“No…”
“Trust me,” he mouthed, untangling her frantic fingers from his shirt.
When she nodded, he brushed a final kiss across her lips. If Paul saw Serena’s pink cheeks and swollen lips, he’d know exactly what she’d been up to. Even without Giles’s incriminating presence.
He paused long enough to straighten his clothes and check all his buttons were done up. Nothing was out of place. Things were starting to get interesting when Paul turned up. Curse him.
Giles slipped across to the door and released the latch, making no attempt to muffle the noise the heavy iron fittings made.
“Serena?” Paul appeared on the worn stone step leading from the church down to the vestibule. “Oh, it’s you, Giles. How did you get in? The door was locked when I tried it.”
“Dashed odd. I had no trouble with it.” Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Serena shrink into the shadows beside the settle.
“Have you seen Serena?” At least Paul didn’t sound suspicious. Yet. “Frederick said he saw her heading this way.”
“I ran into her in the garden, and she said something about checking on her horse.” Struggling for a relaxed manner, Giles moved past his friend into the church. He wanted to get as far as he could from that blasted kissing bough.
Instead of following, Paul planted his feet on the step and frowned into the vestibule. “I tried there.”
If the blockhead veered one inch to the left, the game was up. Giles’s gut tightened in dread. He’d never meant to risk Serena’s reputation.
“It’s a cold day.” Giles crossed into the side aisle, hoping Paul would
follow. “She might be in the library. A parcel of books arrived from Hatchards yesterday, and I know she’s keen to read the latest Walter Scott.”
“I tried there, too.”
“Well, devil if I know where the chit is. She’s obviously not here. Let’s go back to the house and ask.”
“So you haven’t seen her?”
“If I had, I’d tell you.” Liar. Liar. Liar.
The beginnings of doubt entered Paul’s eyes. “It seems odd to find you in a church, when you don’t have to be.”
True. Which said a little too much about the state of his soul. “Thought I’d take a look at the family memorials.”
Paul’s puzzled frown deepened. “You’ve never been interested in ancient monuments.”
Paul was no fool, although right now Giles dearly wished he was. He mustered a nonchalant shrug. “I wanted a walk, and I wandered in here to satisfy idle curiosity. It’s not worth fighting about.”
Paul settled a narrow-eyed gaze on him, and briefly Giles wondered if his interest in Serena was quite as secret as he imagined. “So you’re perusing Latin inscriptions?”
“Well, I meant to, until you ruined my contemplative mood. Come on, old man. It’s perishing in here.”
He prayed his humorous impatience would stop Paul staring into the vestibule, as though Serena was about to jump out of the woodwork. The damnable fact was that she just might.
Instead of cooperating, Paul’s gaze swept the shadowy space, and for a horrible moment, his attention settled on the heavy oak settle.
Giles’s heart surged into his throat. Good God, he’d marry Serena tomorrow. Today, if he could. But he didn’t want her hurt or shamed—and undoubtedly if Paul discovered her in this compromising situation, she’d be both shamed and hurt.
Not sure whether he was a hero or a numskull, Giles headed toward the back of the church, hoping Paul would follow.
He didn’t. “Why not the front door?”
Damn, why not the front door? Giles slammed to a halt before a memorial under a stained glass window depicting the Prodigal Son. Given the loss of his parents—they’d died in an epidemic in India the year he started at Eton—that particular parable had always touched him. Since his parents’ death, unconditional love had been absent from his life. “This very fine example caught my eye.”
To his relief, Paul at last wandered over to stand beside him. His friend leveled a long look at the memorial to Obadiah Talbot, who gave his life for king and country at the Battle of Malplaquet a hundred years ago. “I had no idea you’d become a blasted antiquarian.”