Samantha Page 8

  "Yes." Anders whirled Samantha about the room. "You are refreshingly naive, my dear. A rarity, to say the least."

  Sweetheart, let me give you some advice. . .

  Sammy could hear Rem's voice as clearly as if he were speaking the words aloud. You're about to embark on your first Season. Dozens of men will be attempting to win your hand. . . and anything else they can acquire in the process. I would suggest you temper your sincerity just a bit. If you bare your heart before the entire ton, you'll have no protection from the unscrupulous blackguards of the world. "I suppose I am, Stephen," she replied, unwilling to explain that, in this case, naiveté had nothing to do with it. She'd witnessed more than her share of infidelity in her lifetime . . . but her hero?

  The strings fell silent, and Sammy stepped away from Anders. "Will you excuse me, please?"

  "Of course." He bowed.

  Sammy gathered her skirts and made her way through the crowd, uncertain precisely where she was going, only knowing that she needed to get away.

  She collided head-on with the instigator of her flight.

  "Samantha?" Rem caught her elbows to steady her. "Why are you fleeing through Almack's like a bandit?"

  "I— That is . . ." It was too much. Despite her best efforts to regain control, Samantha felt tears well up in her eyes.

  "Are you all right?"

  Miserably, Sammy shook her head. "I apologize for walking into you. . . . I'm not feeling well. If you'll allow me to go ..." She made one futile attempt to pass.

  Rem didn't release her. "Has someone said something; done something?"

  "No!" she snapped. "Fear not—my honor is intact, Lord Gresham. I just wish to leave."

  "I'll take you home."

  "And interrupt your intimate evening? I wouldn't hear of it!" Were those biting words really coming from her?

  Rein's dimple flashed. "My intimate evening?"

  "There you are, Rem." Lady Sheltane breezed over, gifting him with a tantalizing smile. Simultaneously, her frosty blue eyes appraised Samantha. "I don't believe I've met your little friend."

  "Clarissa, may I present Lady Samantha Barrett. Samantha ... the Marchioness of Sheltane."

  "Lady Sheltane." Samantha wanted to slap her mocking face.

  "Samantha, of course. I'd heard you were coming out this Season." The marchioness patted Sammy's hand in a patronizing gesture. "And what a coincidence. We were just discussing your brother."

  "You were?" Sammy's tears vanished. "Why?"

  "Because my dear husband has commissioned Barrett Shipping to build a personal yacht for my use. It will be called the Clarissa."

  "How lovely. Your husband must be thoroughly devoted to you." Was it her imagination, Sammy wondered, or did Rem's lips twitch?

  "He is. Actually, he considered several companies before selecting your brother's. He was determined to attain the finest quality for the Clarissa, considering the number of English ships that have been lost these past months. Henry says poor workmanship is the reason they vanished, no doubt to the bottom of the sea."

  "The quality at Barrett Shipping is impeccable, I assure you, Lady Sheltane. The marquis will not be disappointed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must find my aunt." She didn't wait to see if Lady Sheltane excused her or not.

  She bolted.

  Sprinting down the hall, Sammy found the anteroom she'd frequented earlier and slipped inside. Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to the weeping she'd suppressed.

  "Samantha?"

  She froze.

  "Why are you crying?"

  "For no reason you would understand, Lord Gresham. Now please . . . leave me alone."

  He came up behind her. "Did Anders make any improper—"

  "No. The only one who was improper tonight was me."

  Gently, he turned her to face him. "It's your first ball, imp. Don't cry."

  She gazed up at him from beneath wet, spiky lashes, her eyes emanating confusion, hurt and pain, "It's just that I ... when we ... I don't understand, why did you—"

  With a rough sound, Rem dragged her into his arms, burying his face in her bright hair. "Samantha . . ." He tipped her chin up, brushing his lips through the tracks of tears on her cheeks. "I want to see you smile."

  "Then kiss me," she heard herself say. "But this time don't pull away, and don't apologize." She stood on tiptoe, twining her arms about his neck.

  "Sweetheart, you don't know what you're asking. . . ."

  "Yes, I do." She tugged him down to her. "Please . . ."

  Capitulation was inevitable.

  Rem bent to capture her mouth with his, relenting before either of them could think. Their lips met, fused, parted . . . then melded in a searing, blazing, devouring kiss that burned with a life of its own.

  Pressing closer, Sammy's last coherent thought was that heaven itself would bow before these sensations. She felt Rem's hands rove restlessly over her back and shoulders, pulling her harder against him. She arched her neck as his lips scorched a searing path down her throat to her collarbone, then back to her mouth again.

  "Samantha . . ." This time her name was an endearment, and Sammy reveled in the sound. She met the rhythmic strokes of his tongue, felt the hammering of his heart against hers. But when she slid her hands inside his coat, eager to feel the warmth of his skin through only the thin barrier of his shirt, he stayed her, catching her fingers in his. "Stop, sweetheart. Stop now."

  "Why?"

  "Why?" He jerked his head up. "Dammit, Samantha, you can't be that naive." Live embers smoldered in his eyes. "Surely you have some idea where this can lead."

  "Where it was leading with Lady Sheltane?"

  "Is that what this is all about—Clarissa?"

  "Yes ... and no." Sammy wet her lips. "I hate the thought of you and ... her together. But I also adore being in your arms."

  There was that dimple again. "How do I combat such enchanting honesty?"

  "She's married, Remington."

  The dimple vanished. "Samantha ... there are some things you don't understand. . . ."

  "Oh, I understand better than you think," Sammy returned, holding Rem's gaze. "My mother was as faithless as your Clarissa. From what I eventually learned from Drake, she enjoyed countless lovers—and my poor father never discovered her duplicity. And Drake, well, married women have pursued him since as far back as I can recall. Many still do, despite the fact that no one exists for him but Alex." Sammy gripped Rem's arms. "A dishonest liaison is beneath you, Remington."

  Some intangible emotion crossed his face. "Hell, imp, you don't even know me," he muttered, a muscle working in his jaw. "I'm not the fictional hero you imagine me to be."

  "Yes," Sammy breathed, "you are. If you weren't, you'd be with her right now. Instead, you're with me." She brought his fingers to her lips.

  A muffled oath rumbled from Rem's chest. Involuntarily, he tugged Sammy against him, ravaging her mouth in another series of deep, probing kisses. He shifted restlessly, taut with some imperceptible need—a struggle between mind and heart.

  "I don't want you to stop," Sammy whispered.

  "And God help me, I don't want to stop," he returned in a strangled tone.

  "Samantha? Where are you, dear?"

  Sammy's fingers dug into Rem's coat. "Aunt Gertie."

  "It's all right." Instantly taking control, Rem murmured soothing words as he quickly rearranged Sammy's disheveled tresses. "Go. I'll stand behind the door until you and your aunt are no longer in the hallway. She'll assume you were alone."

  "Again?" Sammy couldn't help but smile.

  "The alternative is to tell her you were in my arms. And, given that she is almost entirely deaf, you'd have to shout the truth throughout Almack's." Rem grinned. "Is that preferable?"

  "Good night, my lord." Sammy scurried for the door.

  He chuckled. "Good night, imp."

  One hand on the latch, Sammy hesitated, inclining her head in Rem's direction.

  "Tomorrow, my transparent d
reamer," he promised, "I'll take you and your skittish maid for a ride in Hyde Park. How would that be?"

  "Perfect." Sammy's eyes glowed. "Well... almost perfect. Perfect is what just happened here."

  She was treated to a fleeting glimpse of that incomparable dimple before closing the door behind her.

  "Here I am, Aunt Gertie." Sammy tried, in vain, to keep her exultation from showing. "Are you ready to go home?"

  "There you are, Samantha! I'm ready to go home," Gertrude declared brightly. "By the way, the Viscount Anders has been insistently searching for you. You seem to have made quite an impression."

  "I'll locate him and say good night." This time Sammy pronounced her intentions loudly.

  "Fine, dear. I'll wait here."

  Sammy didn't have far to go.

  Just outside the ballroom, his back to her, was the Viscount Anders. He was deep in troubled conversation with Lord Keefe, the prominent banker who managed the majority of the ton's funds, including her family's.

  "It wasn't just his ship, Anders," Keefe was saying. "Nor even the cargo, although evidently Goddfrey lost a fortune in goods. The heinous part is the loss of his crew—quite a substantial one, from what I hear—and his finest captain."

  "A tragedy," Anders agreed somberly. "I myself have lost two ships in much the same manner. Something must be done."

  "Chaos is beginning to set in—and not only among the businessmen whose ships and cargo are being destroyed. The docks are buzzing with rumors and fear. Crewmen are already demanding higher wages. Some are even refusing to sail at all, preferring the loss of gainful employment to death." Sammy's hand flew to her mouth and she gasped aloud.

  Both men turned.

  "Samantha! How long have you been standing there?" Anders went to her side.

  "Drake still captains La Belle Alexandria," she whispered. "I never realized—"

  "I'm terribly sorry you overheard that, my dear," Keefe said, utterly mortified.

  Anders took Sammy's hands in his. "Your brother spends most of his time at Allonshire and very little of it at sea," he reminded her. "Since your father's death—certainly since wedding Alexandria and siring a son—Drake's involvement with Barrett Shipping has been primarily on land."

  "Still..." Fear gripped Sammy's heart.

  "I don't want you to concern yourself about this." Gently but purposefully, Anders led her aside, mollifying her as one would a small child. "Both the Admiralty and Lloyd's are conducting investigations into the cause of these disasters. By the time Drake sets sail again, the problem will most assuredly be resolved."

  Mutely, Sammy nodded.

  "May I call on you, my lady?"

  Lost in the turmoil of her thoughts, Sammy gave Anders a quizzical look. "Pardon me?"

  He smiled. "I'm requesting the right to vie for your affections, Samantha. Will you grant me the honor of doing so?"

  "Oh." Sammy blinked. "I... that is ... well, my lord ..."

  "Stephen."

  "Stephen."

  "I am as charming as most and more scrupulous than some—if given a chance." There was no missing his meaning. "Please, Samantha, give me that chance."

  What could she say? Especially in the hallway of Almack's before a milling crowd of gossips, all craning their necks to hear her reply. Moreover, her head ached from the worry of what she had just learned. She needed to think.

  "All right . . . yes, Stephen, you may call on me."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "No." She blurted out the refusal, softening it immediately. "I need a day to recover. Perhaps Friday?"

  "Friday it is. I look forward to it with great anticipation." Anders kissed her gloved hand. "You won't regret your decision, my lady. You have my word on it."

  Samantha didn't even hear him. Her mind was consumed with the possibility that Drake could be in danger. How could she subvert it? Talking to her brother would be useless; he was as stubborn as a mule. The only person who had any influence on him was Alex, and with a new babe due any day now, Sammy refused to burden her. No, Sammy knew she was on her own.

  Abruptly, she halted, realizing she'd just stumbled upon her answer.

  It was as clear as her future with Remington.

  She'd found her Gothic hero.

  It was time she became a heroine.

  6

  Considering it was two in the morning before Sammy dismissed Millie and settled under her quilt, dawn should have arrived with a great deal more expedience.

  Instead, it dawdled endlessly, leaving Sammy frustrated and impatient. Abandoning her warm bed, she paced about her chambers, wondering if the sun were ever going to rise enough to shed some light on the darkened streets.

  Not an abundance of light, merely enough for her to see her way along the north bank of the Thames until she reached London Dock. There, she would implement her plan.

  A faint glint from the horizon prodded Sammy into scooping up the disheveled bundle of clothing she'd confiscated an hour ago from the washroom in the servants' quarters. The breeches and shirt, left hung to dry, were still a bit damp. But they were also small—obviously belonging to a slight man—and were therefore the only garments that came close to fitting her. So, damp or not, they would have to suffice.

  Donning them rapidly, she went in search of the darkest pair of slippers she could find. To wear men's shoes would be absurd; she had miles to walk and refused to be hindered by ill-fitting footwear.

  There. Done.

  Last, she twisted her hair into a tight knot atop her head and yanked the cap she'd found—a gardener's cap, complete with mud and grass stains—over it, tugging the brim down almost to her eyes. She grinned at her reflection in the glass. All she needed was a shovel and shears and she could comfortably prune the hedges at Allonshire.

  Sneaking out was infinitely easier than anticipated. But of course Aunt Gertie was deaf, the servants were sleeping, and Drake's perpetually protective eye was absent.

  Drake.

  Just the thought of her beloved brother being injured, or worse, made a lump form in her throat. No. She had to prevent it.

  Purposefully, Sammy hastened down Abingdon Street and made her way to the Thames. She'd venture her two-mile journey to London's East End along the riverbank, safely away from the streets surrounding St. James . . . and the curious eyes of any last minute partygoers on their carriage rides home.

  There was scarcely enough light to see, but she knew the route along the Thames almost as well as she knew the grounds of Allonshire. As a child, she'd spent countless hours following Drake to his ship, watching him depart, fervently wishing he wouldn't leave her behind.

  Always he promised her he would return. And he kept his word—only to become restless and traverse the seas once more. Sammy hurt, not only for her own loneliness, but for the emptiness that drove Drake away, always searching, never finding.

  Then, three years ago, everything changed. This time when Drake returned home he brought with him the most precious gift he'd ever given her, and himself. Alexandria.

  Magically, Drake's restlessness vanished, replaced by an overwhelming joy and contentment that permeated Allonshire and made Drake whole.

  Sammy intended to ensure he remained that way. The West End of London was predictably quiet, as the haul ton slept on, at least until noon. The faint sounds and smells of Covent Gardens drifted to her senses, strangely comforting, as they reminded her that others were up and about. Relief was short-lived, for the soothing sounds of the new day faded as Sammy hurried along the very dark, very deserted strand that led to London Bridge.

  There, she rested, leaning her head against a wooden pier, wondering why her plan no longer seemed quite so brilliant as it had on the carriage ride home from Almack's. After all, if the Admiralty itself hadn't determined the cause of the ships' demises, what made her believe she could?

  It was too late to turn back now. Just beyond that curve was London Dock. Perhaps the fates would smile down on her.

  She approached
the wharf, slowing her step as she cautiously inched through the rows of warehouses, peeking around to watch the docks come to life.

  Activity abounded, cargo being readied for boarding, cranes hoisting wooden crates onto waiting ships, workers calling out to each other as they scanned the skies to assess the day's sailing conditions. A normal daybreak at London Dock.

  How precisely did one perceive an unusual occurrence? Sammy wondered, chewing her lip. Her heroines all seemed to possess innate instincts for sizing up danger. Why didn't she?

  Evidently, she had to plunge right into the heart of things.

  "Outta th'way, boy!" A craggy-faced sailor nearly knocked Sammy over, stifling her determined approach to the wharf. Giving her a thoroughly irritated look, he continued hauling his load to the pier's end. "If ye ain't workin', clear out! Ye're in th'way."

  "Sorry," Sammy muttered in as deep a voice as she could muster. Pulling the cap lower on her face, she scampered off to find a more discreet spot to begin her covert observations. The warehouses afforded no access; the pier afforded no privacy.

  Blend in. That's what she had to do.

  Stooping over, Sammy retrieved an empty bottle of ale and a dried scrap of bread from the ground. Moving unsteadily about, she kept her full attention riveted on the bottle, periodically raising it to her lips for a fictitious swallow. Better, much better, she congratulated herself.

  A scraggly dog slithered up to her and yanked her breeches with his teeth.

  "No!" she hissed under her breath. She shook her leg free.

  The dog sniffed her and barked.

  Sammy was certain all eyes were upon her.

  "Please," she whispered fiercely. "Go away."

  The dog nipped at her foot and howled.

  By now everyone on the dock must have figured out her disguise. Including this odorous mongrel.

  Slowly, she raised her eyes.

  Not one person had even glanced her way.

  Sammy sagged with relief. "What do you want?" she demanded through clenched teeth.

  The dog sat and wagged his tail, his eyes glued to her hand.

  The bread. She had completely forgotten about the bread. "Here." She thrust the bit of crusty food at him. "Take it."