Samantha Page 7

"And you're exquisitely beautiful, my lady."

  Which scorched her more deeply? Samantha wondered, pleasure shooting through her in lightning streaks. Was it the heat of his gaze, his words, or his touch, which burned right through her glove? The combination was lethal.

  Hope was reborn.

  "Are you warm?"

  "Hmmm?"

  Rem's thumb brushed her cheek. "You're flushed. I was wondering if you were warm."

  "I don't know."

  He smiled. "Would you like some punch?"

  "I've had some, thank you."

  "Shall I return you to your aunt for further instruction?"

  "No. Nor should you continue to tease me. It makes me feel flustered."

  "I see." He swept her around the far corner of the ballroom. "You aren't thirsty, you don't wish to join your aunt, and you won't allow me to tease you. Then, as we have no reading material to divert you, the only other remedy I can suggest is a few minutes respite in less frenzied surroundings. Would you care to stroll through Almack's with me?"

  "Yes," Sammy answered without hesitating.

  "I'll just tell your aunt—"

  "No." Glancing over, Sammy saw that her aunt was talking with the elderly Dowager Duchess of Arvel. "Aunt Gertie won't object. In fact, she'll probably never notice."

  Chuckling, Rem led her into the hall. After a quick perusal of the nearby chambers, he guided her into a small, dimly lit anteroom. "How's this?"

  "Perfect." Sammy could scarcely see, especially after Rem shut the door behind him. Still, she'd managed to determine the most important thing—they were alone. She turned to face him.

  "Are you enjoying your first ball, Lady Samantha?" Rem's voice was deep and husky as it echoed through the empty room.

  Sammy's heart slammed against her ribs. "Very much."

  "I'm glad." He wrapped a tendril of her hair around his finger. "And is the uncrowded room helping to cool you?"

  "No." She stepped closer, wishing she knew what to do next, unaware that she was already doing it. "I don't think a change of scene is what I require."

  Something smoky and intangible flashed in his eyes. "Really?" His fingers left her hair, trailed across her cheek and down the side of her neck. "What is it you require then?"

  She trembled. "I. . ."

  "Is it this, Samantha?" He framed her face between his hands. "Is this what you want?"

  Her eyes slid shut as she unconsciously leaned into him, awaiting his kiss. Will it be all I imagined? she wondered in the dizzying second before their lips touched.

  The reality exceeded the dream.

  Rem's mouth brushed hers softly, gently, circling slowly around to repeat the caress. Butterfly light and infinitely controlled, he continued the motion, a chaste prelude to sensation, a maiden's first kiss.

  For Samantha, it was not nearly enough.

  Reflexively, her hands clutched his coat, urging him nearer as she rose on tiptoe to reach his mouth. She felt him start, then draw back, catching her hands in his.

  "Don't, imp," he cautioned, an uneven whisper against her lips.

  "I want to," she breathed back, unable to think beyond the wondrous new awakening. He hesitated, and Sammy could actually feel his indecision.

  "I do want to," she repeated softly, freeing her hands to glide up the front of his shirt. "Please."

  Rem's muscles tightened, with surprise or pleasure, she wasn't certain. Then he lowered his head, catching her arms to bring her closer, taking her mouth wholly under his.

  Sammy dug her fingers into his shirt as he worked his magic, kissing her in a way that made her knees buckle. "Better?" he murmured.

  "Yes, better ... but not enough."

  Again she felt him start. "What am I going to do with you, imp?" He lifted a handful of her hair, sifted it slowly through his fingers. "Your honesty constantly astounds me. But tell me, my trusting Samantha, whose undoing will it be, yours ... or mine?"

  "There is more, isn't there? There must be."

  "Must there?" He nibbled at her lower lip. "Don't you think you've had enough of a lesson for one night?"

  He was going to pull away. Sammy knew it. And she couldn't allow it—not yet. "Please, Remington..." She pressed closer, twining her arms about his neck and lifting her gaze to his. Her eyes were candid, appealing, wide with discovery, misty with pleasure. "Please . . . kiss me."

  Was it her entreaty that did it? She never knew. Nor did she care. All she knew was that he swallowed her plea with his mouth, crushing her against him, taking her lips in a series of long, drugging kisses that made tension coil inside her like a drawn bowstring. A never-before envisioned yearning ignited inside her, a need like none she had ever imagined. Whatever this wildness was, only her hero could assuage it.

  "Remington . . ."

  She parted her lips to ask him to do more, and by her very action, received what she sought.

  Rem's tongue slid into her mouth, touching every sensitized nerve ending, gliding over each tingling surface until it mated with her own.

  Sammy whimpered, bright lights exploding inside her head. She relented without thought or hesitation, opening to him, yes, but so much more than that… eagerly joining in the wondrous caresses. Her tongue intertwined with his, mimicked his every motion, then gracefully eased into his mouth to intensify the heady sensations and share the euphoria.

  A hard shudder wracked Rem's powerful frame. With a muffled curse, he drew her tongue deeper, more completely, into his mouth, kissing her with a naked urgency that seemed to stun him even more than it did her.

  For one endless, exquisite moment Sammy teetered, suspended on the fringes of a tantalizing, unknown inferno.

  Abruptly, Rem pulled back.

  "Dammit!" Dragging air into his lungs, he released her, his gaze filled with shock and condemnation. "I don't believe this!"

  Sammy crashed back to earth. Trembling violently, she regained her balance, uncertain what she should say or do. He was furious about what had just happened, that was obvious. Evidently, he blamed her for initiating the kiss. Initiating it? She'd practically forced him to kiss her! "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean—"

  Rem's head jerked around. "You're sorry?" His tone softened. "You have nothing to be sorry for, imp. I do. That loss of control was inexcusable. I don't know what got into me." He took her gloved hands in his. "Forgive me."

  "F-Forgive you?" Sammy shook her head, dazed. "No."

  "No?"

  "No. Because I wanted you to kiss me. I've dreamed of little else since we met... in truth, before we met." She raised glowing eyes to his. "And it was even more glorious than I expected."

  Cloaked in shadows, Rem's expression was indistinguishable. "I'm delighted that I didn't disappoint you, little romantic." The sound of laughing voices drifted in from the hallway, and Rem brought his head up like a wolf scenting danger. "We'd best get you back to the ball. You'll be missed. And I'm the last person the gossips should discover you with."

  "Ah, yes. Your wicked reputation." Sammy smoothed her hair back into place, fervently wishing she could read Rem's thoughts. Was it pleasure she heard in his tone, or was it simply amusement? Easing open the door, she paused, striving to prolong the moment. "Do you know, my lord, for a notorious rake, you really do make the most wonderful hero."

  Silence.

  A narrow shaft of light from the hallway illuminated Rem's face, and, with a sinking heart, Sammy got her answer. There was no doubt of what Lord Gresham was feeling. It was not the pleasure she'd prayed for, not even the amusement she'd feared. It was guilt... guilt and regret.

  "Remington—"

  "Go back to the ball, imp." Crossing over, Rem glanced surreptitiously through the open doorway. Assured that no one was about, he propelled Sammy gently into the hall. "I'll follow shortly. Tell your aunt you felt light-headed and went out for some air. Alone."

  She hesitated another second before she complied. Then, bewildered and hurt—and desperately trying to conceal both—sh
e did as he asked.

  * * *

  Her attempts at concealment failed miserably.

  Alone in the anteroom, Rem could visualize naught but Samantha's anguished expression, and his guilt magnified by the minute. Because, no matter how sound were his motives, the reality didn't change. He was using her.

  Or was he?

  Swearing softly, Rem stared down at his tightly clenched fists. How long had it been since he'd so totally lost control; behaving like an inexperienced schoolboy in the arms of his first woman ... and from a mere kiss?

  Dammit.

  He hadn't counted on this. He had a job to do. Samantha was a possible link to the discovery of a criminal, an undeniable entry to the circle he needed to infiltrate. His plan had been simple, and formulated to cause Samantha the least amount of distress: He would fuel her infatuation with a bit of harmless flirtation, a few chaste kisses, and, hopefully, long hours of carefully maneuvered conversation that would provide him with the information he sought. Tonight had been the perfect opportunity to begin ... Samantha's first ball.

  She'd looked so beautiful in her forest-green gown, the elegant satin lending the very air of sophistication she so desperately sought. Rem's only reminder of the fanciful young woman he'd met at Boydry's was the transparent play of emotions mirrored on her face: pleasure when she first saw him, nervousness when they spoke, humiliation at her aunt's bumbling remark.

  When he'd witnessed her untainted spirit crushed, Rem's immediate reaction had been a rush of protectiveness much like the one he'd experienced when she scalded her throat gulping brandy. It was atypical of him, to say the least, but not alarming. Given the extent of Samantha's innocence and faith, he was convinced that the need to shelter her would be as natural to a man as breathing.

  But that didn't explain the queer surge in his chest when they danced . . . nor the magnitude of his response when they kissed.

  Prowling restlessly about the room, Rem attempted to examine the situation with his customary objectivity. Passion was something he'd discovered at a young age, closely followed by proficiency. Physical pleasure was a wondrous balm for the body, a needed escape for the mind. And, since he'd begun his covert activities with the Crown, an incomparable method of finding out what he needed to know.

  His magnetism had served him well, as had his resulting reputation as a womanizer. The widespread knowledge that the Earl of Gresham never restricted himself to the same lady twice allowed Rem to come and go as he pleased, arousing no one's suspicions, jeopardizing no one's well-being. His missions and his peace of mind remained unthreatened.

  Until now.

  Tonight, when he'd held Samantha in his arms, tasted the sweetness of her mouth, something inside him had snapped, given way to a deluge of sensations to which he was immune.

  Or so he'd thought.

  Slowly, Rem unclenched his fists, gazing fixedly at them. Sometime during the past half hour, control had shifted from these expert, insusceptible hands into those of an enchanting, vibrant young woman with the heart of a dreamer and the sincerity of a child.

  It wouldn't happen again.

  Samantha Barrett was an obstacle that had been thrown in his path. He was accustomed to subverting obstacles. All he needed was a clear, methodical plan. Inhaling sharply, he formulated one.

  Regardless of Samantha's unexpected affect on him, as well as her blatant infatuation, he could not simply dismiss her. Not when she could very well supply him with an important inside view of Barrett Shipping and its competitors. On the other hand, to fuel these disconcerting emotions would be unfair to Samantha and dangerous to him.

  A week. He would give himself a week.

  Seven days of concentrated time with Lady Samantha Barrett. More than enough to learn what she knew, far too brief to render any permanent damage.

  Certainly fleeting enough for him to master any odd twinges of emotion he might experience.

  A purposeful gleam in his eye, Rem left the anteroom and returned to the ball. . . and his evening's work.

  * * *

  "It only goes to show that reputation is often rumor," Aunt Gertrude proclaimed loudly.

  Sammy winced.

  "Why, the Dowager Duchess of Arvel was spouting all sorts of nonsense about Lord Gresham being a libertine of the worst order. According to her, the whole ton is buzzing with stories of his indiscretions. She had the sheer audacity to chastise me for allowing you to dance with him. Well!" Gertrude sniffed. "I told her in no uncertain terms that the earl was a total gentleman ... with me as well as with you."

  Nodding woodenly, Sammy wondered how much more she could bear.

  "Speaking of Lord Gresham, I haven't seen him in some time"—Gertrude craned her neck to survey the room— "since you danced with him, as a matter of fact. Did he take his leave?"

  "I don't know, Aunt Gertrude."

  "Lady Samantha, are you all right?" The Viscount Anders, his expression taut with concern, hastened up to them.

  "Why ... yes, my lord. Why wouldn't I be?" Sammy fingered the satin folds of her gown.

  "During our last dance, you looked pale and distressed. I wanted to assure myself that you'd recovered. I've been searching the entire ballroom for you. ... I was becoming alarmed."

  "Oh." Sammy stared at the intricately stitched leaf pattern above her hem. "That was very kind of you, my lord. Actually, I left for a brief time ... to get some air. I feel much better now."

  He looked relieved. "I'm glad. That being the case, may I have the honor of another dance with you?"

  "There's the earl, dear!" Aunt Gertrude suddenly exclaimed, pointing. "In the entranceway. Why, he, too, must nave gone out for some air."

  In response to Gertrude's announcement, Anders pivoted toward the doorway, when he saw the person to whom she referred, he glanced at Samantha, a question in his eyes.

  Sammy's cheeks flamed. Certain that guilt was written all over her face, she avoided the viscount's gaze.

  An instant of silence followed—an eternity to Samantha.

  Finally, Anders cleared his throat. "The strings have begun, my lady. About the dance . . . ?"

  "Certainly, my lord." Somehow Sammy found the ability to go through the motions, allowing Anders to guide her onto the dance floor. She forced herself not to look about, although she sensed Rem's eyes on her, assessing her... probably with pity and remorse. Pity for the self-loathing she was undoubtedly feeling in light of her scandalous behavior, remorse for his contribution to rendering her a fallen woman.

  How would he react if he knew she longed to run back into his arms, to relive that first exquisite kiss? Would his gray eyes turn chilling with censure, as they had in the tavern, or indulgent with humor, as they had when she'd guzzled her brandy?

  Either way, she didn't want to know.

  "The next time you need air, I'd be delighted to escort you," Anders was saying. "You shouldn't stroll about Almack's on your own."

  "Thank you. I'll remember that." Where was Rem now? Sammy couldn't see him anywhere.

  "Did you lose your way?"

  "Pardon me?" She blinked.

  "Did you lose your way?" Anders repeated. "You were gone from the ball for quite some time."

  Sammy lifted her gaze, dreading the condemnation she expected to see. But the viscount's expression was solicitous, not reproving. Perhaps he really didn't know. "No, my lord," she answered, determined to be as honest as she could without damning herself. "I found a small anteroom and renewed myself."

  "I see. An unoccupied anteroom?"

  He most definitely knew, "Yes, the room was empty ... when I arrived." She wanted to kick herself for the hesitation.

  "Not everyone at Almack's is honorable, my lady." Anders held her eyes. "I would feel much better if you would call on me the next time you leave the party."

  "Very well, my lord." Sammy fell silent again. Despite her best resolution to the contrary, she found herself scanning the room for Remington.

  She found him...and wished
she hadn't.

  Leaning against the far wall, he was immersed in intimate conversation with one of the most exotically stunning women Sammy had ever seen.

  How much more could she withstand?

  "You're far lovelier, you know."

  ""Pardon me?" Sammy blinked.

  Anders followed Sammy's gaze. "Lady Sheltane—she cannot compare to you in beauty."

  Sammy almost laughed aloud. "You must need spectacles, my lord."

  "I assure you, I do not."

  His stiff tone alerted Sammy to the brusqueness of her reply. "I apologize. That was dreadfully rude of me. 'Tis only that I feel so inadequate beside these accomplished ladies."

  "Believe me, Samantha, their accomplishments are nothing you should envy."

  She looked startled. "Why? What are they?"

  "Things that are unsuitable for a lady's ear."

  "Oh." Sammy blushed.

  "You're especially charming when you blush," Anders's teeth gleamed.

  "My lord—"

  "Stephen."

  "Stephen." Sammy wondered where all this was leading. She could tell by the envious glances being cast her way that most women would swoon with pleasure over the attention she was receiving from the handsome viscount. Unfortunately, he left her cold. But then, he wasn't her hero.

  The sound of tinkling laughter caught Sammy's ear, and she glanced over in time to see Rem touch Lady Sheltane's arm in an obviously intimate gesture. She had an excellent notion where that was leading.

  "Who is Lady Sheltane, my lor—Stephen," Sammy corrected herself. "Her name sounds familiar."

  "It must. Do you recall last Season when the elderly Marquis of Sheltane's magnificent thoroughbred stunned the entire ton by sweeping Newmarket?" "Oh!" Sammy's eyes widened. "Is Lady Sheltane related to the marquis? His granddaughter... no, then her title would be ..."

  "His wife."

  "His wife?" Sammy's head jerked around, and she stared openly at the beautiful flaxen-haired woman of whom they spoke. "Why, she can't be older than five and twenty!"

  "True. And Lord Sheltane is nearing sixty—and exceedingly rich."

  "I don't doubt it. Where is the marquis?"

  "Home . . . ailing."

  "And she—" Sammy's mouth snapped shut.