Beauty And The Brooding Lord. Sarah Mallory

m’m. Shall I call Mrs Talbot?’

      ‘No, no, pray do not disturb her. But I should like something to drink.’ Serena smiled at the young maid. ‘Could you fetch me something warm. Hot chocolate, perhaps, or coffee?’

      ‘Of course, m’m. I’ll do that straight away. But Mrs Talbot did say I was to inform her, as soon as you was awake.’

      The maid hurried off and Serena drew up her knees, clasping her arms about them as she finally turned her mind to the events that had brought her here. She touched her neck. Her windpipe felt bruised and it hurt when she swallowed. The shock and fear she had felt at Sir Timothy’s attempted seduction was still there, but on top of that she felt remorse and humiliation. She had been foolish in the extreme. Arrogant, too, to think she could play such games without risk.

      How worried Henry and Dorothea must be. She glanced at the bell-pull and considered requesting a note should be sent to them immediately, but decided against it. She would be back with them in a few hours, she was sure. Lord Quinn would arrange it.

      She rested her chin on her knees and considered her host. Her rescuer. It was curious that she should have such confidence in a stranger. She had felt nothing but revulsion when Sir Timothy had put his hands on her. She remembered trying to wash away the feel of his touch from her skin, yet she had allowed Quinn to see her completely naked. She had not flinched as he had dried her and dressed her in this ridiculously large wrap. And when she wept he had cradled her in his arms. For such a big man he had been surprisingly gentle and she had clung to him, feeling safe and secure enough to curl up on his lap and fall asleep.

      No man had ever held her thus before, not even Papa. In truth, Serena barely remembered her father. Neither could she remember much about her mother. Mama was a shadowy figure, nothing more than swirl of fashionable silks and a trace of perfume who had disappeared from her life completely when Papa had died. Serena had grown up in the care of nannies until she was old enough to be sent to school and after that she only met her half-brothers on rare occasions. She had grown up resilient, self-sufficient and independent. But very much alone.

      There was a murmur of voices outside the door and the maid came in, carrying a tray laden with coffee, bread and butter. She was followed by the housekeeper, Mrs Talbot, who had a foaming cloud of lemon and white over her arm. She greeted Serena with a cheerful smile.

      ‘Good morning to you, Miss Russington. I trust you slept well? We have done what we can to clean and repair your clothing. ’Tis not perfect, but I think, with your shawl about you, it will do to get you home.’

      Home! Serena glanced at the window. The angle of the sun showed it was much later than she had first thought.

      ‘Oh, heavens, yes.’ She waved away the breakfast tray. ‘There is no time to lose. I must get up immediately. I did not realise I had slept so long.’

      ‘All in good time, miss.’ Gently but firmly, the older lady ushered Serena back into bed and smoothed the bedclothes so that the maid could put the tray down before her. ‘Lord Quinn instructed that you should be left to sleep as long as you wished this morning.’

      ‘That is all very well, but—’

      The housekeeper put up her hands. ‘Lord Quinn insists you break your fast before you go downstairs. And his lordship likes his orders to be obeyed.’

      Serena sank back against the pillows. She did not feel up to a battle of wills with anyone, let alone a man to whom she owed so much. Obediently she drank her coffee while Mrs Talbot directed the maid in her duties, tidying the room and building up the fire, before sending her away to wash her hands and fetch up hot water.

      ‘When Meggy comes back she will help you to dress,’ she told Serena, when the coffee was drunk and the last crumb eaten. ‘Then you are to go down to the library.’ She picked up the tray and headed for the door. ‘Lord Quinn is waiting there for you.’

      * * *

      Some half-hour later Serena asked Meggy to show her the way to the library. A glance in the looking glass on the dressing table told her the bruise on her cheek was now blue-black, but there was nothing she could do to hide it. However, it was not painful and Serena did her best to ignore it. Mrs Talbot had washed her muslin fichu and Serena crossed it over the bodice of her gown and tied it at the back, so no one would see the repairs, but there were shadowy marks on the petticoats, evidence of her struggle with Sir Timothy. As she descended the stairs, the whisper of her satin skirts taunted her. It was easy enough to replace a gown, but her lost reputation was an altogether different matter.

      She had been oblivious to her surroundings last night and had no idea what Melham Court looked like from the outside, but from what she could see inside, it was clearly an old building and everything suggested it was well maintained. The wainscoting and the staircase, with its intricately carved balusters, were polished to a high shine and there was not a speck of dust on the windowsills. Fine paintings covered the walls and exquisite porcelain was displayed on side tables. Serena was in no mood to dwell on her surroundings, but there was an indefinable feeling of calm comfort about the house. Meggy left her in the staircase hall, where a waiting footman escorted her through the great hall, with its lofty vaulted roof, to the library.

      Serena’s step faltered as the servant opened the door and it was with a definite straightening of the back that she stepped across the threshold. Lord Quinn was standing in the window embrasure, scrutinising a large framed canvas propped against one side of the bay. He did not appear to notice her entry and she walked across the room until she, too, could see the picture. It was a woman, half-naked, sitting on a velvet-covered couch and looking into a mirror held aloft by two red-haired cherubs. The painting glowed with colour, especially the golden sheen of the woman’s hair and the deep red velvet drapes that covered the lower half of her body.

      She said, ‘Is that a Titian?’

      ‘Yes. Venus with a Mirror.’

      ‘By the master, or a copy by his students? I believe there are several versions in existence.’ He looked at her in surprise and she explained, ‘My half-brother made a tour of Italy during the Peace of Amiens. He came back full of admiration for the old masters and talked of them to anyone who would listen.’

      Serena stopped. She often encouraged Henry to tell her about art, especially when he summoned her to his study to criticise some aspect of her behaviour. She thought wryly that the situation now was not so very different. Lord Quinn had turned his attention back to the painting.

      ‘Experts are agreed this is by the master.’ He beckoned her to come closer. ‘Look at the brush strokes. He has given her a most natural complexion and the velvet is so fine one can almost see each thread.’

      His enthusiasm was infectious and it distracted her from other, more disturbing thoughts, a dark, shadowy terror she did not want to face. She took another step towards the picture. ‘I like the way we see her reflection in the mirror.’

      ‘But look at her eyes,’ he said. ‘She is not actually looking in the mirror; her gaze is towards someone out of the frame. Her lover perhaps?’

      He turned to her for an answer as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Serena felt a blush stealing into her cheeks. She was an unmarried lady, she should not discuss such things with a stranger. His look changed, as if he realised how inappropriate was their conversation and he turned away with something between a cough and a growl.

      ‘I beg your pardon. I should not be talking about Titian when there are far more important matters to discuss.’

      There were indeed. Her spirits sank and she waited to be rebuked for her folly.

      ‘That bruise on your face, for example. Does it hurt?’

      She blinked. ‘No...that is, only if I touch it.’

      He nodded, then turned and walked across to the desk. ‘You must be wishing you were at home.’

       No. I wish I could run away and hide from the world.

      ‘Of