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.”
“It’s a recent interest,” Giles said lightly, as he conducted a frantic search for something on the marble plaque worthy of comment. Perhaps a genuine enthusiast would commend it. A mere layman couldn’t for the life of him discern anything noteworthy in old Obadiah’s laconic epitaph.
“Funny you never mentioned it.”
Yes, that was funny. Deuced odd, in fact. “I feared you’d mock me.” He assumed a disappointed expression. “And I was right.”
“So what’s so special about this one?” Paul folded his arms and regarded Giles with a skeptical eye. “Looks dull as damned ditchwater to me.”
Looked damned dull to Giles, too. “But you’re no connoisseur, are you?” He struggled manfully on. “The elegant simplicity of the carving makes this an exceptional example.”
“Is that so?”
“Indeed. The plain square shield and unadorned text combine in a moving memorial to a brave man who died far from home.”
Paul continued to sound unconvinced. “If you say so, chum. Although the family story is that old Obadiah was stabbed in a brawl in a brothel the night before the battle. That’s why not much fuss was made of his memorial. He was always a bad ‘un.”
Wouldn’t you know it? Bloody Obadiah.
Desperate to avoid Paul’s searching regard, Giles headed for the vestry. “I’ll still raise a glass in his honor, when we get back into the warm. If Serena has an ounce of sense, she’s in the house, toasting her toes by the fire.”
Paul shot one last look around the empty church, despite it being conspicuously Serena-less, and shrugged. “I may as well search for her there as anywhere, I suppose. The chit’s been dashed elusive since I arrived.”
Now that was much more interesting than a memorial to some disreputable Talbot. “She’s helping her mother manage a house full of people. I wouldn’t take it personally.”
“I don’t.”
Giles burned to pound away Paul’s smug smile. Of course he didn’t take it personally. Serena had always been under his thrall.
So where did that leave that interloper Giles Farraday, Marquess of Hallam? Out in the cold? Or promising to change from the race’s dark horse to hot favorite?
Before those kisses, he wouldn’t have wagered a groat on his chances. Now? Now he wondered who she’d been thinking about when his tongue had been in her mouth. The man she dreamed of? Or the one who woke her to sensual pleasure?
He’d give half his considerable fortune to find out.
Chapter Five
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