William forced a smile. The army surgeon he’d spoken to had emphasized the importance of keeping Robert’s spirits up, but it was incredibly difficult. Seeing him in agony in these basic accommodations with insufficient poultices, laudanum, or opiates, when he should be resting comfortably in the splendor of Langley House while being attended by an expert physician like Geoffrey Murray, was unbearable.
“It’s only because I’ve had enough of your bellyaching. You should be saving these thoughts for the ladies who will be lining up for miles to tend to you when we get back to London.”
“Lining up?” Robert replied, his jaw clenched as he attempted the impossible task of shifting to a more comfortable position on the hard, narrow bed. “Women won’t be sighing over my wounds so much as...screaming and running. Might have to be...masked balls for the rest of my life. Or none at all. How bloody terrible.”
“Ha. If you think a few scratches will get you out of attending balls or soirees, you are very much mistaken. You’ll be mobbed everywhere you go, as those with hearts of custard try and absorb even a drop of your dashing. Just think. Feted by dandies everywhere. Dragged to every great house and hall in the nation to raise support for the army. Lady Havenhurst’s favorite new accessory for her drawing room.”
“You are…a sick man, Standish. No wonder you’re in…fucking intelligence.”
William bowed. “We do try. But may I remind you that there are actually women out there who see beyond looks and fortunes and titles? Not many, I’ll admit, but they are around.”
“Horseshit. A few might bat their eyes…pretend they care…but everyone knows what a woman says…and what she really thinks…are two different things. Or they just use you and fucking leave.”
He stilled at the acid undertone of Robert’s comment. A while back, George had mentioned a comment Robert made in passing while he’d been in London on a brief furlough. Something about loathing marriage because all women were faithless. What the hell had happened to make Robert so bitter? Whatever her name, and whatever she’d done, the mystery woman obviously wasn’t a passing fancy. This level of anger spoke of much deeper feelings.
“Not this one,” said William eventually. “Her cheeks would give her away every time.”
“Well, well.” Robert attempted a laugh, but the movement made him wince. “Finally, the real reason…you want to return home so quickly. On behalf of the British Army...I’d like to apologize again…for the constant delays to our departure.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Temper, temper. How you ended up…on a diplomatic mission…when you’re as personable as a hungry conscript with holes in his shoes…I’ll never know.”
William grimaced. “Soldiers have my unending admiration. After a month on horseback, wooden pallets, and army rations, my blisters have procreated and my stomach is a block of stone. But to answer your question as to why I am here, it’s quite simple. Eighty percent blackmail and twenty percent no one else in England could be persuaded or conned into helping lug your sorry self home.”
“Ah, politics. God bless Whitehall...and the downright creative ways they achieve their aims. Now, perhaps to soothe my nerves...you’ll tell me about your delicate English rose? No, actually, I want to hear about…the adventures of her wickedly wayward sister. Give me a reason to live and all that.”
“No sisters, unfortunately,” William replied, a genuine grin tugging at his lips at the thought of Samantha’s reaction to this conversation. She would probably laugh and blush and blurt out that she was both delicate rose and wickedly wayward. He would be forced to agree. And take her to bed shortly afterward to remind himself how erotic the combination was. “But I’m sure if you asked her nicely she would introduce you to any number of her acquaintances.”
“Sounds appallingly...civilized. Perhaps her friends could be scattered along Southby’s path instead? If he were busy courting some poor woman...he wouldn’t have time to plague me.”
William looked away. Alexander was his closest friend, and it was difficult hearing criticism of him. Even when it might well be justified. But the two equally strong, equally hard-headed brothers always seemed to strike sparks off one another, and it was no secret that Robert had joined the army against Alexander’s wishes.
“Tell you what. When we’re home, I shall engage Samantha, Caroline Westleigh, and Louisa Trentham to gather a regiment’s worth of eligible ladies. They can take turns swooning from the heat and twisting their ankles in front of your brother for at least a month.”
“I accept your offer,” said Robert, closing his eyes as the lines of pain creasing his forehead eased a little. “Samantha is a nice name. Blonde?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Insane, uncontrollable curls. And wide brown eyes like Aunt Jane.”
Robert blinked. “Wait. Your Samantha is…Samantha Buchanan? Bloody hell. Does everyone know? And by everyone I mean…the dowager and Westleigh.”
“Er…not as such.”
“This story gets…better and better. What about the Claremonts? Eva is a starving she-wolf. As for the earl…never liked him. Heard the odd strange tale—”
“Samantha is nothing like her parents,” he said coldly. “Nothing at all.”
“Didn’t mean…to imply she was.”
William took a deep breath. Christ. He had officially turned the corner to Bedlamite. Just because it felt like forever since he’d seen Samantha, and the hateful fact that she still resided with bloody damned Claremont the traitor, wasn’t Robert’s fault or problem. “I know. I’m sorry—”
A knock on the door interrupted them and a young man hurried in. “Begging your pardon, sirs. I bring an urgent message from London.”
Taking the note, William slid a finger under the seal to open it.
S,
Dusk, tonight. The docks.
W
“Sir? Do you want to write a reply?” said the aide.
“No, thank you. Just tell them this is acceptable.”
“Of course, sir,” he replied, and with a quick bow, hurried away.
There was a rustle of sheets as Robert tried to sit up. “We’re…we’re moving out then, Standish? Back to England?”
William smiled. The words had been almost indifferent, but the intentness, the sheer longing in Robert’s eyes spoke of something else entirely.
“Indeed,” he said softly, discarding the flippant words he’d been about to use. “Home. Tonight.”
London
Oh God. The trio of women had her cornered.
Samantha had managed to avoid them for most of the evening, but she’d wildly underestimated the cunning and tenacity of a mother, daughter, and niece when it came to conquering the marriage mart. And it seemed they saw her, with her connections to Aunt Jane and Caroline, along with her undeniable inclusion in the London Lords circle, as their bitter enemy.
“Good evening,” she managed, while her gaze flitted from left to right assessing possible escape routes. Damn and blast. They had chosen the ambush spot well. “Lady Baker-Field. Miss Baker-Field. And Miss Yale.”
“Why, Lady Samantha Buchanan,” said the rail-thin Lady Baker-Field, staring at her with a venomous gaze. “We didn’t even see you there.”
Samantha tightened her lips. In that they’d been stalking her all evening, that was hardly feasible. And her figure wasn’t one to be easily hidden behind potted plants, either. Why on earth had she agreed to attend this horrid ball? Ah, yes. Distraction from the fact the love of her life had been gone an entire month. “And yet here I am.”
“So interesting that you were invited,” said the beautiful, dark-haired Miss Yale sourly. “I thought Lord and Lady Knowles only opened their home to a very select list of guests.”
“I’m honored to be here. Isn’t the temperature lovely this evening? And the musicians are so talented. I wonder how long they have been playing together.”
The awkwardly lanky Miss Baker-Field paused as the string quartet finished a rousing mar
ch with a flourish, waiting until they began playing a new tune to put her hands on her hips. “Who cares about musicians? They are nothing but hired help. I’m wondering why you get invitations when your parents aren’t received anywhere. The dowager Lady Westleigh cannot have so much influence. So what do you do to force your way in?”
Samantha’s fists clenched. The impulse to delve into her reticule, pull out her dagger, and give the girl a haircut to remember was almost overwhelming. “My parents are rather busy. So many amusements in the city, and so little time.”
“Amusements?” said Lady Baker-Field with a tinkling laugh. “I suppose one could call taverns for drinking and unknown bedchambers amusing. So very, very, shameful when those wellborn behave like the lower class. But then again, your father is only the fourth earl. Still many generations to go before the blood is truly blue.”
“Indeed,” said Samantha. “How fares the Season for your charges, Lady Baker-Field? This is their…hmmm, third year out in society? Or is it their fourth?”
The older woman made a hissing sound, and the elaborate feather arrangement in her hair shook. “Second. And they have both had countless offers.”
“None were good enough,” snapped Miss Yale. “Besides, we have our hearts set on two gentlemen in particular. I will settle for no less than the Duke of Southby.”
“Oh?” said Samantha, stifling a laugh at the thought.
“And I,” said Miss Baker-Field, “plan to bring the Marquess of Standish up to scratch. He has such a fondness for our family. Always so kind and generous with his time and conversation. And the way he looks at me. Lud! Brings a blush to my cheeks just thinking about it.”
Pure rage surged through Samantha, and she barely refrained from bloodying the girl’s nose. “Lord Standish is well-mannered with everyone.”
“No, I hold a special place in his heart. Isn’t that right, Mother?”
Lady Baker-Field smiled indulgently. “Truer words have never been spoken. You see, my dear Lady Samantha, when the time comes, a gentleman marries the appropriate woman. Someone equal to him in standing and reputation, someone charming and elegant and not with a figure that demonstrates a tendency to…gluttony. They want a wife who will be a credit to them. An experienced hostess, comfortable in all social situations. Someone who speaks like a lady, not with a certain, er, flavor of the north. The ton must keep up certain standards, you realize. So perhaps you should run along and—”
“Dance with me.”
All three of her attackers froze, their faces turning a rather interesting shade of pea-green. Then again, Alexander’s voice had cracked like a whip, and he’d never looked so terrifyingly ducal, dressed in unrelieved black, with only his starched cravat offering any contrast. Her fury began to subside.
“Oh, good evening, your grace,” said Samantha.
“You aren’t going to turn me down again, are you? I’m quite certain you promised me a dance.”
She bit her lip to halt a laugh. Nothing of the sort had been promised, but the pea-green faces next to her were now aubergine. If Alexander said anything else to imply she was not only acceptable but desirable, their heads might explode. “Well, your grace, since you begged so very nicely…”
Lady Baker-Field squeaked like a newborn kitten. “Impudence!”
“Beg pardon?” said Alexander as he directed his frigid gaze on the woman.
Miss Yale elbowed her way forward and batted her eyelashes at the duke. “We were just talking to dear Lady Samantha about our way of life in London. So very different to those who have rusticated in the country, wouldn’t you say, your grace?”
“A great many Londoners would benefit from rustication. One often wishes they might retire there permanently, never to be heard from again.”
“How right you are!” simpered the girl. “Overcrowding is the bane of our lives. Nasty merchants and whatnot buying property and lowering the tone of decent streets. I think there should be a wall around the West End. Keep the undesirables out.”
“What if the undesirables already live there?” asked Samantha curiously.
Alexander made a faint choking sound. It might have been a laugh, it was hard to tell. “Lady Samantha, I hear the strains of a waltz beginning. On my honor, I dance better than Standish and probably Westleigh, although no one could compare to Trentham. Your toes will be quite safe.”
“That is reassuring, your grace, although I can offer no such guarantee for yours.”
Lady Baker-Field burst into her fake tinkling laugh again. “Miss Yale dances like a butterfly, your grace. So much easier to take a turn about the floor with a lady light on her feet and slender in form.”
Alexander tilted his head. “But infinitely less enjoyable.”
The woman recoiled. “Oh dear, my husband is summoning me. Come along, girls. Good evening to you, your grace. Lady Samantha.”
As the three of them practically sprinted away, Samantha glanced up at the duke. “Thank you for the rescue.”
“You are welcome. I fear your barbs need sharpening before you take on the likes of her again. Fisticuffs at balls is not at all the thing.”
Heat scorched across her cheeks. “I wasn’t going to punch her. Or the others.”
“Oh, yes you were. Especially when the chit claimed an intimate friendship with Standish. Something she does not have, may I add,” said Alexander, his lips twitching. “Now, much as it is entertaining hiding in the corner with you, people are beginning to stare. Shall we dance?”
“You are determined to look out for me, aren’t you?” she blurted, as they twirled around the dance floor.
Alexander’s shoulders lifted in the slightest of shrugs. “Until Standish returns, I’m afraid you will be enjoying my company, yes.”
“Well, if you are going to be my shadow, your grace, there are some rules. You will cheer any womanly fisticuffs, rather than trying to prevent them. And you will act as my second should I be challenged to a duel, no questions asked.”
He stared down at her for the longest time. And then he laughed, a rusty, hoarse sound, as though it was something quite foreign to him. “Exactly how many duels might there be? I have a rather busy schedule, madam.”
“I’m sure the number will dwindle once the message is received that William belongs to me,” she said with a grin.
“God help the man. Then again, Westleigh and Trentham seem to be managing life with their hellions remarkably well, so perhaps it is not so onerous.”
Samantha almost stumbled. That had sounded like a note of envy in Alexander’s voice. Perhaps England’s coldest and most rigid nobleman was ready for a little warmth and excitement in his own life? Heaven knew, he wouldn’t get it from the museum he lived in. Or the House of Lords.
When William returned, she would make a point of discussing the matter with him. Everyone deserved to find love. Even dukes.
Calais
It was the perfect evening for dark deeds.
Uneasy as hell, William sat crouched on the Calais docks and waited for the signal. Even though the days were hot, the ocean breezes made the nights cool on the coast, and the urge to stand up, stomp his feet, and rub his arms to keep warm was almost unbearable. The wind did offer one benefit, though—it lifted some of the stench away. The combination of old produce, spilt oil, and rotting fish would turn even the most cast-iron of stomachs; he’d begun to feel a little lightheaded because of the deliberately shallow breaths he’d been taking.
Another potential punishment for White, right here.
At least he’d be back in England soon. Maybe not as himself, but a month or two pretending to be David Underwood was a small price to pay for Samantha’s safety. Then, once incontestable evidence had been secured against Claremont and the bloody bastard had been brought down for good, William Hastings would be insisting that Samantha Buchanan become the Marchioness of Standish. If insisting didn’t work, he was willing to plead. Whatever it took to secure their future together. Because a future of warmth
and affection with Samantha rather than Home Office intrigues was heady indeed. No secret meetings, impossible assignments, or impromptu visits to hostile countries, just the comparatively simple life of being a marquess, husband, and father.
He was ready to try for happiness. The past month apart from Samantha had clarified his mind, and he couldn’t imagine marriage to any other woman.
Movement caught his eye, a faint lit torch flickering off the rocks and making a figure-eight. Finally, the signal. Hurrying as best he could in the gloomy darkness, William returned to where Robert sat with two soldiers from his unit and whistled softly.
The colonel glanced over and dropped the thin woolen blanket draped around his shoulders. “Our transport has arrived?”
“Yes. Not quite a luxury yacht, but it will get us out to the ship, which I believe belongs to your brother. The journey home will be pleasant, at least. Now, I’m going to lift you up and carry you to the rowboat, all right?”
“I can walk, thank you,” Robert snapped.
“Perhaps, but you’re still a long time away from charging into battle, and I would like to return home before everyone forgets what I look like. Not to mention we’re currently surrounded by hundreds of Frenchmen who, given the opportunity, would no doubt love to swoop in and capture the renowned Colonel Langley and finish off what their brethren started.”
Robert scowled, his frustration obvious even in the low light provided by an oil lamp, but he nodded curtly and dismissed his men. William then carefully hefted the soldier’s wasted, heavily bandaged body over his shoulder and carried him down a rocky path to the beach, his gaze constantly flicking left and right as he waded into the cool water.
When would the fake ambush begin? Hopefully White’s men would have the sense to let him settle Robert in the boat before they started whatever they were going to do. Sure, they had to be realistic if this Bedlamite plan was to work, but the mission would only be successful if everyone left in one piece.
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 14