f*******n to Love You

Chapter Nine — The Beauforts II

Serena.

He had known her for years, at least in the way one knew the children of another noble family. He had seen her at dinners, celebrations, church services, and royal gatherings. He had exchanged polite greetings with her.

Nothing more. She had always just been there. So why had he suddenly begun noticing her?

Perhaps because she had changed Or perhaps he had. William leaned back in his bed and tried to remember the first time he had really looked at her. He couldn't, because in reality there had been no single moment. It had happened gradually.

A glance across a crowded room. A smile when someone made a foolish remark. The way she sometimes became quiet when her brothers were receiving praise. The way she listened when people spoke to her, rather than simply waiting for her turn to answer.

He had noticed those things without meaning to.

And then yesterday, he had seen her in the stands. That was different. He could still see her now if he closed his eyes: The autumn light had fallen across her face, and for a moment, she had looked almost startled to find him looking back. He had smiled and she had immediately looked away.

William smiled now at the memory. Then his smile faded. He remembered her standing when Alexander fell, the fear in her voice.

Alex!

She hadn't cared who was watching. She hadn't cared about looking composed or dignified. She had simply been afraid for her brother. And somehow, that had affected him more than anything else that happened during the tournament.

William lowered his eyes. He had fought countless men. He had been wounded before. He had faced opponents who wanted to see him defeated. None of that had made his heart race the way her voice had.

"Serena", he said her name quietly, almost testing how it sounded when there was no one else around.

It felt too familiar. Too intimate. He had no right to say it like that, yet he wanted to. That was the problem. He wanted to know her.

Not the Serena Harrington everyone else knew. Not Lord James Harrington's daughter. Not the young lady who smiled politely at dinners.

He wanted to know her.

What made her laugh when she wasn't being watched. What she feared. What she dreamed about. Whether she really felt as alone as she sometimes appeared. He wanted to know why she had looked at him yesterday, and, perhaps most dangerously, he wanted to know whether she had been looking for him before he ever noticed her.