Yours and Mine: A Serrulata Saga Romance Novella: The Serrulata Saga, #1

By A.E. Bennett

She told a lie. He confirmed it. Now they're secretly betrothed against their families' wishes…

 

Lady Octavia Dorchester is the most desired young lady in the Realm. Now that she has twenty years behind her, society has deemed her ready to marry. Although she's not enthusiastic, she promises to act like a proper lady and look for a good husband—just like her powerful father Lord Roman Dorchester wants.

 

Lord Gerald Verte has been painfully shy his entire life. He's never been comfortable in society and lives in the shadow of his older brother, the imposing Lord Tristian Verte. Despite his desires to remain indoors and away from people, he promises his older brother that he won't shame the family name, no matter how much his anxiety threatens to overwhelm him.

 

After sharing a dance at a ball held in Octavia's honor, both she and Gerald know what no one else believes—it's love at first sight.

 

When their respective family members object to the match, Octavia lies about their betrothal and Gerald corroborates her story. Raising the ire of both Lords Dorchester and Verte, Octavia and Gerald are torn apart and kept from one another until tragedy strikes.

 

This steamy romance with a guaranteed happily-ever-after is a prequel to Gathering of the Four: Book One of The Serrulata Saga but can be read as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.E. Bennett
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9798224345304

Book preview

1

Twenty-five years before the death of Jebidiah Fuerte, Sovereign of the Realm and Defender of the Border; 305th Year of the Realm

Octavia Dorchester blinked at her reflection in the mirror and breathed in and out of her nose deeply. Her chest, bound by an uncomfortably tight corset, heaved. The blue jewels around her neck glittered in brilliant candlelight that flooded the room. Her cobalt dress hugged her tightly until it reached her waist and then flowed elegantly out and around her long legs. She raised a slender hand to the smooth, dark skin of her cheek, and she whispered to herself, You can do this!

Of course, you can! 

The confident, merry voice of her older sister standing in the doorway of her inner chambers made Octavia startle so badly that she almost fell off the backless, cushioned chair on which she perched. Damnation, Selma!

I’d get out of the habit of using such coarse language. Selma sailed into the room, her amber skirts swishing around her ankles, Father doesn’t like it, and neither will any gentleman worth any decent amount of coin.

Octavia grimaced and turned back to her reflection to give herself a final once-over, wishing the words her sister spoke seemingly without care didn’t carry an immense amount of truth behind them. She was a lady of the Realm who had recently reached her twentieth year—the age of majority—and now it was time for her to find a suitable husband. 

Age of majority. Octavia had always sniffed at the term. For men of the Realm, gentry and peasant and servant alike, the words meant that they were legally able to control any assets they might possess. For women, it meant they were supposedly ready to pass from the protective care of their fathers to that of a husband. No woman in the Realm, no matter her status, was legally able to own or control anything without a guardian, even her own body. 

She resisted the urge to shiver as her sister held out her hand and offered to help her stand. I don’t think I’m ready for this.

Selma smoothed her hands over her sister’s shoulders. I didn’t think I was ready, either. And now look at me—engaged!

Octavia locked her deep brown eyes onto her sister’s in their reflection in the mirror. She gulped against the lump in her throat, angry that her nerves were suddenly getting the better of her. She was a lady—and a Dorchester. Dorchesters never showed weakness. It was a mantra their father had drilled into them since they were young children. 

It took you more than one season to finalize your agreement, Octavia said, teasing Selma in order to quell her anxiety. I’ll wager I leave the ball tonight a taken woman.

Selma laughed. She was two years older than Octavia, but Octavia had always been considered the more studious and serious of the two Dorchester children. She leaned over and placed an affectionate kiss on her sister’s cheek. Always the overachiever.

Don’t you know it, Octavia snorted. 

Selma gave her a knowing look as she turned to face her sister. 

Octavia threw up her hands and fluttered her eyelashes dramatically. That’s the last un-ladylike thing I do tonight, promise!

Selma offered her arm to her younger sister and smiled. Come along. It won’t do to be late to your own debut!

Gerald Verte had twenty-two years behind him and had been to plenty of balls since reaching the age of majority, but never before had he been so overcome by such a display of opulence. As one of the hundreds of guests of the House Dorchester, he marveled at the sight before him.

The main hall of the House Dorchester normally looked immaculate, but on this night, it quite literally sparkled. Like most of the magnificent houses built soon after the establishment of the Realm, the room was situated in the middle of the structure, serving as a grand, indoor courtyard with three corridors sprawling out to the east, west, and south leading to various other parts of the mansion. A winding staircase descended from the northern part of the house where the family’s chambers were.

The Dorchester hall was unique in that its floors were made of highly polished white marble, a rare stone within the Realm. Fantastically tall, intricately woven tapestries depicting various triumphant feats of past Dorchesters hung on two of the walls. A grand portrait of the current Lord Dorchester, painted approximately ten years ago judging by the age of the subjects, hung on the third. Lord Roman Dorchester bore a stoic expression, and his petite, round, elegant wife was seated in a chair before him. Their two daughters sat at her feet and stared up at their parents lovingly.

Three grand crystal chandeliers decorated with pale blue gossamer banners hung from the white ceiling. They lit the resplendent room, accompanied by an incredible number of silver candelabras full of wax candles, each placed on cherry wood tables against the walls all around the room. Ribbons the same color as the banners were tied around each candelabra, as well. A cornucopia of food had been carefully placed by servants on each table.

Only the main hall of the sovereign himself was grander. 

Quite something, eh? 

Gerald almost dropped the delicate flute of sparkling wine he was holding. Goodness! Stan!

Lord Tristian Verte, Gerald’s older brother and head of the House Verte, wrinkled his nose at the childhood nickname. Don’t call me that in public.

Don’t sneak up on me, Gerald bantered back. 

Tristian was only three years older than Gerald, but it was often easy to forget so few years separated them.

Their father had died when Tristian had only had fifteen years behind him, leaving the young man to figure out how to run an entire estate and sit on the sovereign’s Council with only their kind but uneducated mother to guide him. He had struggled to gain the respect of the other members of the Council for years, only really earning it after reaching the age of majority and continuing to stand his ground in meetings led by men who were mostly his father’s peers. The sovereign, a good but firm man, had shown the young Lord Verte no mercy and treated him like the other members. It had hardened Tristian quickly. Despite this, Tristian still held an affection for his younger brother that had only become more protective over the years, and often, Gerald wondered if he was the only one who saw Tristian really at ease. 

Hungry? Tristian gestured at the nearest table with a tilt of his chin.

I couldn’t think of food right now, Gerald grumbled, clutching the glass he held with both gloved hands. 

Come now, Tristian gave his younger brother a knowing look, don’t start that.

Gerald breathed in and out slowly, as his mother had taught him. She had been raised by a very traditional family and could barely read and write her own name, but she had understood very early on that her younger son needed extra help managing himself in crowds when his tutors had called him weak-willed and even hinted at him possibly being backward. Where the tutors had failed him, his mother had succeeded, explaining to him that not everyone was the same and sometimes, yes, large gatherings were terrifying, but they had to be managed because, no, he couldn’t hide under his bed for the rest of his life. 

I will be fine, Gerald said through clenched teeth. 

Have another drink, Tristian muttered, irritation creeping into his voice, and remember you’re a Verte, and you need to be social.

Gerald nodded as his vision narrowed and his pulse quickened. 

Not now! Please, not now!   

Look, Tristian said, moving closer to him, there’s the Lady Reister. What color is her dress?

Gerald ground out the word as he resisted the urge to shut his eyes. Red. Red gown.

The din of the crowd, which was growing more cacophonous by the minute as more and more of the gentry arrived, thrummed in his ears. 

What does she have in her hair?

Gerald forced himself to look at the wiry woman across the room, who was chatting with an unknown lady, no doubt of a Lesser House of no importance. She…she has pearls in her hair. Strings of pearls around her chignon. They look hideous with her hair curled like that.

Tristian guffawed at that. And what does she have in her hands?

Gerald’s vision cleared a bit. His pulse slowed. Tristian was not always tolerant of Gerald’s proclivities, but at least he understood. 

W-wine. Sparkling wine.

Ah! And here we have a servant with a tray! Tristian grabbed two glasses off of the silver platter and motioned to hand one to Gerald. Gerald dropped his empty flute onto the tray and gripped the full one tightly. 

Better?

Better. Gerald forced a smile at his brother. 

He hated his weakness. He hated that large gatherings of people terrified him. He hated that the thought of moving through an elegantly decorated ballroom such as the one in which he was standing made him want to retch. He hated that his hands shook and became clammy every time he was faced with making a new acquaintance. Thank the Founders that gloves were in fashion! He wanted so, so badly to be normal. He didn’t know or understand why he was the way he was, but he was grateful that he had been born the second son. He would have failed the House Verte terribly if he’d have been the one who had to sit on the Council. 

I need you to do me a favor, Tristian spoke as he surveyed the crowd.

Gerald’s stomach sank. Hadn’t Tristian just seen that his will was especially weak this night? I, ah—

I need you to dance tonight. The sympathy in Tristian’s voice had disappeared. He was now