A Lily Among Thorns(107)

Serena thought back to six years ago in her father’s study, begging him on her knees not to fire Harry. She had been so afraid and so guilty. Harry’s four-year-old sister might not have enough to eat without his wages. Her father had looked at her with contempt and reminded her what she owed her position. He had reminded her that she would have to marry soon and that no one wanted soiled goods, not even bought titles like the Braithwaites, so she had better stop whining and forget this ever happened.

Eventually she had got off her knees. Their voices had risen, Serena’s getting more and more hysterical until she was nearly shrieking through her sobs. Her father had backed her against the wall, his pointing finger only an inch or two from her face. She had started to be really afraid when a maid had knocked on the door. Serena had been glad for the interruption, even though the maid had borne a message from Lady Blackthorne that all the shouting was making her ill.

Perhaps it had been foolish to leave. If she had known it would cost Harry his life, she certainly wouldn’t have done it. But even after she had realized that there would be no virtuously poor married life with Harry, she hadn’t been able to bring herself to go back.

She had never been sorry she’d chosen to become a whore instead. Because no matter how bad it got, she had known it could have been worse. She could have been at home. She could have been married to one of the men who bedded her.

She had never been sorry until now, when she wanted a parson’s son more than anything in the world.

Perhaps at the moment he was truly willing to overlook her past for the sake of his lust—and, she would admit, genuine affection. Perhaps he thought—and there was nothing so naive Solomon mightn’t think it—that people would forget, in time. But Serena knew better.

He would tire of her. Hell, she was tired of herself half the time. He would wake up and find he wanted a sunny-tempered girl who had never threatened to have anyone killed. He would tire of hearing her name bandied about; he would wish her respectable; he would stop trying to talk her into wearing scarlet.

Serena had not worn a low-necked gown since she bought the Arms. But now, with trembling hands, she ripped the linen chemisette out of her dress before it smothered her. She stared down at the tops of her breasts, at the second birthmark no one had seen in years—no one but Solomon. He’d seen everything, it seemed, and yet he stubbornly refused to see how impossible it all was.

She heard his footsteps in the hall before he knocked. It had a kind of inevitability to it. “Come in, Solomon.”

The door opened slowly. She remembered the first time he had come through that door, only two weeks ago, and how her heart had jumped in her chest at the sight of him. Now it pounded, rhythmically, like a headache.

“Serena, are you all right?”

“Yes,” she said wearily. “What do you want?” He’ll tire of you if you keep treating him like this, he’ll tire of you, he’ll tire of you, he’ll tire of you—

“What’s wrong?” He very carefully did not look at her torn neckline.

She clutched the arms of her chair so she wouldn’t go to him. She wanted to press her ear against his naked chest and hear that his heart was still beating. “Nothing. I was just tired of all the carousing. I was just—tired.”

His eyes searched her face, but after all, it was a plausible enough lie. He didn’t push her. Instead, he came over and smoothed back her hair. She leaned into his touch like a dog. “It was a crazy night, wasn’t it?” he said. “But thank God the war’s over.”

He sounded so happy about that. Serena supposed she was glad. She wished she were gladder, though. War was a brutish thing, but it had always seemed so far away, something that concerned other people. Perhaps if she hadn’t been so selfish, so wrapped up in herself and her own safety, she would have turned in René years ago and Solomon wouldn’t have almost been shot tonight.

“We’re leaving Wednesday morning to take the earrings back to Shropshire,” he said. “Will you come and meet my family?”

Serena’s jaw dropped. “You do realize that’s the worst idea you’ve ever had, don’t you?”

He pursed his lips and crossed his arms, the picture of stubbornness. “I’ve had much worse.”

“Solomon, you can’t bring your mistress into your mother’s house. You can’t let her sit down to dinner with your sister.”

“You’re not my mistress.”