She imagined taking aim at Gunther’s shin, much as she had with Proctor; however, the man was so unmindful, she’d likely injure her foot long before he understood her point.
Joining the other debutantes at the refreshment table was not overly repellant the closer Lord Gunther came to Sam.
It was either that or slip back through the door and out of the ballroom, though that may very well send her into the clutches of Proctor once more. Her reappearance would convince him she’d altered her mindset on accepting his offer and agreed to their arrangement. Which she most certainly had not, nor would she ever.
Sparingly, Gunther paused to speak with an elderly nobleman, and Sam was able to slip through a grouping of debutantes and out onto the terrace. The evening air was cold against her face and the skin of her neck. Her nipples instantly hardened within her bodice. It would have been wiser to seek sanctuary somewhere other than within the elements on the terrace with no shawl for protection. But between falling victim to the freezing night air or being caught in another mind-numbing conversation with Lord Gunther…her decision was clear.
Sam inched her way into the shadows, hoping to remain. The elevated terrace was blissfully abandoned as the ball was only now becoming crowded. As the room heated, people would seek the outdoors to cool themselves—and her peaceful reprieve would be shattered.
Her time at Lord Chastain’s home was limited, though she and Lady Chastain—Ellington—had nearly grown up as sisters. Ellie had married Alex not long ago, and the pair embarked on a journey to make this townhouse their own. If Sam remembered correctly, if she took the main stairs down to the lawn below and turned left, she’d quickly find the doors leading into the library, with the ladies’ retiring room down the hall. She could then take a few moments in the retiring room and rejoin the ball when most of the men had migrated to the card tables.
She cast a quick glance back toward the ballroom. Lord Gunther scanned the crowd in search of her. When his back turned, Sam fled down the terrace steps and moved around the side of the townhouse, the evening dew dampening her slippers and soaking clear through to her stockings. They would be a filthy mess and utterly ruined by night’s end. The loss of her shoes was little penalty for escaping Gunther.
The man had intensified his pursuit of her since she’d arrived back in London. Sam had made it very clear at Jude’s wedding that she hadn’t any interest in him; however, that did not deter Gunther from sending gifts and requesting to pay social visits to Craven House.
The only light to guide her in the dark night came from two guest bedchambers above and hardly made it possible to see three feet in front of her. Her knee banged against something solid, and she squeaked in pain, doubling over to rub the offended area. Blast it, Jude was the twin more acclimated to slinking around at night through unfamiliar surroundings. Sam’s shin continued to throb as she hobbled toward the library door, praying with each labored step it was unlocked and not as pitch-black as outside.
“The door should not be far,” Sam mumbled as a branch snagged in her hair, pulling several pins free. Her decision to outmaneuver Lord Gunther may have been a rash choice, but she’d set her course, and she very much intended to follow through.
Blessedly, her feet touched stone. She’d reached the cobbled area outside the library door. Sam grasped the knob and turned, half expecting it to protest and not budge, but she heard the mechanism click, and she pushed the door open a few inches. The warmth of the room caressed her chilled arms as she slipped into the cavernous library, each wall set with shelves. The door stood slightly ajar, and a sliver of light could be seen from the hall beyond.
Sam owed her sister a sincere apology for insisting she be the one to enter unfamiliar homes for their purpose of thievery, but that time had ended with Lord Cartwright’s courtship. Maybe one day, in the far distant future, they would discuss their past misdeeds. The present time was not ideal for either of them.
Only a moment of remorse flared at the thought of her mud-soaked feet marring Ellington’s new rug. Though it too receded when she neared the door and the footsteps beyond.
Someone was coming.
Spectacular.
Sam glanced around, a shiver traveling down her spine as she searched for a place to hide if someone were to enter the room. It was too dark to see anything beyond the hulking shapes of furniture. The footsteps suddenly halted before starting again, their noise tapering off. She counted ten paces before the footsteps once again stopped and grew louder once more.
Whoever it was, they were pacing outside the study.
Could Lord Gunther—or worse yet, Proctor—have discovered her plan? There was little chance Gunther was even aware she was avoiding his advances, and she could not have made her feelings more well-known with the latter.
Sam held her breath as she inched toward the door, determined to get a look at the man whose pacing kept her trapped.
“…you see, I have known my affection for you was…” He cleared his throat. “It is with great love in my heart that I request… No, no, that is all wrong. Think, think,” the man hissed. His lowered voice made it impossible for her to guess his identity. “The words must be perfect. My dearest Miss—“
He turned once more, and his voice grew lower as he strode away from Sam. “Mayhap I should start by requesting a dance. Oh, quite right. And then step all over her delicate slippers. That will not enter me into her good graces.”
His tone tickled at her memories as if Sam should know the voice. Match a face to the familiar speech.
The words making their way to Sam made her believe he was wrestling with something—and if she had to guess, it was about making a favorable impression upon a woman he cared for. It would be to his benefit if Sam sprang from the room and told him of his folly, that in the end, even if his feelings were declared, they would only hurt one another. Leaving at least one unlucky person with emotions they were unprepared to handle. Betrayal, regret, and remorse to name a few. No, the man would be better suited keeping his tender affections to himself and continuing on with his life at present. It would save him much heartache, not to mention the disruption of his sleep due to his mind’s wanderings in the late-night hours.
Her fury ignited once more, burning as hot and bright as it had the evening of Jude’s nuptials when she’d finally accepted that Elijah had left Hollybrooke…and would not return. The man had drawn her in, used all his persuasive powers to make Sam feel like she never had before: that to him, she’d meant something more, been something more. He hadn’t realized the impact his kindness had had on her, and truly, neither had she until he’d disappeared.
It might have been his intention all along, and if he’d stayed longer, Sam might have made the ultimate mistake and given him a part of her she could never gain back.
It was her duty—no, her obligation—to warn the poor fool in the hall not to entangle himself with matters of the heart. It was not worth the suffering that would come when the fairy tale ended—dissolved like the morning fog off the moors.
If his interest were merely dealing with matters of the flesh, then that would be a far more righteous and enjoyable path, for certain. As long as one chose their companion wisely. Sam had not, and to her continued dismay, she’d learned that a skilled kisser not every man made. Elijah’s lips had contained the perfect amount of warmth, held the right degree of pressure, and even thinking about their private moments together sent her blood racing. She hadn’t experienced the same rush of pleasure with any of the men she’d spent time with since returning to London.
She refused to ponder the reasoning for this.
However, that did not stop Sam from laying the blame squarely on his shoulders.
The man outside pivoted again, and his voice rose loud enough for her to comprehend his words. “…antha, I have missed every moment since departing Derbyshire. I do wish I could have remained, to stay by your side. There were matters out of my control…no!” He sighed dramatically. But Sam’s ea
rs perked at the mention of Derbyshire. “Miss Samantha, I will be as forthcoming as I know how. I find I care for you greatly, and if you, in turn, have a similar attraction—no, that is far too forward—if you happen to feel a similar tender for me. Yes, that is better.”
Ridgefeld! He was here…in London…at Jude and Simon’s first ball as a wedded couple.
Her stomach clenched, and she held her breath, waiting to hear what he mumbled next. Elation soared within her at the same time her rational mind told her not to think too much into his reappearance. Told her to be angry he’d show his face here after leaving Hollybrooke without a word.
Sam had known he’d be journeying to London, his grandfather’s collection in tow, but no one had let it slip that he’d arrived. She’d spent most of the afternoon with Jude, and she hadn’t said a single word.
Nor had he called on her. Not that she’d expected him to call on her at Craven House.
Elijah owed her nothing. If anything, it was she who was indebted to him for rescuing her from the storm’s fury—and awakening a passion she hadn’t known lay dormant within her.
She’d begun a dozen letters to him since her return to London, burning each one in her bedroom hearth, unwilling to allow her weakness for Elijah to be forever recorded in ink. It would only serve to injure her further, a detriment to her future—wherever it may be headed. From his words, he’d been thinking of her as much as she’d thought of him, which only served to increase her irritation with him.
Sam had spent nearly six weeks laboring over what she’d done wrong, what mistakes she’d made, and why he’d fled without so much as a goodbye.
And now, he thought to show his face—at her sister’s ball—and declare his affection for her? Things were not so simple. Sam could not wipe from her memory the many nights she’d wept into her pillow until she fell into a fitful sleep, fearing all the while that one of her sisters would hear and come asking what had upset her so.
Embarrassing.
Crying over a man…had she learned nothing from her mother’s mistakes?
Thankfully, Jude had been with Simon on their bridal tour. Her twin was the only person close enough to note her pain; their connection was so complete. With time, the tears had stopped, but what was left was worse than a thousand sleepless nights. A sense of loss in the pit of her stomach churned every day. A constant reminder of the spark of passion she’d been privy to and denied. It ached to know it was gone…and hurt even more that she had no idea why.
If Elijah thought he could return and all would be forgiven and forgotten, he was decidedly mistaken.
Had they not discussed her inability to forgive others for past misdeeds, or was it only she who remembered every word they’d spoken that day in her guest chambers at Hollybrooke?
No matter how much she longed to forgive him and act as if they’d never quarreled, Sam was uncertain she could.
Chapter 20
Eli turned sharply, pacing down the corridor once more. His mind swirled with the words he couldn’t seem to place in the right order. And there was no room for error when he finally spoke with Sam. To declare his warmth for her immediately, or take a slower, more paced approach and start with a walk on the terrace or a social call on the morrow or even a ride through the park? His time in London was limited. How limited, he hadn’t decided, but keeping residence with Lord Cartwright and his new bride for any period of time seemed an invasion of their privacy.
Which led Eli to his current predicament. He’d arrived at the ball after the meal had been completed and stood in the shadows of the room, watching Sam flirt with several gentlemen, dance with still more, and in the end, slip from the room with a man whose midnight hair and tanned complexion had coils of jealousy coursing through Eli. She’d given several lords the coy grin he’d thought only for him. And all the while, she’d ignored Eli’s presence, acted as if she hadn’t seen him lurking on the fringes of the room.
This all should have reinforced that their time together had only been a convenience and not mutual affection and attraction; however, it simply increased Eli’s need to be with her, share his deep feelings for her, and pray she returned them. It had been pure and utter torture watching another man swirl her around the dance floor while another fetched her a flute of champagne.
He should be her dance partner. He should be fetching her refreshments. He should have slipped from the room with her held close. Not those men who certainly knew nothing of Sam past her outer beauty.
He’d never envisioned himself a possessive man, but maybe it had only been that he’d never possessed something worth fighting for, worth coveting, worth protecting at all cost. A large portion of him knew his extreme sentiments were unjustified and verging on obsessive, though that reality hadn’t taken root until he’d spied her on the arm of another man; a man who was far more learned in the ways of the ton than he, a man who’d certainly played the coy game of cat and mouse as he acted unaffected by her coquettish grin and lowered lashes.
Bloody hell, Eli was affected, and he’d stood across the room from the pair—not directly before her. It was utterly maddening. The vexing woman had been on his mind since he’d happened upon her along that deserted road. One could say he’d been blessed; though lately, it settled on him more like a curse.
Sam had enjoyed herself…immensely, while he’d hidden in the shadows. She’d laughed. She’d playfully tapped her fan on a gentleman’s arm. She’d flitted between guests. Always poised and graceful.
And then, in a final dagger to his heart, she’d slipped from the room with the dark-haired lord. She’d stood too close. The man had tilted his head in her direction. She’d whispered something in is ear.
Eli’s blood had boiled, and his heart beat erratically.
Jealous. Eli was jealous.
His jaw ached from being clamped shut to keep in his shout of anger—at himself, at Sam, and at the man who dared take Eli’s place at her side.
That should be him, not that…rakehell. Eli knew nothing of the man, but he did not approve of their association on principle. Even Eli, who’d been sheltered from society, understood the scandal that could result from a man escorting a lone female about a darkened home without a chaperone.
Certainly, even with a proper lady’s companion trailing them, there would still be gossip.
Miss Samantha enjoyed herself…and Eli had no right to interfere, even if the pair were on the brink of ruination. Maybe she’d been properly courted and had gotten betrothed while he’d been in Liverpool these six weeks? It would not be honorable of him to impede the course she’d settled on.
Lord Cartwright had been correct. Sam’s outward display of affection for Eli had been false, brought on by the shock of her father’s reappearance and her sister’s wedding. Their connection—something Eli had thought ran deeper than any he’d ever known—had been nothing but a woman’s need to grasp on to something tangible as her life spiraled out of control.
Odd to ever imagine Sam not being fully in control of her life, and that of those around her.
She’d overcome all the obstacles set in her path. Her sister’s marriage and resulting departure from Sam’s daily life, her father’s sudden and unexplained interest in his twin daughters, and lastly, him. She’d moved on from him. She was happy.
He should allow her to be happy.
Yet, Eli was miserable.
He squeezed his eyes shut and twisted around once more, noting how his footfalls matched the beat of his heart.
He had been miserable for a long time. Far longer than he’d realized. Before his grandfather’s untimely passing, before his decision to find his mother, possibly as far back as his time at Eton. Only he hadn’t known it wasn’t something that was missing but someone.
He’d mistakenly assumed finding his mother would fill the void so clearly taking over every part of him. When that hadn’t worked, Eli had wagered the only way to move past it all was to remove all the reminders of his grandfather from their
home and donate them for all to enjoy.
The spark of life had clearly infused him during his short stay at Hollybrooke, and it had led him to believe his decision was the correct one. Belatedly, he’d discovered it had all been due to Miss Samantha Pengarden. It had been his destiny to happen upon her that fateful day. He hadn’t fully comprehended it then, but now, he had no doubt.
Eli paused once more and pulled at his neckcloth.
After his return to Liverpool to sort, pack, and transport the late marquis’ treasures, she’d haunted him. Every day. Every night. While he worked. While he ate. While he met with his steward. While he bathed. When he’d tried to find peace in slumber, his dreams were filled with images of her. If they hadn’t been disturbed in Cummings’ library that night. If they hadn’t been interrupted in her bedchambers that afternoon. If he’d been man enough to cast off Lord Cartwright’s warning and remain in Derbyshire to escort her to the wedding and feast that followed…
He quivered when he thought where their private moments alone would have led.
But he hadn’t stayed to discover what could have transpired between them, and he was miserable all the more.
The difference was, now he could not deny it. Now, he knew the source of his discontent. Now, he was given no alternative but to claim her for his own or walk away and allow her to live the life she’d chosen for herself.
Neither choice was easy. Neither decision would mean contentment for Elijah.
Sam could very well rebuff his advances. She may be in love with the raven-haired man, with Elijah a distant memory.
What would Eli do then?
He could not return to Liverpool as if none of it had happened, push his affection and longing for her to the side and continue on with life.
Possibly attend the country parties hosted by neighboring lords, meet a young miss, and marry, forgetting the blaze within him only a certain fiery-haired hellion could bring to life. Continue with a mundane life of caring for his estate, being an attentive husband, and praying a horde of little Ridgefeld children populated his home. How was that fair to anyone, especially him?
The Mistress Enchants Her Marquis Page 18