued him, his mouth pressing together in a tense line. He pushed the unsettling question away, doing his best to convince himself there was no reason for worry. Nothing could diminish Serena's love for him.

He only prayed he was right.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Drake attempted to immerse himself in his old lifestyle, taking fencing lessons, managing vast estates needy from his long absence, visiting his club, and escorting Serena to very select social engagements-those with limited conversation, where his need to leave her unattended was unlikely. While all this kept him busy, he was, still, somehow restless. In fact, were he honest with himself, he'd have to admit it was all . . . empty.

Rather than relis.h.i.+ng his position and wealth as he had in the old days, now, when he rode in the seedier parts of town, he noticed the wretched urchins, the beleaguered mothers, and the downtrodden men who found escape in a bottle of spirits. Just yesterday he had shocked his valet by inquiring if the man had

a cold after he had sneezed several times.

Had he changed so much? After all, he still felt the satisfied rush of accomplishment when he received, earlier in the week, news of a successful s.h.i.+pping venture. It was as if he had become two men, and he didn't know how to reconcile them into one whole.

Frustrated, he redoubled his efforts in the one direction he was sure of-Serena. He had promised to show her his world, and now he did so with the grandeur of his dreams. There were flowers overflowing from every vase in the house, jewels that were exclaimed over as if they were the first she had ever seen, clothes and furs and every bauble and delicacy he could put his hands on.

He knew she loved anything he gave her, but lately she looked a little perplexed when some new trinket arrived, as if she sensed the dam was threatening to break and flood waters about to flow, full force, upon them.

Drake feared it was so as well.

It was the strain of it all, he told himself as he leaned his head into his hands at the desk in his library. They had to be so careful. He had to be so careful, forever on guard, fielding questions and comments about the duke, smoothing any blunders Serena unknowingly made. Furthermore, she had yet to conceive. It was perplexing at best, fast becoming alarming.

He had asked a time or two if she'd thought it possible she was with child and received only shy smiles and a shake of her head. They both wanted it, and he knew she was pleased that he seemed to be antic.i.p.ating it. But it wasn't happening fast enough for his purposes. Everything hinged on her getting pregnant.

Picturing her face made his stomach do an odd twist, a reaction becoming more and more frequent of late. That Serena had not yet become suspicious was nothing short of miraculous. There had been many occasions when his explanation of some flippant comment made by a man or woman of their set had sounded absurd even to his own ears. But she always believed him.

She was so naive and so very trusting.

And you are so very deceitful.

He couldn't have imagined a year ago that he would experience even a pang of guilt in this situation. He would have stayed the course with single-minded determination and no consideration of how Serena might feel when the truth came out. But now . . . he was haunted by it.

Someday it was going to all come cras.h.i.+ng down around him, and Serena, wife of his heart, would no longer look at him with those trusting, adoring eyes.

But someday wasn't now and so he continued the tightrope act, playing the dutiful stepson in public, the doting husband in private.

If he could just get through the next week. The social season and the trials it brought were almost over, thank heaven! One more ball tonight, and then he could whisk her off to Northumberland and Alnwick Castle.

Home.

He glanced down at a pamphlet about the latest innovations in agriculture and cultivation and tried to make himself concentrate on it as he had meant to do this afternoon. But naught stilled the voice whispering in his heart. A voice of concern . . .

And conviction.

SERENA'S HANDS TREMBLED. She dropped the letter as if it were on fire and sat down. She couldn't believe what she had just read. How old was this letter? Did Drake know of its contents? Why was it still here, in this desk that had belonged to Drake's mother?

She scanned it again, trying to make sense of it. It was a love letter. One of the most eloquent expressions of love she had ever read. And, dear heavens, it was from a Richard Weston to Helena, Drake's mother. She concentrated, trying to remember every detail Drake had told her of his family. She remembered him saying his mother had died when he was a young boy. Hadn't he also said she was sickly and sad? Yes . . . and no wonder if she had loved her husband's brother, as this letter suggested.

Richard Weston. Very little had been told to her about him other than the fact that he was the youngest of the three brothers and now lived in Bristol. She picked up the delicate parchment and opened it, scanning the lines: As to the child, he should remain of that household and become the next Duke of Northumberland. We must be brave and strong for him, for his future inheritance. Nothing can be proven and my brother will have little choice but to accept him. Dearest, we must endure for his sake as together we could give him nothing.

Was Drake the son they spoke of? Her head swam with the implications. Did he know? And then another question gripped her: Should she show him the letter? Were there others in the desk that may be less cryptic? She had found this one while searching for paper to write a letter home. The top drawer had stuck, and after giving a mighty pull, she had jerked the entire drawer out into her lap. As she lifted it to put it back in place, she discovered a secret compartment in the back of the drawer. After a little prying, it opened. Inside lay this lone letter.

The desk was a treasure of hidden drawers, false backs, and lovely workmans.h.i.+p, but though she rummaged through it with frantic thoroughness, looking for anything that might shed more light on Drake's family, she found nothing. If there had been other letters, they were hidden in another place or destroyed long ago. She would simply have to question Drake about his family.

Perhaps, together, they could discover the truth.

A LOW SHRIEK jolted Drake awake and into a sudden sitting position. The foggy haze of the intense nightmare surrounded him, leaving him unsure for the moment what was real. His heart was pounding as if he had run the length of London and his body shook in a cold sweat. What had made that sound? He realized it must have been him.

Serena sat up and touched his arm. ”What was that sound? Was it thee, Drake? Art thou all right?”

He wasn't sure if he could answer. He had to get some air. Pulling back the coverlet and then the bed curtain, he climbed out of bed, his legs weak as a baby's. The chill of the night air hit his naked body like a bucket of cold water, helping to pull him back into reality. Hurriedly, he pulled on his dressing gown and finally attempted to answer her.

”Just a dream. I'll go down to walk it off. Go back to sleep, Serena.”

The moonlight fell into the room through the tall windows and into their coc.o.o.n, revealing the worry on her shadowed face. ”Art thou sure? I could get something for thee.”

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