Was it her fevered imagination, or did his fingers remain wrapped around hers for a fraction longer than necessary?
“Thank you, Lord Standish, for your attentive care,” said Caroline, her lips twitching. “We both hope to see you again soon.”
The marquess bowed. ‘I’ll make sure of it. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, ladies.”
Then the carriage was moving away from him, and Samantha only just managed to stop herself from pressing her nose to the glass.
“Oh dear,” said Caroline. “Oh dear.”
“What?” she replied far too sharply.
“I know that look.”
“What look? There is no look.”
“Pfft. Don’t you dare lie to me, Samantha Buchanan. Not when we are family. As Stephen might ask, what percentage are you smitten with a certain dark and mysterious marquess?”
A lie sat on the tip of her tongue, but her wretched cheeks, as usual, gave her away completely, and she sighed. “Perhaps a little. Thirty percent?”
Caroline rolled her eyes. “Plus the other seventy. Well then. What are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing!” she said fiercely.
“Excuse me? But you just confessed your admiration. And I suspect that admiration is not at all one-sided. Oooh. Samantha Standish. Now there is a name that sounds just right.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, all the while knowing she would be practicing the signature in her diary that evening. “In what universe would someone like William Hastings, model of good taste, decorum, and the most proper, honorable gentleman who ever lived, marry the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Claremont?”
Her friend shrugged. “In the same universe where I, a prickly, figurine-throwing hellion, won the rational and chart-loving Earl of Westleigh. Or where Louisa, who wears breeches and plays with gunpowder, caused George, style leader and king rake, to tumble head over heels. Nothing is inconceivable.”
Samantha looked away. Nothing, except this.
Chapter 3
At this rate he would make it through Hyde Park in approximately six days.
Gritting his teeth, William inclined his head at an elderly couple as he inched past them on his thankfully patient stallion, Storm. The park was chaos at this time of day, and despite the charm and greenery of the area, no one was here for fresh air and exercise. Hundreds of people were strolling, others were on horseback, curricles were jostling each other for prime space, and everyone wanted to stop and talk.
It was times like these he wished he were anyone but the young, unmarried, highly connected, and excessively wealthy Marquess of Standish. Far better to be an elderly gentleman without a feather to fly with, no interest whatsoever in politics, and who only spoke truth rather than platitudes. Then people would offer little more than a polite greeting before moving on quickly, and no perfectly healthy young ladies would be abruptly overcome by the mild heat right in front of him as their chaperones mysteriously vanished. Did anyone actually fall for that trick nowadays? Or well-shod horses losing shoes left, right, and center? Bloody hell. London apothecaries and blacksmiths must make an absolute fortune during the Season.
“Standish! What a treat to see you here.”
He smiled politely at a dark-haired matron and her two daughters in a yellow curricle as it blocked his path. “Lady Baker-Field, Miss Baker-Field, Miss Ivy. Lovely afternoon to take the air, is it not?”
“I like your horse. He’s so shiny,” blurted Ivy, who if he remembered correctly, still had several years to go in the schoolroom.
“Be quiet, his lordship doesn’t care,” hissed Ivy’s older sister, patting her hair and sending him a look from under her lashes that she’d probably practiced a thousand times in the looking glass.
“Wasn’t Almack’s delightfully entertaining the other night?” said the matron, with a sultry smile. “If I didn’t know better, Standish, I might think you were searching for a bride. Or even…a companion.”
Ugh.
“One must always have an eye on the future, Lady Baker-Field,” he said blandly. Then he turned to Ivy again and smiled. “I also like my horse, young lady. His name is Storm. Would you like to say hello?”
Her face lit up, giving him the perfect excuse to maneuver around to her side of the curricle. Storm would permit perhaps half a minute of patting from a stranger before getting irritated, which also worked perfectly. Unlike her mother and sister, Ivy was rather sweet, and he answered several eager questions on Storm’s favorite treats and how fast he could canter before bidding one delighted little girl and two silently seething women a cheery farewell.
To hopefully find Lady Samantha. A mere needle in haystack exercise.
He’d casually called on the Westleighs this morning, only to be told by Innes, their butler, that his lordship and her ladyship were accompanying Lady Samantha on a ride along Rotten Row. So here he was, praying not to be trampled by a shoeless horse, smothered by a small mountain of swooning women, or lose a limb to a badly driven curricle. The debt White now owed him for all this bloody nonsense could never be repaid, not in a thousand years.
“Standish! Over here!”
At the familiar and incredibly welcome sound of Stephen’s voice, he turned Storm and trotted over to the group of three. Caroline wore a striking sapphire blue riding habit, but his gaze skipped past her and refused to budge from Lady Samantha. She looked beautiful. Tentative smile. Pink cheeks. Blonde curls clearly no match for pins or the jaunty felt hat perched on her head as they lifted in the breeze in charming disarray, like fevered fingers had run through them. And that riding habit. Christ. Bright sunshine yellow, and like her ball gown and day dress at the Havenhursts, very snug in the bodice area.
Yes, she has perfect breasts. Stop bloody staring at them.
William shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. This was getting beyond ridiculous. He clearly needed to spend an evening with a discreet high-end courtesan or widow as soon as possible. If that urge was sated, he wouldn’t be thinking about Lady Samantha naked every damned minute he was in her vicinity, and could concentrate on his assignment.
“Hello,” he greeted them, touching his riding crop to his head in a salute. “Westleigh, Lady Westleigh, Lady Samantha. How do you fare?”
Stephen grinned. “We are well. I must say, I’m glad to see you alive and unscathed. Thought that passel of females in the curricle had you trapped for sure, but a move of sheer genius to let the youngest pat Storm. You definitely learned that from me.”
“I owe little Ivy and her love of horses a great debt. Much like Almack’s, today’s ride has been an experience. Never knew blacksmith standards were so low in the greater London area.”
“Or that there were so many delicate young women able to be felled by the mildest heat?” said Caroline, a glint in her eye.
“Precisely.”
“Well, my lord, there is a very simple fix. Get married. Then you’ll be spoiled cabbage, like Stephen.”
His foster brother made a wheezing sound. Lady Samantha’s shoulders shook and she pressed a fist to her lips. Those plump, pink lips…
“Lady Samantha,” he said feigning grave indignation. “Please don’t say you are imagining me as cabbage? Surely, unlike your cousin, I warrant a better class of vegetable.”
She laughed, tilting her head so the brim of her hat lifted and he could see those lovely eyes shining with merriment. Christ, she was beautiful. And so refreshing in her genuine joy.
“Of course, Lord Standish. A prize-winning pumpkin at the very least.”
“Speaking of food,” said Stephen, when their amusement had died down, “care to join us for ices? My wife has threatened me with serious slipper heel violence should we not make it to Gunther’s.”
The urge to say yes was startlingly strong. To just spend one sunny afternoon in ordinary pursuits with friends and a very attractive woman, instead of nefarious governmental ones.
Pull yourself together, Standish. Duty, remembe
r?
Straightening his shoulders, William smiled apologetically. “Alas, I cannot today. But I did want to hand deliver this invitation to my birthday dinner. I’d quite happily ignore it, except Mrs. Kingsley has already begun preparations for six courses or some such thing. I’ve sent one to the Trenthams, plus Southby and Ardmore are coming.”
Then, oh-so-casually, he added, “Lady Samantha, you would be most welcome if you wished to accompany the Westleighs.”
Her cheeks went pinker, and she sucked in a deep breath. Hell. Her bodice.
Do not look at her damned bodice. It is not going to tear and reveal stays struggling to contain their succulent bounty. You will not get a glimpse of sweet raspberry nipples, begging to be licked and sucked…
“Your dinner party sounds lovely, Lord Standish. I would be delighted to come.”
And I would be delighted to make you come. Several times.
William almost groaned out loud. He needed to get out of here before anyone saw the huge erection straining against his trousers. Stephen might think it was Caroline he lusted after, or correctly suspect Lady Samantha. Either way, he wouldn’t survive to this birthday, let alone any others. He’d be lying somewhere with a bullet through the heart.
“Excellent,” he said quickly. “Well then, I’d best continue on my way. Meeting to attend. See you all in a few days.”
With another riding crop salute, he turned Storm in a perfect arc and ruthlessly weaved between the other riders and curricles like a highwayman evading capture, and galloped away.
He was in so much trouble. And only sinking deeper into the mire.
After another sleepless night thinking about the afternoon at Rotten Row, and ransacking her armoire and jewelry box in preparation for the dinner invitation, Samantha sat engrossed in one of her guilty pleasures—a Mrs. Radcliffe gothic novel—when a maid came to inform her that her parents were having breakfast and required her to join them.
Stunned but pleased, Samantha smoothed the wrinkles from her pale blue gown and hurried downstairs to the dining room.
“Good morning, Papa. Mother,” she said, smiling as a footman held her chair out.
“Ah. Samantha,” her father replied, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Good to see you. Your mother and I thought breakfast together would be just the thing. Decent bite of bacon we’re having. You like bacon? Not one of those girls who picks like a sparrow, I hope.”
“No, no, bacon is one of my favorites,” she said quickly. “And it smells delicious. Did you have a good day yesterday, Papa?”
“Indeed, indeed. Had a meeting which went very well. And you? What did you get up to?”
“I went riding with Stephen and Caroline in Hyde Park. It was so crowded we could hardly move!”
From the other end of the long rectangular table, her mother looked up from her plate, actual interest on her face. “Oh? Anyone of note? Did you hear any good gossip?”
“It seemed like half of London was there, Mother. But you wouldn’t believe what happened,” Samantha continued, unable to keep the excitement from her tone. “Lord Standish stopped to talk, and he invited me to his birthday dinner! Stephen, Caroline, Lord and Lady Trentham, the Marquess of Ardmore, and the Duke of Southby are going too!”
Eva shrieked. “Standish’s birthday dinner? Every woman in the country would give her right arm and left leg to attend that! And Ardmore and Southby there as well! Oh my word, you are a lucky girl. You’ll need a chaperone. I would be—”
“Not necessary, my dear,” interrupted John, stabbing a kipper with his fork. “Stephen’s presence will suffice. But no doubt, daughter, for such an occasion something pretty is called for? A new gown, perhaps? And matching slippers?”
“Papa! You mean it?” Samantha said, almost squirming in her chair at this entirely unexpected treat. She hadn’t received anything new in years, and a dress that didn’t feel like it was strangling her now curvier figure would be marvelous.
“Of course I do.”
“Well. A new gown,” said Eva peevishly. “Remember this moment, Samantha, he never offers to fund me any extra clothing.”
“Probably because you already spend a king’s ransom on nonsense,” her father snapped, then he paused and took a deep breath. “Stop by my library, m’dear, and I’ll give you some money. Amazing how helpful and swift a modiste can be when you clink the coins rather than tell them to send an account. Your mother will take you shopping.”
Samantha beamed at him. “How very kind! Thank you.”
The earl coughed and rubbed his neck. “It has crossed my mind that I may have been a bit...neglectful...since you came back to town. And sometimes a little abrupt. No excuse, but I’ve been in the middle of a rather difficult business deal. You might have seen the effect the other day, when the delivery man was here.”
“You...you looked quite angry,” Samantha replied, very, very tentatively.
“Indeed. A grumpy old bear. Even though it was his fault, I sent some extra coins to the man for his trouble. He forgave me. But can you? I would like for us to spend some proper time together, before an eligible young buck like, ah, say Standish steals you away...”
Her cheeks flamed and he chuckled.
“Oh ho! No wonder you’re so excited about this Season. Well, in that case I shall want to hear all the details about your outings, especially if you see the marquess. We’ll have a meal or tea each day, hmmm?”
Blinking damp eyes, Samantha nodded eagerly. “Of course, Papa. But you’ll be near deaf after I’ve repeated every word said!” she joked.
“Not a good story unless it’s the full story, Samantha. Enjoy your shopping.”
A few hours later, they descended on Piccadilly to visit her mother’s favorite seamstress. In her element, Eva fluttered around the shop perusing fashion plates and swatches of lace before dancing from one bolt of silk to the next. At last, smiling triumphantly, she picked up one of mint green shot with silver.
“This one,” she said happily. “With lots of ruffles.”
Samantha froze, and stole a quick glance at the attendant following them around. Fortunately the woman looked equally appalled as she stepped forward with another bolt of fabric.
“Are you sure, Lady Claremont? I have a charming cream and gold here. We could add a brown silk sash to match your daughter’s lovely eyes.”
“Oh, Mother, look,” breathed Samantha, in love with the simple but elegant design.
“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s far too plain,” replied her mother impatiently. “My choice is much better. Now, let us pin.”
The seamstress pursed her lips, but began to drape the soft material with an expert touch.
Eva frowned again. “Lower.”
“Oh, of course, ma’am. Brussels lace would be perfect for the top of this bodice.”
“No. No lace.”
The seamstress’s jaw dropped. “But Lady Claremont! She is...er...her figure...ah...the young lady will be a trifle...chilly.”
“Better to be a trifle chilly than a spinster. My daughter must learn to dress in a way that shows rather than hides. Now get pinning.”
“Yes ma’am,” the woman muttered, obviously unwilling to upset a customer and lose business, even if she hated what she was doing. “I will personally ensure the gown is delivered in time for the party.”
Unfortunately, the seamstress was as good as her word.
Now, just an hour before the dinner at Hastings House, Samantha could only stare at her looking glass and will herself not to cry. Her mother’s choice of gown was downright awful. This green was pure frog underbelly, and the fussy ruffles circling from waist to hem, and on each sleeve, made her look the size of a barrel. Worst of all, her stays were pulled extra tight, pushing her breasts together and lifting them so high they almost spilled out of the scandalously low cut bodice.
She looked like a courtesan. An ill, overweight courtesan. But how could she have said anything when her mother actually patted her hand and smile
d as she wished her a wonderful evening?
Closing her eyes, she whimpered.
Trudy tapped her foot, clearly racking her brain to think of some encouraging words, but Samantha held up a hand in a plea for silence. “Don’t. There is nothing you can say to make this better, although I suppose it helps that some of the other guests are my friends. I might still be invited out from time to time.”
“What if you wore your pelisse all evening?”
“If only I could,” she said miserably, before plastering a large, fake smile on her face. “But it’s just for one night. In future I’ll remember to go shopping without Mother.”
Yet even as she walked down the stairs and out to where the Claremont carriage waited, she mocked her own words. Just for one night? With the most eligible bachelors in England? An event even the most stunning and assured ladies of the ton would exchange anything and everything for an invitation to dine?
Samantha paused on the bottom step, took a few deep breaths and lifted her chin. This silliness had to stop. If Lord Standish was the kind of man who would give someone the cut direct just because of their clothing, then he could go wallow in a pig pen.
Straightening her shoulders, she grasped the footman’s hand and hoisted herself into the carriage, settling herself on the comfortable leather squabs. And immediately wanted to turn around and flee to her bedchamber. But the door was shut, and the carriage was moving down the cobbled street with great pace. Much like the night of her come out, the way was annoyingly clear. It seemed whenever she didn’t want to arrive somewhere, this would forever be the case.
All too soon, the carriage pulled up in front of Lord Standish’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square. A footman assisted her out, and she trudged up the front steps like a prisoner approaching Newgate.
The front door swung open, and a silver-haired man bowed. “Ah, good evening, Lady Samantha.”
“Good evening, Jensen,” she replied, attempting to smile as though she didn’t have a care in the world.
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 5