Page 1 of The Truth Serum
Prologue
Cornwall, 1795
“But what areyou going to do?”
Lord Nathanial, third son of Earl of Killeagh, looked up into the sky to contemplate the question. He wasn’t going to answer Becca’s question out loud. He was a man of action, he told himself. He was going to kiss her.
Today.
He’d been thinking about it for weeks now, planning for just this moment. It was a beautiful summer afternoon, they were down by the creek supposedly studying Paul’s letters to the Thessalonians after the parish children had been called home by their mother. Which left them blissfully alone.
Now was his moment, and yet he couldn’t quite do it. First, he needed to inch closer. He shifted off the rock to settle on the blanket beside her. It was an awkward motion, and he was sure she knew what he was about. After all, she shot him a playful look under her bonnet. But then she repeated her question, this time with more force.
“Seriously, Nate. If you won’t go into the clergy—”
“Ugh,” he groaned, cutting her off. “You know I’d be a disaster there.” He couldn’t sit still through a Sunday service. How was he going to live the life of a priest? The most exciting thing they got to do was drink wine. He could do that without getting frocked.
“The military then—”
He kicked at a rock and watched it splash into the stream. “There isn’t enough money to buy two commissions. Simon’s older, he’s planned for this forever, and—”
“Your grandmother wants you baptizing all the parish babies.”
He rolled his eyes. His grandmother had lots of ideas about his future, none of which interested him. Fortunately, the only person who listened to her was the vicar, and Nate had been fobbing that man off for years.
“Maybe I want to spend my days reading books with you.”
Her expression softened. “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
The only thing better would be kissing her. A lot.
“What does your father think?”
That school was expensive. That his mother spent too much money in London. That the farmers weren’t working hard enough, which was a lie. Whenever Nate wasn’t “studying with the vicar” (his own lie so he could spend time with Becca), he was helping with the crops or the pigs or repairing someone’s roof—endless tasks for their tenants in the hopes that it would turn the family’s finances around.
It hadn’t so far, but maybe this would be the year that everything worked out.
And with that thought in mind, he turned his attention back to the beautiful Lady Rebecca. Auburn hair, blue eyes, and one dimple on her left cheek. She thought her nose too big and her hair too curly beneath her demure bonnet, but all he’d thought about for the last month was kissing her full lips and touching her sweet curves.
She was nothing like he’d been taught to expect. Thanks to the feud between their families, he’d expected her to be a shriveled prune with hoary skin and a devil’s tail. She’d been taught to expect the same of him.
But the vicar was a reforming sort. He thought a feud between the two reigning families was an invitation to the devil. So he’d conspired to get the earl’s youngest son (Nate) and the viscount’s youngest daughter (Becca) into a friendship.
That had been three summers ago. Becca’s family had been told she was teaching the village children their letters. Nate’s family had been informed that he must study the Bible in preparation for the clergy. Then the two children had discovered that their activities occurred in the same location, and the vicar had been lax in his supervision. He’d even given them their first novel to read, as long as they read a chapter of the Bible for every chapter in the book.
This was their fourth summer together, and Nate was determined to end the feud for good. He was going to kiss her. He was thinking about marrying her. But first, he had to see if she was amenable.
“Nate!” Becca said, her voice light despite her frown. “You’re seventeen. What are you going to do when you graduate?”
“Become a pirate,” he quipped. “I’m going to sail the seven seas, gather booty, and rescue stolen princesses.” So saying, he grabbed her ever-present stitching and pulled it from her hands.
“I don’t know that there are very many stolen princesses to rescue.” Her brows were arched, her expression coy, but he knew her moods as well as his own. He knew she was as tired of mending clothing as he was of Paul’s letters to the Thessalonians.
“I’ll find one,” he said as he drew closer to her. “Maybe one with golden locks and rosy cheeks. Someone who is sick to death of tending to the poor. Someone who wants a life of adventure.”
She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling. “Adventure, you say? That doesn’t sound at all proper.”
“Which is why you like it.”
