He wanted to linger—demand she tell him why she’d lied to him, but from his own mother, he’d learned that people often have no notion why they do the things they do. His connection with Miss Samantha—Miss Judith?—had been true, to the point of being almost tangible. Just as his lips had touched hers, he thought he could grasp hold of their passion and never let go. The worst part was, he hadn’t worried about trusting her. He’d taken her for who she’d claimed to be, and what she’d appeared to offer with no question.
Elijah had unwittingly caused irreversible harm to a man he respected. Lord Cartwright had asked for none of this, yet the most damaging part of the situation would fall upon him. It was within the earl’s right to challenge Eli to a duel in Miss Judith’s honor.
“We spoke of very private matters.” It seemed oddly strange to be concerned about details of his past when his future was in jeopardy. “What you have done is treacherous.”
A door opened behind him, closing quietly as footsteps rounded the corner.
“Miss Samantha, I thought you were on your way to the breakfast parlor.” Lord Chastain paused briefly, eyeing her hold on Eli’s arm. Her grasp fell away, freeing Eli to depart. “Lord Ridgefeld, a pleasure to see you again.”
Chastain had called her Samantha—but she was Judith. Surely the woman hadn’t made a habit of duping others, as well. At the same time, he found he was content to believe she’d set out to not only deceive him but others, as well.
Eli waited until Chastain started down the stairs before facing her once more.
She had the nerve to smirk, folding her arms across her chest.
Elijah turned in stunned silence, but Chastain had moved out of sight, none the wiser to the conversation he’d interrupted. Eli had been so certain the woman from the breakfast parlor, and the one before him were one in the same—Elijah had allowed his emotions, feelings of rage, betrayal, and shame, to overpower his intuitive nature.
His accusation and thinly veiled threat to go to Cartwright had been unmistakable. He’d meant his words to be hurtful, even if only a fraction of how much her deceit had injured him.
That was not completely true. He’d indeed sensed something strange—roughly different—about the woman below. They shared the same eye color and shape, their hair was the same hue, and their necks were similarly slender; however, this woman’s voice held a deeper, throaty tone, her hair was a bit longer, and a certain essence of command filled her as she stared intently at him.
“Twins?” he asked. “You never mentioned in our time together that there was a woman roaming about Lord Cummings’ home who was a mirror image of you.”
“You never asked.” Her chin lifted in defiance. “I did tell you of my three sisters here for the wedding.”
“…but not that your sister—your twin sister—was to wed Cartwright!”
“It must have slipped my mind, my lord.” A spark of mischief twinkled in her green eyes. “I might have been on the verge of telling you when your lips landed on mine.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“Do you have refutable evidence to the contrary, my lord?”
“Will you discontinue addressing me as my lord?” She’d been in his arms, their lips pressed together as their hands explored one another. He’d had quite scandalous thoughts of her since. Certainly, they had moved past formalities. “It is Elijah or Eli, blast it all.”
Eli wanted to grab the woman and shake her—furious with the situation and with her—but, instead, he insisted she call him by his given name. It made little sense beyond his insatiable need to hear his name on her lips. He had no right to crave her as he did.
“Certainly, Elijah.” She enunciated each syllable, giving far too much attention to the last as his name rolled off her tongue. It was as if she felt like the wronged party, and he was not the victim in her ploy. “It was not my intent to mislead you in any way.”
“And you are Miss Samantha, not Miss Judith who is to marry Lord Cartwright?” He needed her to say it aloud. His attraction to her could not continue, but he needed to know he’d not done anything utterly damaging. Not that kissing an innocent, young woman wasn’t detrimental—but it was repairable, especially as no one had witnessed their compromising situation.
“I am who I’ve always claimed. Samantha.”
He continued. “Then I do owe you an apology for my outlandish behavior and accusations.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I accept your apology, Elijah, under one condition…”
He was unsure he’d agree to any condition, especially if it had to do with the naughty book currently stashed under his bedding in his chambers. “I am willing to hear what the condition is and assess if we can come to a truce.”
“You are to call me Sam from now on when we are in private.” When he didn’t readily agree, she added as she took a step toward him, “You said some very hurtful things, Elijah. I would hate to see our animosity continue over a misunderstanding that was quickly rectified.”
She took another step forward as if daring him to back down. He’d never been one to allow others to intimidate him, and this slip of a woman before him would not be his undoing.
“Sam. That is a man’s name, is it not?” he asked.
“Just as Jude is a man’s name,” she quickly retorted. “My dear mother, the lord bless her soul, was fond of masculine nicknames. She was under the impression a woman could attain more if gifted with a strong name. As twins, barely larger than the palm of a man’s hand, we needed all the strength we could get.”
He felt his anger recede slightly, and he dug deeply to hold onto an ounce of the betrayal that had assaulted him when he’d entered the breakfast parlor. “I will address you as Sam while in private,” he bit out through clenched teeth. Thankfully, he was only at Hollybrooke for an additional two days, at most. Another one-on-one meeting was unlikely to happen—no matter how much his treacherous body longed for it.
Their misunderstanding had indeed been rectified, yet Eli grasped for strands of anger...to remember what every woman was capable of, least he forget once more. He had no reason to remain furious at Sam, but his displeasure with himself was valid. Certainly, she should have been more forthcoming during their acquaintance, though he should not have been so quick to trust her, and then be even quicker when coming to an incorrect conclusion.
“Samantha Jane!” Her eyes widened, and she glanced toward the stairs as heavy boots thundered toward them.
“Samantha Jane?” Eli cocked one eyebrow.
“It is not Samantha Jane—it is plain Samantha,” she hissed. “My dear brother thinks it funny to invent absurd middle names for us.”
Before she could say another word, her brother had reached the top of the stairs and was almost upon them. “Sam,” his breath heaved from his exertion. “Marce requires your attendance—immediately.”
“That sounds awfully dire, dear Garrett Mallory,” she cooed, returning his affection for names in a teasing manner they obviously had in common. “I will be down straight away.”
“See that you are. It is most urgent.” The man blinked several times and looked between Samantha and Eli as if noticing him for the first time and wondering what Elijah was doing alone in his sister’s company. “Ridgefeld, is it?”
His scalp prickled at the man’s intense scrutiny.
“Lord Ridgefeld rescued me from the storm yesterday, Garrett,” she chastised. “Do be cordial.”
“Rescued you, you say?” Garrett’s eyes rounded in surprise. “You would have done us a far greater service by leaving her to the elements, I assure you.”
“Might have saved me a lot of trouble, as well,” Eli mumbled.
He chuckled along with Garrett, realizing he quite liked the man.
“Stellar to meet you, Ridgefeld.” His chuckle subsided. “Call me Garrett, everyone does.”
“It is a pleasure, Garrett.”
“Ridgefeld, I hope to see you about. Samantha Constantine, we w
ill await you in Cummings’ study.” Her brother sobered, his lips pressed together sternly. “Hurry.”
Eli watched as the man retraced his steps down the hall and hurried down the stairs. “You look nothing like any of your siblings but Miss Judith.” He’d gained a quick introduction to them in the breakfast room.
“We have different fathers—one mother,” she sighed.
“I am not the first to inquire on the dissimilarities?”
“Someone mentions it at least a dozen times per year.” Her shoulders straightened. “Have we mended our misunderstanding, my lord?”
As much as he wanted to hold onto his anger, it was not specifically directed at her. And he must let it go, at least until he departed Hollybrooke and was safely in his traveling carriage. “I think we have, Miss Samantha.”
“Wonderful,” her coy smile returned. “You shall escort me to dinner. Do not arrive late.”
Eli allowed himself to smile at her demanding request—the woman was a hellion with no disguise. “Of course, miss. I would be delighted.” Judging from her brother’s comment, she’d been a handful her entire life. It was something he wasn’t used to, a woman with a backbone who stood up and spoke her demands loud and clear—and didn’t run off at the first sign of trouble. It was the only reason he was honoring her request without questioning her in regards to her commanding nature.
Sam—it sounded odd, even in his mind—pivoted and followed her brother down the stairs.
Eli would escort her to dinner and likely sit at her side to enjoy an entire evening of her coy laughter and peculiar banter.
The only question remaining was: what would occupy the next nine hours until he could see her again?
Chapter 8
“Garrett,” Sam shouted as she flew down the stairs, trailing her brother’s long strides. “Do slow down. This gown makes it impossible for me to take more than one stair at a time.”
“We’ve kept Marce waiting long enough.” His severe words were at odds with his normal carefree demeanor. “Now, do hurry up.”
“Heavens, what is so important?” Samantha took the final step to the main floor and sped up, grasping Garrett’s arm to slow him down. “Is Marce upset I did not arrive in the breakfast parlor in a timely manner?”
Sam walked a fine line with her eldest sister. She and Payton had been lectured the entire journey from London about putting forth a positive impression and in no way were they to cause Jude any embarrassment before Cartwright’s family and friends. They’d been paraded around as if they were a normal family, entertaining as if they belonged among the upper crust of society. With Jude’s marriage to Lord Cartwright, Sam supposed her sister did belong among them now, but where, exactly, did that leave her other siblings?
Were they to remain in the shadows, receiving invitations out of a sense of obligation?
Sam would not stand for such a thing.
“You did not attend breakfast?” Garrett asked. “I would have foregone the first meal if I had known it was an option.”
He threw her a smug grin as they reached the closed door of Cummings’study.
There were several raised voices inside—she knew Marce’s well, and the lighter tone of Jude’s, but the loudest voice in the room was unfamiliar. It could be the heavy door distorted his words.
“I am not going to relish what lies on the other side of that door, am I?”
He stared at the closed door, his smirk vanishing. “All I ask is that you listen to Marce—and do not overreact.”
“As if I ever overreact!”
“As if you do anything but overreact, Samantha Olivia.”
Sam and Jude had never been apart. Much like the connection between Marce and Garrett—who shared a father—she and her twin had each other; always had at least one person they could depend on. And Jude was, at this very moment, preparing to leave Sam behind to marry Simon and start her own family.
Sam stood still, not reaching for the door nor having the energy to flee. There was nothing Samantha could do to change the situation besides beg Jude not to marry; however, Simon was a good, kind man who would take care of his wife and the family to come.
How could Sam do anything to jeopardize that future, even though it left her adrift without a stable person to anchor her to shore?
It was a childish way of thinking, especially with regards to her twin’s marriage, but no matter how hard Sam tried to suppress her feelings of resentment and abandonment, they were still there. Always lurking just under the surface, threatening her control.
Garrett pushed the door wide to reveal Jude perched on the edge of the chaise, Marce in a high-backed chair close to the desk, dominating the room, and a man she’d never lain eyes upon pacing before the hearth. The room appeared different from the night before without the low light and the crackle of the fire.
Sam stepped into the room, and Garrett retreated, closing the door—leaving her and her sisters alone with the man.
Something about the set of Jude’s shoulders had Sam rushing to her twin’s side.
“Jude?” She lowered herself to the chaise and reached for Jude’s face, turning it toward her. “Have you been crying? Has someone hurt you?” Sam would not stand for that…ever. “And you are pale as a ghost.”
Jude clasped her hands in reassurance. They were freezing—the tips of each finger held a blue tint.
“Samantha.” Marce’s voice pulled Sam’s scrutinizing stare from Jude’s hands to where their eldest sister sat. “Do stand. I have someone here to make your acquaintance.”
Sam risked another look at her twin, whose gaze had settled on the stranger pacing before the fire, but Sam hadn’t time to inspect the man when her sister was so obviously hurting.
The room was alight with tension—Marce sat ramrod straight, and the man strode with solid, heavy steps back and forth from the corner of the desk, to before the hearth and then to the far windows, only to pivot and retrace his path. Heavy footfalls drew her attention; the sure stride and pattern very familiar to her. It was the same as her own pacing.
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.
Marce had complained for years that it sounded as if a herd of elephants was stampeding above her office, which lay directly below Sam and Jude’s bedchamber.
The man’s dark copper hair was cut precisely above his collar, and his eyes avoided hers.
She didn’t need to see their color. They would be sage green.
The same as Jude’s moss-colored eyes—which were the mirror image of her own.
“What is going on, Marce?” Sam moved to stand before her eldest sister, hands on her hips.
Her sister responded by standing to face Sam, her petite height almost a foot shorter than her twin sisters, affording Sam a view of her golden curls pinned to her crown.
The man cleared his throat and stopped pacing to halt with his back to the fire.
Perspiration had broken out across his forehead. He was nervous, as well he should be.
Fiery red hair came with a matching temper. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as the man, his height several inches taller than hers, moved to stand before her as Marce retook her seat.
She understood now. Her sister was only there to keep Sam’s temper at bay. To remind her of her status as a proper lady—no thanks to the man before her.
“As I live and breathe,” Sam seethed. Jude’s gasp filled the room. “The prodigal father has returned.”
He shifted from one foot to the other and frowned, betraying his unease at the situation.
“Lord Beauchamp,” Marce began a proper introduction. An introduction that should not be necessary between father and daughter. “This is Miss Samantha Pengarden, your daughter.”
Sam assessed him, her eyes narrowing to mimic his. Upon closer inspection, Beauchamp’s red hair was shot through with grey, his shoulders slender to match his lean frame, and his face was etched with age lines. His wrinkles showed a man who’d experienced much in his life, though not all o
f it positive.
They’d been told since they were old enough to notice other children had a mother and a father, while she and her siblings only had a mother, that Madame Sasha—their mother—had been Beauchamp’s mistress. It hadn’t turned sour until the elder Beauchamp demanded his son marry, and marry well.
Their mother and Beauchamp had parted ways, and he’d married quickly, without ceremony.
However, not before he’d left Sasha with a parting gift—his twin daughters in her womb.
Dexter Pengarden, Viscount Beauchamp, stared between them, as if unconvinced that two such identical women existed.
“What are you doing here?” Sam bit out through clenched teeth.
“I was invited—“
“You must be mistaken.” She cackled at the ludicrous insinuation.
To prove her wrong, he pulled the invitation from his coat pocket and held it out to her.
Sam unfolded the invitation she knew all too well. She and Payton had spent several days hand-writing thirty identical slips to be delivered to all of their family and friends, inviting them to join Jude and Cart in Derbyshire for a festive garden wedding. This particular letter had been crafted by Payton, her tight, heavy handwriting unmistakable.
But who had sent it to him? Surely not Jude. Her sister would have asked her permission. Payton and Lord Cartwright were unaware of who’d fathered Sam and Jude. Even Garrett had never shown the least bit of interest in locating any of their sires. That only left one person—one woman with hair of spun gold and eyes that were wise beyond their years. The person they could all rely on to care for them—make sure they always had shelter, food, and shoes with warm stockings.
“Marce?” Sam challenged, turning to her eldest sibling.
A sob wrenched from Jude’s throat, and her face lowered into her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent cries.
“I thought it was long past time for the pair of you to become better acquainted with Lord Beauchamp.”
The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Page 7