Different enough to know she must stay the course.
The carriage slowed to turn up the miles-long drive, swaying mightily on the less traveled ground, and Sera returned her attention to her sisters, each watching her, an assemblage of soldiers in corsets and petticoats. Awaiting their orders.
She looked from one to the next, each proud and prepared. She could not help her smile. “He’s going to be livid when we all pile out.”
“Good,” Sophie said, and Sera marveled at her strong, proud youngest sister. At the way she’d grown and blossomed. “I have rarely made the Duke of Haven’s life pleasant, and I don’t intend to begin now. He’s a massive debt to pay.”
The house came into view, and she instantly noticed him, standing alone at the top of the steps leading to the main entrance. She stiffened, and Sophie peered out the window. “Good Lord. Is he waiting for you?”
“No doubt he was afraid I would not heed his summons.”
“He’s proper horrid,” Seline said.
“There’s still time for us to turn the coach around,” Seleste offered.
For a moment, Sera considered it.
“Do you think he’s been there all morning?” Sophie asked.
“Possibly,” Sesily groaned. “No doubt he’s made some deal with the devil for endless stamina.”
Seraphina might have thought to thank heaven for her loyal sisters, each more willing to skewer Haven than the last. But she was instead transfixed by the man.
It looked as though it was somehow reasonable that he’d been standing on his steps all morning, still and strong—perfectly turned out in pristine coat and trousers, boots polished to looking-glass shine—as though he would happily remain there until nightfall. Longer, if need be. Sera hated how calm he looked, as though it were perfectly normal for a duke to linger at the entrance to his estate, awaiting his guests.
Not guests.
His wife.
The mistress of the house.
There had been a time when he had waited there for a different reason. Because he could not bear another minute without her.
She couldn’t help the little huff of laughter that came at the thought.
The carriage came into the rounded drive, and his gaze found hers through the small, mottled window. She resisted the instinct to look away. As it pulled to a stop, he came forward and Sera’s brow furrowed. What was his game? Where was the requisite liveried footman to scurry in and open the door with an aristocratic flourish? The Haven she’d known would never have dreamed doing a servant’s work.
Not true. He’d performed this exact task once before.
Her brows went up in question, and he raised an insolent brow, as if to say, You dare question me?
She changed her mind. This man was not so different from the Haven she had known. She could not wait to see his response when the door opened and he was faced with all five of the Soiled S’s. No. He’d never called them that. He’d always called them the other name. The worse one. The Dangerous Daughters.
“Sera?” Sesily asked.
“Hmm?” She did not look away from him. She couldn’t. He was always more handsome in the country, dammit.
She didn’t like being off-kilter. Didn’t like the sense that all this was about to go pear-shaped.
“Does Haven like cats?”
She looked to Sesily, already coming to the edge of her seat, Brummell in arms, as though she was prepared to do battle. Sesily was often first into the fray, even when she was green at the gills. “I don’t know. But I doubt it.”
“Excellent,” she said.
Haven opened the door, and Sesily flew from the carriage, thrusting the panicked cat into his arms. “Hold this!”
Surprisingly, he did, somehow controlling his own shock as he failed to control the animal, which immediately went wild, hissing and clawing and flailing to be free.
All while Sesily cast up her accounts upon the duke’s perfectly polished boots.
Sera’s hand flew to her mouth, as though she could capture her astonished gasp. As though she could hide the pleasure that edged through it. She couldn’t.
His head snapped up at the sound, and he met her eyes, at once furious and shocked beyond words. Sera lowered her hand, revealing her grin, wide with the realization that everything had, in fact, gone pear-shaped.
For him.
Chapter 10
Dangerous Daughter Downs Duke!
April 1833
Three years, four months earlier
Highley Manor
Malcolm couldn’t believe his good fortune.
She’d come. He’d asked her to come, and she had.
He bounded down to the carriage, ignoring the cool April wind, looking up to the coachman as he opened the door and pulled out the steps. “You weren’t followed, were you?”
If she’d been followed, she’d be ruined. And he did not wish her ruined. He only wished her his. Privately. There was no privacy to be found in a London season.
“No, Your Grace,” the driver said, his tone barely edging into offense. “Followed your directions to the letter.”
Haven was already looking into the coach, breath catching as skirts appeared, a deep berry red, the color of desire. And sin. And love. The color of love.
He reached for her hands, gloved in the same wicked color, disappearing into a perfectly tailored grey traveling cloak, buttoned high up the neck with utter propriety. He hated that coat, and vowed to remove it just as soon as she was inside this house. Just as soon as she was on solid ground—the ground that would soon be theirs.
Just as soon as he asked her to marry him.
She grinned up at him. “I hope you understand how well I trust you, Your Grace. Some might say that accepting an hours-long carriage ride to Lord knows where, alone, is a terrible idea.”
He lifted her gloved hand to his lips, wishing the fabric gone. Wishing her warm skin against his. Soon. “Your trust is valued beyond measure, my lady.”
Her gaze slid past him to the manor house. “This is an impressive cottage.”
He didn’t turn to look at the massive structure, at the cold stones, hundreds of years old, that had seen generations of dukes before him. He lowered his voice to a whisper, barely recognizing himself when he said, “I wish it were a cottage.”
Her eyes lit with teasing pleasure. “What then? You, a humble shepherd? Me, a rosy-cheeked milkmaid?”
Settling her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her up the stone steps and through the enormous entryway, empty of servants. He’d given them the day, and in that, taken it for himself. He did not have to play the duke. Not ever with Seraphina. He spoke low at her ear, nevertheless. “Is that what you’d like?”
She looked up at him. “Shepherd, woodcutter, butcher, rat catcher. Whatever you choose, that’s what I’d like.”
He believed her. Had there ever been anyone who had wanted him first, and his title second? Not any of the women who chased after him at balls throughout London . . . not any of the men who angled for his friendship and his financial backing . . . not even his mother.
Indeed, his mother had only ever wanted the title. The child required to secure it had been an inconsequential aside.