He was also in a bad mood.
“Thank you for this,” Sampson said, aware of the fellow’s unease at being here.
Blackehart grunted.
“I am in your debt.”
He turned then, black eyes glinting against a dark complexion that attested to his gypsy heritage.
“You are,” the man agreed. “My wife was not pleased that my name was on that bloody list.”
Sampson cleared his throat. “I doubt they wanted to risk offending one of the most powerful men in London,” he said, trying not to dwell on his own fears for the evening and concentrate on his companion’s troubles. It might settle his nerves and take his mind of what he was about to do. Unlikely, but it was worth a try.
“I know why my name was on the bloody list,” Blackehart growled.
“Right,” Sampson nodded and decided he may as well shut up.
His guts were roiling now as he imagined everything that he was about to expose himself to. If this went wrong, he’d be a laughingstock and everything he’d tried to save the girls from would be nothing compared to the scandal he’d create.
What if she’d changed her mind? They’d known each other such a short time, what if it had been an infatuation? What if….
“It will be all right.”
Sampson looked around, startled to discover Blackehart had addressed him, and more so by the sympathy in his eyes.
“Will it?” he asked, unnerved to find his voice rather less forceful than it ought to be. Sampson cleared his throat and looked away. A heavy hand rested on his shoulder for a moment.
“You love her,” he said, as if that made everything clear. “You will make it all right, for her.”
Sampson met the man’s dark gaze again, read the understanding in his eyes. “Yes,” he said, his voice sure now, certain. Gwenn loved him, and he loved her. He would make it all right. With a little help from some dangerous friends. A smile curved over his mouth. “Thank you,” he said, meaning it.
“You’re welcome,” Blackehart said. “But you still owe me.”
Sampson laughed, but the sound died in his throat as a hush settled over the assembled company. Marie de Wynn’s lavish home was filled with men, and a glamorous selection of less than respectable women, but now every one of them turned their heads to look up at the grand staircase that descended in an elegant sweep to the magnificent entrance hall they’d been waiting in.
Marie de Wynn made her entrance then, clad in red satin, the infamous Davenport rubies sparkling at her ears, throat, and wrist. Unlike Gwenn, her mother was dark, luxurious thick mahogany curls tumbling carelessly to her shoulders, pinned here and there with ruby combs. Nonetheless, Sampson could see the likeness in the elegant line of her jaw, in her lush curves, and something in the way she carried herself… like a queen.
The woman did not prevaricate; she knew well how to command attention.
“Ladies and gentleman,” she said, her voice rich and earthy, the sensual tones of a woman at ease in her own body, with her own power. “I present my daughter, Guinevere de Wynn.”
Sampson’s heart leapt to his throat as a slender figure moved forward. Her golden hair glimmered in the warm glow of hundreds of candles and she was dressed in a simple if provocatively low-cut ivory satin gown. A single row of pearls encircled her elegant neck. She was indeed lovely, but her astonishing beauty was marred for him as he saw that the light of laughter and love—and the vivacity of her spirit, for which he’d fallen so hard—had dimmed. He watched, transfixed, as she paused at the top of the stairs, and at once he recognised the haunted quality of her gaze, the terror. Every protective instinct rushed to the fore as her chest rose and fell too fast, staring about the room, eyes wide like some wild creature backed into a corner with nowhere to run.
“Beautiful,” said a masculine voice, full of admiration from somewhere to Sampson’s left.
“Stunning.”
“Magnificent.”
“Incomparable.”
The murmurs of interest and approval rang through the gathering and Sampson wanted to kill every one of them for daring to think what they were undoubtedly thinking.
He couldn’t breathe, his gaze fixed on the woman he loved, and he wondered if he alone saw the little shove her mother gave her, to force her down the steps.
Damn Marie de Wynn.
This had to end. Now.
He moved forward, shoving men aside left, right, and centre as he elbowed and pushed his way through, oblivious to the curses and indignant shouts as he made his way to Gwenn.
She was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she saw him, the look of dazed terror morphing to one of mingled delight and horror.
“No,” she said, her voice faint. “Oh, no.”
For a moment, he thought she would faint, but she held tight to the rail of the bannister, frozen with shock.
“Lord Cheam,” Marie said, moving to stand beside her daughter. She did not look pleased. “I did not expect to see you here.”
“No doubt,” Sampson said, not looking at Marie, never taking his eyes from the woman who held his future in her hands. “But here I am, and here I will stay, with Gwenn.”
“No, Sampson,” Gwenn said, her eyes filling with tears. “No, you must not. Think of the girls! You cannot do this to them.”
“I cannot condemn the girls to live a life with a brother who is dead inside. I cannot give them such a poor example to follow, either. A man must fight for what he loves, he must do everything in his power to protect those he cares for—all of them. I should not want them to choose a man who would do any less for them than I would do for you.”
“Very pretty, my lord,” Marie snapped, taking hold of Gwenn’s arm, her intention clear as the murmurs of interest rose about them. “But that is all it is, pretty words. A woman cannot live on them.”
“Marry me, Gwenn.”
Everyone stilled, falling silent as Sampson’s voice rang out across the room, strong and sure of itself.
“W-What?” Gwenn was staring at him, looking at him as if he’d run mad, when in truth it was the first time he’d felt sane since the moment he’d heard the news that she’d run from him.
“Marry me, Guinevere de Wynn,” he said, his voice softer now. “I love you, and I cannot go on without you beside me. Besides which, the girls miss you desperately. They begged me to make sure I brought you home. I promised them I would. Don’t make me break that promise.”
“O-Oh, Sampson,” she said, shaking her head, tears sliding down her cheeks now. “T-That’s n-not fair.”
“I know,” he said, grinning at her. “I’m not intending to play fair. In fact, I’m prepared to play very dirty indeed, as your father has recently discovered.”
Both Marie and Gwenn were staring at him now.
“M-My father?” Gwenn stammered.
“Everything will be all right, darling.” He stared at her and held out his hand. “I won’t let anyone or anything ever hurt you, or Susan and Selina. This is the right thing to do. I will make it all right—with a little help. Trust me, love, please. Let me prove it to you.”
Gwenn stared at his hand and Sampson held his breath.
Marie tugged at her daughter’s arm. “He’ll break your heart,” she said urgently, her eyes glittering with tears as she encouraged her daughter to turn away from him.
Sampson watched as Gwenn looked up at her mother and touched a hand to her cheek.
“No,” she said gently. “He won’t.”
Marie stared at her daughter and made a sound of distress and then pulled her into her arms, giving her a fierce hug. “Go, then,” she said, her words a mixture of anger and hope. “Go and find what I could not.” With that, she turned away from Gwenn and faced the crowd. “A little change of plans, gentleman.” Clapping her hands, she gestured for a pair of liveried footmen to open the grand doors to the ballroom. “Let us see what other entertainments can be found this evening.”
Like an empress, Marie sw
ept through the crowd as they followed in her wake, eyes turning back as they left, lingering to stare at Gwenn, many of them clearly angry and muttering unhappily.
Sampson paused as the Duke of Sherringham caught his eye. The man lifted a glass of champagne in a silent salutation, a wry smile at his lips, before following Marie to the ballroom.
He turned back to find Gwenn staring at him and, once again, held out his hand to her.
“Come home, love, it’s been so bloody awful without you.”
Gwenn did not take his hand. Instead, she threw herself into his arms, and Sampson spun her around, laughing even though his throat was closing, and his vision seemed strangely blurry. He held her to him, tight enough that she would know he would never let her go.
“Are you sure, Sampson?” she said, looking up at him, her beautiful eyes still full of concern, concern for him and the girls. “I couldn’t bear it if—”
“If you don’t marry me now, I shall look a fool,” Sampson pointed out. “There’s no getting out of it, I made very certain of that.”
“Yes, but how…?”
He stopped her question by the very effective method of pressing his mouth to hers. She melted into him, kissing him back with a passionate desperation that told him she’d been every bit as wretched as he since the moment they parted. At last he let her go, putting distance between them and clasping her hand firmly in his.
“Let’s go home and see the girls. They’ll be beside themselves if they wait much longer.”
Gwenn nodded, staring at him with undisguised adoration. “Yes, please, Sampson… take me home.”
Epilogue
“Wherein gossip runs amok.”
19th May 1821. St George’s, Hanover Square, London.
Sampson turned and looked down the aisle.
Gwenn was walking towards him, a smile on her face that made his heart sing and his breath catch in his throat. Behind her, Selina and Susan skipped along together, heads held high, beaming with pride and very grown up in the lovely gowns that Gwenn had chosen for them. Such pretty girls, with their blonde ringlets bouncing, and so happy.
Sampson blinked hard. He was, without a doubt, the luckiest man alive.
***
It was the wedding of the season.
Sampson knew it had astonished everyone when the Marquess of Davenport had officially recognised his illegitimate daughter. He had done so in the full view of the ton, escorting her to the theatre and musicales, and to several balls, before finally walking her down the aisle on the day she married Viscount Cheam.
Of course, no one else knew that the marquess was privately outraged, but too terrified to look anything but enchanted that his estranged daughter was reconciled to him. A late-night visit to the marquess from Black Rule and the Earl of Falmouth seemed to have concentrated the man’s mind with quite startling effect. They had clarified that his daughter would be welcomed with open arms, or not only would the marquess’s impressive debts be called in at once, but that stories—and proof—of some of his more scandalous peccadilloes would find their way to the biggest gossips in town, not to mention the press. The underlying message that the two men would also be very displeased if he did not comply may also have contributed to his eagerness to help.
A dirty tactic, but an efficient one.
What had surprised even Sampson was the guest list to their wedding. Something Falmouth had insisted on overseeing. It seemed the earl had powerful friends, and at least half the ton were in his debt or owed him favours. The Duke of Ware and his best friend, the Duke of Sindalton, were both in attendance with their families, as was the usually reclusive Marquess of Winterbourne.
To Sampson’s astonishment Viscount DeMorte, a man he had never met in his life, and with a reputation every bit as dark as Sampson’s father, had also attended. Alex had just smiled and reassured him that DeMorte was as much a victim of gossip as anyone, and not to judge a book by its cover.
Sampson had remained a little sceptical until he’d seen the look of adoration the man had cast the delicate blonde on his arm. It seemed Lady DeMorte was responsible for taming a man with one of the worst reputations in the ton.
The illustrious names kept coming, and the ton were agog with the romantic story of how Sampson had saved the lovely Miss de Wynn from her fate. That the gossip was sympathetic rather than judgmental was further proof of Blackehart’s and Falmouth’s influence.
Of course, Alex had attended too, with his vivacious wife on his arm, and his aunt, Lady Seymour Russell at his side. The old woman shared Alex’s sharp grey eyes and had a tongue that matched. Few people ever dared contradict her. Blackehart had refused the invitation, however, certain that his presence would do no good whatsoever, and content to retreat to the wilds of Dartmoor where he had made his home. He had, however, sent his best wishes and a generous gift, along with an invitation for Sampson and his wife and sisters to visit them in the near future.
Sampson’s family were there too, naturally, his brothers overflowing with good cheer and a great deal of aggravating taunting, which Sampson bore stoically enough, and his Aunt May, sobbing into a lace edged hanky and looking pleased as punch.
So, with the acceptance of some of the most powerful families of the ton, any scandal that might have rocked the establishment to its foundations was squashed to a mere whisper. Oh, people would still talk, but not openly, and no one dared to cut a woman whose husband had such formidable and daunting friends.
***
“My word, what a marvellous day!” Susan exclaimed, flopping down into a seat in a flurry of silken skirts.
“The best day ever,” Selina confirmed, doing a little twirl in the middle of the room to send her own skirts fluttering about her legs.
Sampson put his arms about Gwenn and tugged her closer, nuzzling her neck. “Hmmm, not certain it’s the best day ever… yet,” he murmured, nipping at her ear as she squealed and laughed.
“Not in front of the girls,” she scolded him, though happiness shone in her eyes.
Sampson made a show of huffing and moving away from her, though his arm stayed tight about her waist. He looked about his home, to the private parlour where the family had retreated now the wedding breakfast was over and only they remained. Solomon and Sherbourne had collapsed in a heap, too stuffed with food and wine to move. Aunt May was dozing, her soft snores barely audible over Susan and Selina’s excited chatter. In the main reception rooms, servants bustled back and forth, tidying away evidence of the lavish meal they’d given, but here, peace reigned. Well, as much peace as Selina and Susan ever allowed, but he rather liked it that way.
Sampson cast Gwenn a look which must have spoken volumes, as she blushed and looked away. He was eager to have her to himself now, to escape up to their bedroom, and leave everyone else to their own amusements… but how to extricate himself without the twins asking where they were going?
Sampson sighed, considering how best to manage it as he caught Samuel watching him with glee. It was clear his brother well knew of his predicament. He watched as Sam elbowed Ross, who was standing beside him with Freddie on his arm. Sam then whispered something that made the big man give a wicked chuckle as he glanced at Sampson. Sampson watched, wondering how his brothers planned to torment him further with trepidation.
“Ach, ’tis a pitiful sight,” Ross lamented, giving a mournful shake of his head as he regarded Sampson. “We’d best put the poor bas—” Ross choked as Freddie stamped on his toe.
“Children present,” she muttered, glaring at him.
“We’d best put the poor fellow out of his misery,” Ross amended, giving Freddie a rueful smile.
“Oh, not yet,” Freddie said, tugging at his arm. “You must give them Mrs Murray’s gift.”
“Oh, aye,” Ross said, smacking his head with his palm. “Thank God ye reminded me. I’d have been in a deal of trouble had I forgot. I think I’m too big to fear her tanning my hide these days, but I’d rather not risk it.”
&nbs
p; Freddie chuckled as Ross rushed out of the room and returned a few moments later with a small gift, wrapped up in soft paper with a pretty yellow ribbon.
“Here ye go,” Ross said, putting it in Gwenn’s hand. “Mrs Murray bade me tell ye how very happy she was, and to tell ye she’ll be most offended if ye do not return for Christmas this year.”
Sampson smiled as Gwenn’s throat worked, aware she was holding back tears. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, before reaching up on tiptoes and pressing a kiss to Ross’s cheek. “Would you give that to her for me, please?”
“Aye, that I will,” Ross said, looking pleased. “Now, open it up. We have to give her a detailed description of your expression when ye see it.”
Gwenn laughed and tugged at the ribbon, and then made a soft sound of wonder as she saw the tiny knitted bonnet and booties. Sampson’s own throat felt a little tight as he saw the longing in her eyes as she touched a finger to the delicate items.
“She seemed to think these would come in useful soon enough,” Ross said, winking at his new sister-in-law as Freddie elbowed him.
“Ross!” she exclaimed, laughing. “You’ll make the poor girl want to disown us.”
“Ach,” he said, smiling fondly at his wife. “There’s no need to be jealous. Mrs Murray knitted ours ages ago.”
A look passed between the two of them that Sampson suspected meant there would be news from that quarter soon. He smiled with a deep sense of contentment at knowing this family was not only going to survive, they would thrive now and grow stronger together.
“Mrs Murray also asked that ye forgive her,” Ross said, looking to Sampson. “She’s broken her heart these past months and I know the guilt weighs her down.”
Sampson smiled and tugged his wife a little closer. “You may tell her there is nothing to forgive, and I shall look forward to seeing her at Christmas.”
Ross nodded, pleased, and then he gave a soft laugh. “Ah, well, I suppose I’d best put ye out of ye misery, ye poor devil.” He turned then and regarded the twins. “Right then, lasses. I’m growing bored here, have ye no games to entertain me with?”
Melting Miss Wynter (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 17) Page 23