The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel #3)(24)

Sera reached out to lovingly smooth the paper. “If he weren’t double my age and married to an actress, I’d be inclined to do just that, honestly.” She fingered the keys, finding the opening notes to the song, loving the way they washed over her. She didn’t need the sheet music. Not for this, or any of the other pieces from Thomas Moore.

She closed her eyes and played from memory while her sister replied, “Nonsense. You’d never give up your perfect duke.”

Sera went warm at the words and missed a note. “He’s not my duke.”

Except she rather thought he was. Even if she did not think of him as a duke at all. He wasn’t a duke. He was Malcolm. Her Malcolm. All smiles and touches and kisses like a promise. And every one of them for her. They’d seen each other dozens of times in the six weeks since they met, in public and private, and every time, it had felt as though it was the two of them alone. Like magic.

“I should like him to be my duke,” she said softly.

“Then he shall be.” Sophie turned the page of the music even though Sera did not need it as she let the music take over.

She sang. “’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone; all her lovely companions are faded and gone . . .” The song always made her ache. “No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh, to reflect back her blushes, or give sigh for sigh.”

“Lady Seraphina Eleanor Talbot!”

She stopped playing.

Sophie looked to her. “It sounds as though you are in trouble.”

And the door to the conservatory burst open, flying back to connect with the wall beyond, revealing the Countess of Wight, formerly Mrs. Talbot. Their mother.

The countess brandished a newspaper in one hand, holding it high above her head like a heraldic banner, though the panic in her eyes indicated that the banner in question was in no way triumphant.

Sera’s remaining three sisters followed close on the countess’s heels, the warning in their respective wide-eyed gazes a clear indication that something had happened, and it was not a good something. Sesily, the sister closest in age to Seraphina, was shaking her head dramatically over their mother’s right shoulder, while Seleste and Seline, numbers three and four of the quintet, appeared to be aiming for meaningful stares.

Though Sera could not for the life of her divine what meaning those stares were meant to have.

And then the countess spoke, outrage shaking the words from her. “Has he had you?”

Sera’s jaw dropped at the crass question. “What?”

Seline and Seleste gasped their shock as Sesily’s eyes went wide. For her part, Sophie went stick straight, immediately reaching to take Sera’s hand. “Mother!”

The countess did not look at her youngest daughter, focused entirely on her eldest. “Now is no time for propriety. Answer the question.”

Sera was speechless.

Sesily—darling, loyal Sesily—leapt into the fray. “Have you gone mad, Mother? Who are you even referring to?”

The countess did not hesitate. “The Duke of Haven. And now that is clear, let me ask again, and you would do well to answer me, Seraphina. Has he had you?”

Sera closed her mouth. “No.”

The countess watched her for an interminably long silence before Sophie stood. “They are in love.”

The countess laughed, high and shrill and unpleasant. “Has he said so?” The question landed like a blow. Sera pressed her lips together, and her mother read the answer without it having to be spoken. “Of course he hasn’t.”

The countess turned away with a violent twist. “Dammit, Sera. What have you done?”

She shook her head. “Nothing!”

Her mother looked over her shoulder, morning sunshine cascading through the window highlighting her disappointment. “You think I was not young once? You think I cannot see that lie?”

Sera stood, fists at her sides. “He cares for me.”

“He cares for what you’re giving him.”

“Mother.” This, from Seline. “You needn’t be cruel.”

“It seems I do, though,” said the countess. “Because it’s never occurred to any of you that you might be taken advantage of.” She swung back toward Sera, already crossing the room, fast and furious. “Half the season is gone, and he’s not courting you.”

He was though, wasn’t he?

Before she could argue the point, her mother pressed on. “He hasn’t spoken to your father.”

She opened her mouth. “He will.”

“No, Sera. He won’t. He’s had six weeks to do so. He’s had six years to. You expect me to believe that after six years of seasons, of being disdained by pompous aristocrats with more money than heaven itself, of scraping for invitations and pleading for attention, the Duke of Haven has taken a liking to a Soiled S?”

Yes.

It didn’t matter that they’d all struggled to find suitors who weren’t impoverished or untitled. It didn’t matter that she and Malcolm had never discussed their future. He’d promised her he wouldn’t ruin her on that first night, on that balcony.

He wanted her. She knew it.

She wanted him.

“It’s true.”

The countess shook her head, and for a moment, Sera saw sadness in her mother’s gaze. Sadness, and something like pity. “No, Sera. No one has such luck.” A pause. Then, “The papers say you’ve been indiscreet.”