Page 12 of The Truth Serum (My Lady’s Potions #2)

R ebecca climbed into the carriage behind her brother, her hand still stinging from slapping Nate. Whatever had possessed her to do that? All he’d done was take the tear off her cheek. A tear she hadn’t even realized she’d shed.

That hardly merited a slap, and yet she’d felt such a rush of raw fury that she’d lashed out.

And what had he done in response? He hadn’t fought back or even grabbed her wrist. And he’d had every right to contain her, but he hadn’t even been angry.

Do you want to hit me again?

Yes! No! God, what was wrong with her?

She settled on the squabs beside Fletcher and closed her eyes. Lord, she hadn’t felt this emotional in years. In ten years, to be exact. Ten minutes with Nate and she was slapping people. Or rather, him.

“Tell me everything that happened. Exactly.”

She sighed. Fletcher would demand a recounting. “We talked, we had tea. Lord Nathaniel proposed.”

“He what?”

She arched a brow at him.

“Well? What did you say?”

She snorted. “You saw the result.”

“You slapped him? Excellent. He just wants your dowry. Imagine the audacity of thinking that you would still be vulnerable to him. Good God, he is a fool. I suppose he’s too lazy or too stupid to try to seduce other heiresses.”

“I think he’s trying to make up for the earlier disaster. Marriage would erase some sins.”

“Will it bring our father back to life?”

Rebecca sighed. “No, of course not.”

“Exactly. I’m pleased that you handled it. I would have had to call him out if I were there. That would be awkward.”

She jolted. A duel? “Fletcher, you wouldn’t!”

“Of course not. There are easier, less public ways to kill a man.”

“Fletcher! Good God—”

“I’m joking. Calm down.” He flashed her an indulgent smile. “In any event, I’m pleased you put him in his place.”

She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d done, but she didn’t express that to her brother. Meanwhile, he folded his gloves in his lap and turned to her.

“Now tell me about Miss Petrelli. Any oddities there? Did you press on that love potion nonsense?”

“I didn’t get the chance.”

Fletcher grunted in disgust. “I told you most specifically—”

“It was an odd situation from the beginning. I don’t know what game you’re playing but leave me out of it.”

“Game!” her brother huffed. “This is the game of living. It’s the game of finding a husband who will bring advantage to yourself and our family. And I am going to great lengths to see that you do it well.”

“Perhaps you should go to less effort, then,” she shot back. “Fletcher, I did not ask for your escort today. Nor did I need it.”

“Be thankful that I was there. I was able to plant some seeds with Ras. I don’t suppose Miss Petrelli is silly enough to be tempted away from a duke, is she?”

“No,” Rebecca said, the word hard and cold.

“And Ras seemed determined in his choice as well. Very well. You’ll have to marry the baron then. He’s your next best option.”

“Baron?” She gaped at him. “What baron?”

Fletcher waved a hand at her. “Baron Courbis. You’ll meet him tomorrow night. Wear something low-cut. He likes breasts.”

“Fletcher!”

“I’ve already primed him in your direction. Let him touch you a bit, tell him how handsome he is, and he should be amenable. Needs a mother for his daughter. You can be wed as soon as the banns are called.”

“You’re joking.”

“Oh, don’t cut up stiff. We all know that your breasts have been out for everyone to see. He doesn’t know though, so keep that to yourself.”

“Fletcher!” She glared at him, but he was completely impervious to her fury. And damn him for bringing that up whenever he got out of line. It had been her father and the vicar who had seen her. And Nate, of course. But that was ten years ago!

“Fine,” he said, as if he were giving her great boon. “Let him touch them but no more. They’re large enough to be tempting, thank God. Then go all maidenly shy. He’d be down on one knee in ten minutes.”

She shook her head at her brother. “No one will be touching my breasts, and I shall not accept any proposal so soon!”

Fletcher looked at her then, really looked. His expression shifted to rueful even as he patted her knee. “You’re overwrought. Of course you are, seeing that blackguard again after all this time.”

That was the first correct thing he’d said all day. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the least bit relevant. “I want to have a full Season this time,” she said. “Give me time to see who’s about before I make my choice. You can understand that, can’t you?”

Fletcher squeezed her knee, his affection for her obvious. “Of course I can. It’s only that I’m so busy. It’s hard to find time for all this.”

“You don’t have to escort me—”

“But I do. Mama can’t handle all the parties, as much as she wants to. How long before she gets another migraine?”

A day. Maybe two. The London air did not agree with her.

“And I have already looked at the crop of men for you. I know who is suitable and who is not.”

“Then give me a list. Write down their names, and I shall make pains to meet every one.”

His smile softened and she remembered the boy he’d been before their father died. Open. Funny. And if not exactly considerate—what boy was—but at least he’d never needed to manage every aspect of her life. And her future.

“You must trust me,” he said gently. “I’ve given this a great deal of thought. And you’re not at an age where you can afford to be picky.”

And who’s fault was that? His and her mother’s, both.

For the last five years, there’d been one problem after another.

She’d come into town for a few weeks and then be pulled back home because Mother grew tired or Fletcher had other things to do than ferry her around.

She’d barely get comfortable before she’d have to leave again.

And any gentlemen she’d liked had disappeared from her life the moment she left London.

But sulking about the past was a child’s game. She had to focus on the present.

“Tell me about this Baron Courbis. What’s he like?”

“Oh, you’ll adore him!” Fletcher enthused. “I’ve spent a great deal of time cultivating him. He’s smart, rich, and willing to give some his considerable fortune to helping my campaign. Mother already approves of his suit.”

She shot him a skeptical look. “Has she really approved or has she just left the matter in your capable hands?” Those last words were a mimicry of how Mama would have phrased it.

“Don’t cut up stiff just because Mama trusts me,” Fletcher said, a teasing note in his voice. “Oh, and the baron has a daughter. She’s cute as a button with big brown eyes and so in need a mother.”

A pang hit her. The idea of a motherless child did tug at her heart. But becoming a child’s mother wasn’t as easy as saying ‘I do’.

“How old is she? What happened to her mother?”

“I don’t know. Four maybe five? The baron’s wife died in childbirth with the second child.”

“How awful.”

“She’d adore you. I’m sure of it.”

She sighed. “Fletcher,” she began, but he cut her off.

“Oh good God. I’m trying every way I can to help you, and you just don’t appreciate it.”

Now he was the one getting overwrought. “Of course, I appreciate—”

“But you’re always complaining. You won’t even give the baron a chance. He’s perfect for you.”

She gritted her teeth. She’d been conditioned from birth to stop arguing the minute someone took that tone.

The words, “You don’t appreciate all I’ve done for you,” had been spoken in their home from her earliest memory.

It was what her mother said whenever she became overwhelmed.

Henry grumbled similar things, though never to her.

And here was Fletcher voicing the same sentiment.

The only one who hadn’t used the phrase was their father.

He’d had no patience for anyone who needed appreciation.

But Father was dead and gone, and Rebecca had learned that there was no changing her family’s mind once that phrase was used. For whatever reason, Fletcher was determined that she like this Baron Courbis. And so she would give him a chance. But she made no promises on marriage.

“I look forward to meeting the baron.”

Fletcher was not mollified.

“You will be kind to Baron Courbis tomorrow night. You will wear a gown that emphasizes your full assets.” He flicked a glance at her breasts. “And if he proposes, you will accept.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you will go home where you can marry the bootblack, for you will be of no more use to anyone.”

It wasn’t an idle threat. For all that mother loved London during the Season, she hadn’t the stamina to stay more than a few weeks.

She was prone to illness, the London air was terrible on her lungs, and someone was always slighting her, or so she claimed.

If Fletcher turned irritable, if he refused to escort them, her mother would grow petulant.

It wouldn’t be long before Rebecca was shipped back home to wait hand and foot on her mother—again.

And where—Fletcher was right—the only possible husband was far below her social status.

She wouldn’t care if any of them were remotely interesting. But she was well-read, intelligent on several medicinal topics, and wanted a man who loved her and all her foibles. Those men were non-existent back home. So she had to do what she could to stay in London.

If that meant temporarily appeasing her brother, then so be it.

So it was time to use her own well-used phrase, the one she pulled out whenever someone in her family grew stubborn.

“Of course, Fletcher. You’re right.”

It was a lie. It was always a lie, but she’d learned that the appearance of giving in was usually enough.

It kept the peace while she went ahead and did what she wanted.

And if there were consequences for the lie, she would face them later.

But right now, she couldn’t risk Fletcher’s ire.

Besides, maybe the baron was perfect for her. She would wait and see.

“And I will wear something appealing,” she added. Then a defiant part of her pushed back because she hated being such a docile creature. “I will also meet other gentlemen there. That is the point of a ball, is it not? To meet eligible bachelors?”

Her brother flashed her a superior look. “Meet whomever you like but recall that I know better than you what they want and what are their peccadillos. You will trust me when I tell you that a gentleman is unacceptable.”

She had no answer to that. She knew from her work with Mrs. Chenoweth that some men had vices that were not shown to an innocent virgin. And though she wanted to believe she had some discernment when it came to the nature of men, her family obviously did not.

So she would have to walk a fine line while she was in London. But surely there was a man somewhere who would satisfy both herself and her family.

“Don’t pout,” Fletcher said, though if anyone were pouting it was him. “You’ll like the baron.”

“And what does he give you?” she asked, her voice carefully modulated to seem calm.

“What?”

“I am to help the family with my choice of bridegroom, yes?”

“Yes.”

“So what does the baron bring to our family?”

“Money.” Fletcher smiled. “He is richer than Croesus, and he will fund my bid for a seat in the House of Commons.”

“But we have plenty of money.”

“You have your dower property. Henry has the income that goes to the title. I have nothing.” He said that last part with an indignant sniff.

Fletcher had a generous allowance, according to Henry. But prices were different in London, as she had cause to discover when she saw the bill for her gowns. Perhaps Fletcher was more pinched than she knew. Especially since he paid for the London staff out of his own funds.

“What does the baron offer me?”

“Money, a doting husband, and the children you’ve always said you wanted.”

“He can’t be doting yet. He hasn’t even met me.”

“I have faith in your powers of persuasion.”

He meant in the power of her breasts. She arched a brow, and he finally relented.

“He is handsome, rich, and will treat you well. What more could you want?”

Nate’s face flashed through her mind. Not just his face, but the way he looked at her when he said, I never meant to hurt you. Do you want to hit me again?

It made no sense. It wasn’t even a flattering picture of him. But she thought about it nonetheless. Nate didn’t react with violence, he took responsibility for his mistakes, and he asked her what she wanted to do next. Even if it was hit him.

What man did that? Would Baron Courbis do the same?

“You’ll like him,” Fletcher promised. “He’s very charming.”

And, strangely enough, it turned out that Fletcher was right.

Two nights later, she met a very handsome, very delightful Baron Courbis.

He said all the right things, laughed at all the right times, and smiled in a way that set many hearts to fluttering, not just her own.

But his attention was fixed unnaturally on her.

It was a heady thing from so handsome a man. From any man!

If it weren’t for Fletcher’s smirk—visible from across the room—she might indeed be tempted to walk into the shadows with the man. But it had been ten years since she’d entertained so foolish an idea.

She settled for talking with him as much as a ball allowed. And promised to walk with him in Hyde Park on the next day. And perhaps a theater visit with him after that. If he still pleased her by next week, then she would consider something more permanent.

Indeed, he was so perfect that she began to question her own sanity.

Could this man really be exactly what she wanted?

Honestly, he seemed too good to be true.

If only there were a way to quickly determine if everything he said to her was a lie.

After all, anyone could keep up a front during the few hours of a ball.

And that was when she remembered the Truth Serum still tucked in her reticule. It was ridiculous. But what other choice did she have?