The smile was definitely in evidence now. “And very nice I’m sure it was.”
Better than nice, but a girl couldn’t tell her mother that. “Don’t you care?”
“Of course I do, but you’re young, and the house is overflowing with mistletoe, and spirits are high. If you can’t break a few rules at Christmas, I don’t know what the world’s coming to.” She paused as Serena struggled to make sense of her mother’s astonishing tolerance. “I love your father with all my heart, but if I was twenty-one and a handsome fellow like Giles Farraday wanted to kiss me, I doubt I’d hesitate.”
“Paul’s the handsome one,” Serena said, and wondered when that had become so unimportant.
“Oh, yes, he’s handsome, too. But when I was a girl, I always had a yen for the dark, intense type.”
“But Papa is—”
“The jolliest gentleman in Creation. I know. Yes, well, our first impulses don’t always prove to be the best ones.” Her mother drew away and passed her a handkerchief. “Now, dry your eyes and go upstairs and get some sleep. You’ve been fretting yourself to a shadow. Trust me, darling. Everything will work out in the end.”
Serena stifled the impulse to confide the whole mess from the beginning. After all, if anyone knew of her abiding fondness for Paul, it was her poor, longsuffering mother. She’d endured endless hours of listening to Serena extol his perfections.
And what was the point of confessing her sudden, powerful penchant for Giles? It wasn’t as if he’d offered her anything beyond a couple of kisses.
Anyway, after a lifetime of plotting to marry Paul, how could she trust this attraction for Giles? Mere days ago, he’d been more a stranger than a friend.
Now…
Now he wasn’t a friend, and he wasn’t a lover. He certainly wasn’t a suitor.
A passing madness was the best way to describe her unexpected weakness for the Marquess of Hallam.
Only a fool would discard a secure future in favor of a brief affair. Especially if one were unmarried, with until now, an unblemished reputation. No, far better she scotched this passion, however hot, however bright, and stick to her plans to marry Paul.
If he could overlook tonight’s sins.
The idea that he might scorn her as a light-skirt shouldn’t make her feel better.
“I think…I think I’m going insane,” she admitted in a low voice, mopping at her sodden cheeks.
Her mother’s smile was loving. “Just follow your heart, Serena. It won’t lead you astray.”
But as she lay awake and troubled in bed that night—she couldn’t face returning to the party—she knew her heart was too unreliable to make the right decision.
Chapter Twelve
* * *
After the Christmas festivities, the house lay quiet on Boxing Day morning. Serena sat alone at breakfast, staring with heavy eyes through the closed French doors to snow-swept gardens. The outlook matched her mood. Cold. Gray. Miserable.
Her attention returned to the eggs congealing on her plate. She wasn’t hungry. She should have stayed upstairs. But she’d brooded most of the night, and she’d been desperate for a change of scene.
She couldn’t understand what had happened in the library. Giles had touched her, and she’d tumbled into his arms without thought for the rest of the world. Propriety. Reputation. Morality. She hadn’t given a fig for any of them, compared to the heady joy of Giles’s caresses.
Sighing, she shifted on her chair. She’d tried to concentrate on the horrible aftermath and feel suitably chastened. But her wicked thoughts kept shifting back to those glorious moments, when Giles had kissed her as if he starved and his hand had stroked her naked breast.
How distressing to discover that a brazen hussy lurked beneath her respectable shell. Given her flagrant behavior, Paul might have had a lucky escape. Imagine if this wild woman emerged after they married.
She’d enjoyed everything Giles had done, until Paul spoiled it. And undoubtedly saved her virtue. She should be more grateful.
But mostly she was disappointed.
It was clear that she was unfit for decent society.
She lifted her coffee to her lips and grimaced. It was ice cold. She was rising to fetch a fresh cup when the door opened.