by Danice Allen
Priss “tsk-tsked” and Nan couldn’t help a secret smile behind a plump, neatly gloved hand.
“Many brides get … er … with child on their honeymoon, Samantha, darling,” Nan explained. “And precisely because they are having fun! But no one could have known that she’d be prone to miscarriage and ordered to bed for the duration of her breeding period. You read her letter, dearest. She wishes she could be with you at your come-out ball as much as you do. I know you don’t want her to jeopardize her health or the baby’s.”
Sam sighed and plucked self-consciously at her skirt. “Of course not.”
“And while we are only her aunts,” Priss interjected, “and yours, too, if you will only think of us as such—though we aren’t actually related, coming, as it were, from Amanda’s mother’s side of the family—we love you dearly, Samantha. Never fear, we will stick to your side like mending plaster. And who better to have as your sponsor and mentor for the season than Julian? No one could have a more splendid introduction to society than the marquess of Serling!”
Sam grimaced. “That’s just the trouble, y’ know.”
“What can you possibly mean by that, brat?” Julian inquired icily.
Sam continued to pluck at her skirts and divert her gaze. “I’ve been taught by the best. So if I accidentally curse, or use poor grammar, or slurp my soup, or trip over my feet in the middle of the dance floor, I’ll have no one to blame but myself. And, worst of all, I’ll mortify you, Julian!”
“I’m not so easily mortified,” Julian assured her, giving her hands a light slap. “Now stop plucking your skirts, or you’ll ruin the fabric.”
Obediently she clasped her hands behind her and looked up at him with a woeful expression. He smiled and shook his head, then placed his hands on her shoulders. Sam got warm all over when Julian touched her. And she enjoyed the strong feel of his long fingers through the thin material of her puffed sleeves.
“Don’t worry, Sam,” he assured her, still smiling as he gazed steadily into her eyes. “I have complete confidence in you. You’re a beautiful, bright, accomplished girl. And you’ve learned in three months what most wellborn simpering misses take years to learn.” He raised his brows. “And, who knows, maybe tonight you’ll meet the young man who will become your husband.”
Sam smiled back, buoyed by his praise and sure she could fly to the moon if Julian told her she could. As for her future husband … well, she had already met that particular fellow. Compared to Julian, she was sure that all the other men she’d meet at her coming-out ball would be dead bores.
“What do you suppose she’s saying to them?” Julian wondered, standing beside Nan and Prissy’s chairs where they sat on the sidelines of the ballroom, keeping a sharp eye on their charge. Sam was several feet away, the center of a group of gentleman, all of whom were laughing and smiling at whatever it was she was saying.
“I don’t know,” said Nan, frowning and chewing her lip. “But they all seem to think she’s prodigiously entertaining.”
Prissy wrung her hands. “She’s had so little experience with men.”
“You mean none, don’t you?” Julian grimly interjected.
“Yes,” Priss agreed. “And so it makes one wonder how she can manage to amuse them so easily.” She looked up at Julian, worry etched on her face. “You don’t think she’s being … er … vulgar, do you?”
“Not on purpose,” was his unreassuring reply.
Now even Nan was wringing her hands. “You’d better go, Julian, and find out what’s going on. Claim her for a dance or something.”
“Her dance card is full to brimming,” he revealed with a wry edge to his voice. “I would have to usurp the place of some moonstruck young fool who would then become tragically miserable for the rest of the night.”
“That can’t be helped,” Nan said fretfully, alarmed by another burst of laughter coming from the cluster of admirers surrounding Sam. “You must find out what the child is saying!”
Julian agreed. He strode toward the jovial assemblage where Sam’s shiny blond curls bobbed animatedly in the middle of a veritable sea of men. Her instant success had probably already incurred the intense dislike of every mama with a marriageable daughter to get rid of that season. Now he only hoped she wasn’t giving the ton something juicy to chew on by way of behaving outrageously. But she wouldn’t do that, would she? Hadn’t he taught her well enough to guarantee her best behavior?
His mere approach was enough to scare away some of the more timid devotees, but by the time he reached Sam she still had half a dozen men hanging on to her every word. Hovering a little behind a young man he knew as Ninian Wentworth—a foppish dandy if ever there was one—Julian listened and braced himself for the worst. But Sam, who seemed totally unaware that Julian was eavesdropping on the conversation, was only talking about … her dogs.
“But Zeus is even worse than Neptune,” she was saying, her expression vibrant and her eyes bright. “He’s this great, vicious brute with giant teeth”—she bared her own small white teeth to demonstrate—“but he’s afraid of mice! I caught him once hiding behind a butter churn, shaking like a tree in a storm! You’d have thought he’d been charged by an elephant rather than a silly little mouse!”
As the men laughed, Julian studied their faces. None of them were smiling sardonically or exchanging knowing glances. They weren’t patronizing her or egging her on to make a fool of herself. They were genuinely enchanted by Sam’s artlessness.
“You miss Zeus and Neptune a great deal, don’t you, Miss Darlington?” said Nathan Ford, in his nasal American twang. Nathan was a rich plantation owner from Virginia.
“Oh, you can’t imagine how much,” she said with a breathy little sigh that was sure to stir the protective instincts of every man present. “But my guardian, Lord Serling, says London’s no place for them. They’re a rowdy twosome, I must admit.” She got a dreamy look in her eye. “But sometimes I just wish I could romp with them awhile, or snuggle up to them for a snooze by the fire.”
There was complete silence while Sam lost herself in the pleasant picture she’d created in her mind, and every male eye in the group was fixed adoringly on her.
“By Jupiter, I think it’s dashed shabby of Lord Serling to keep your dogs in the country when you so obviously miss the little bounders,” Ninian Wentworth finally burst out, reddening clear to the roots of his blond hair. “What kind of an ogre is the fellow, I ask you? I always thought he was toplofty, but I must say I’m downright boggled to hear he’s that cruel to you, Miss Darlington!”
Amused by Ninian’s gallant outburst, Julian decided that this would be the perfect moment to make his presence known. “Are you boggled indeed, Mr. Wentworth?” Julian drawled, stepping into the circle of bachelors. There was a collective gasp.
Ninian’s beardless, boyish face went ashen and he stuttered, “Oh! My … my lord!” He managed a weak smile. “Didn’t know you were there, sir.”
“Obviously.”
“P-pardon if I’ve offended,” he stuttered. “I only thought it a dashed shame Miss Darlington doesn’t have her dogs in town. She’s been telling us all about them, and it’s obvious she misses them tremendously.”
“No offense taken, Mr. Wentworth,” said Julian, who didn’t take pleasure in terrifying harmless fribbles like Ninian. Poor sport, that. “But, in defense of my behavior, I must tell you that Miss Darlington is not exaggerating about the size of her pets. They are bounders all right, but hardly ‘little’ ones. And they are the most ill-mannered ruffians you can imagine. If they were a smaller breed and trained … or at least trainable … I might not have objected to her bringing them to town.”
No one dared argue with Julian, and as his presence had put a damper on the jovial mood of the group, he bowed briefly to Samantha and bade her in a whisper to “Carry on your court, brat.” She smiled archly at him, her face and eyes aglow.
As he walked away, Julian congratulated himself on creating such an enchanting cr
eature. He was sure he’d be weighing marriage offers in a matter of days. His business soon to be concluded with Sam, Julian allowed himself to consider for the first time in months his own matrimonial business.
After Julian assured Priss and Nan that all was well with Samantha, he looked toward the door just in time to witness the entrance of Charlotte Batsford and her parents. As always, she was the essence of elegance. Her midnight-blue gown was tastefully simple but alluring. Her auburn hair was artfully arranged, and her head was held high with just the right amount of self-assurance.
Some people—men in particular—complained that Charlotte was too reserved. Cold, even. But Julian disagreed. Ever since Charlotte broke her engagement with his brother so Jack could marry his true love, Amanda, he’d become very well acquainted with the lady. Although he certainly couldn’t claim to “love her madly,” as Sam desired to love someone and be loved in return, he did find her company easy and comfortable.
Of good family and fortune, she was gracious, circumspect, kind, compassionate, and moral. She had feelings, but she kept them carefully controlled. She would make an excellent marriage partner, someone with whom he could enjoy a serene, stable, and sensible existence.
In short, she was exactly Julian’s cup of tea. He had decided last November that he was going to marry Charlotte, but he’d put the actual proposal on hold until he got Sam launched in society. He had, however, visited the lady several times in the interim, but had not made public his intentions. That would soon change.
She turned and their eyes met. He smiled and walked toward his future bride.
It was nearing midnight, and Sam’s feet were killing her. She had danced every dance and had been surprisingly well entertained by all the men vying for her attention. But though she hadn’t found them to be dead bores, as she’d expected, Samantha hadn’t met a man that came close to measuring up to Julian in her estimation.
Finally the country dance ended and Sam’s partner, Jean-Luc Bouvier, bowed low over her hand, kissing it gallantly. According to Priss, who had whispered the information into Sam’s ear during a break in the dancing, Jean-Luc was half-English, his mother the daughter of a viscount with a huge estate in Derbyshire. At seventeen, against her father’s wishes, she’d eloped with a member of the French aristocracy—a marquis, no less—giving birth in Paris less than a year later to a little boy.
Jean-Luc had been raised in France till the revolution brought an end to his idyllic childhood. His French father was killed during the uprising, and his mother had brought him home to Derbyshire. All was forgiven by the English relatives, and Jean-Luc was raised in the bosom of their family.
Grandparents and parents now all deceased, Jean-Luc had a considerable fortune, a certain continental flair, and a romantic history that made him very interesting to women, young and old, married and unmarried alike.
“This has been the most celestial experience of my life, Miss Darlington … to dance with an angel,” Jean-Luc said solemnly and with just a suggestion of a charming French accent that no amount of English tutoring had managed to browbeat out of him. But as he straightened and looked at her, there was a teasing gleam in his eyes and a roguish grin on his handsome face.
Sam had already grown used to Jean-Luc’s grandiose compliments, delivered playfully and with the full knowledge that Sam understood and was amused and entertained by his flirtatious ways. She smiled, and with an equal portion of playfulness, coyly tapped Jean-Luc’s arm with her fan. “You’re going to turn my head with all your compliments, Mr. Bouvier,” she warned him.
Jean-Luc laughed appreciatively. “I don’t think so. You are too modest and unaffected … rare qualities in a beautiful woman, I assure you. But it is a challenge I will continually address myself to … to turn your pretty head, Miss Darlington. I suppose you would not believe me if I told you that however exaggerated you might think them, I really meant every one of the compliments I’ve paid you tonight?”
Sam might have been imprisoned on an island for seventeen years, but she recognized a flirt when she saw one. She merely smiled and shook her head reprovingly, saying, “A ‘celestial’ experience, Mr. Bouvier?”
Jean-Luc threw back his head and laughed again, and Sam couldn’t help but laugh, too. She looked him over, acknowledging him to be quite handsome despite the fact that he was not blond and blue-eyed, a color combination she was inordinately fond of in a man. Jean-Luc was as dark as a gypsy and had chocolate-brown eyes. He dressed very well, too, with just a little more jewelry and ruffles than the simple style started by Beau Brummel and espoused by most wellborn English gentlemen. But however handsome, however dashing and amusing he was, he had one unsurmountable defect. He wasn’t Julian. Which reminded her…
“As much as I enjoy talking to you, Mr. Bouvier, I must look for my next partner,” Sam said, beginning to edge away through the crowd.
Genuinely surprised, Jean-Luc caught her hand. “Look for your next partner? How is this possible, Miss Darlington? Shouldn’t he be looking for you? A man would have to be a fool not to be waiting at your elbow at this very moment, eager to hold you in his arms. The next dance is a waltz, as I recall.”
Sam gently tugged on her hand till he reluctantly released her. “He’s no fool, Mr. Bouvier,” she assured him with a wry smile. “He simply doesn’t know I saved a dance especially for him.”
Jean-Luc raised his brows in a speculative expression. He was probably correctly construing Sam to mean that she considered her next partner someone special. But Sam couldn’t be bothered with wondering what Jean-Luc would think when he saw her dancing with her guardian. She had to find Julian.
Sam turned away from Jean-Luc and quickly scanned the room. She’d caught a glimpse of Julian’s golden head above the crowd now and then, but she hadn’t been able to see with whom he’d been talking. He definitely hadn’t been dancing. But she was about to change that.
Spotting him near an alcove in the far, quieter end of the long ballroom, Sam approached. Her heart was pounding and she had butterflies in her stomach just thinking about dancing with Julian. Over the last few weeks he’d taught her every dance she was expected to know, but the waltz had always been her favorite. With his hand on her waist, their thighs skimming and his chin brushing her hair, it had been a thrilling experience every time.
Although she had only a rudimentary idea of the mechanics of the physical intimacies between men and women, Sam imagined that making love with Julian would be very similar to the bliss of dancing with him. Certainly, nothing she’d felt while dancing with other men that night had come even close to how she felt gliding across the floor in Julian’s arms.
Within a few feet of Julian now, Sam noticed that he was talking with a tall, ginger-haired woman in an elegant dress—just the two of them. That “squeezed” feeling came over her heart again.
The woman noticed her first, and smiled. “I believe this is your lovely charge … am I right, Julian?” she said.
Julian turned and raised his brows inquiringly. “Sam! What the deuce are you doing here? Some distraught young man is probably looking desperately for you. Isn’t a waltz about to begin?”
Sam hesitated, feeling suddenly shy under the kind but unnervingly steady gaze fixed on her by the older woman. “Shouldn’t you introduce us, Julian?” the woman said finally, lightly touching Julian’s arm in a possessive manner. Some invisible cord around Sam’s heart cinched a little tighter, squeezed a little harder.
“Of course,” he murmured, recovering his manners. “I was just concerned that Sam might miss the next dance. Charlotte, as you guessed, this is my ward … temporarily … Miss Samantha Darlington. Samantha, this is Miss Charlotte Batsford.”
Sam and Charlotte said their “how-do-you-do’s” and nodded politely. So this is Charlotte Batsford, the woman Jack was going to marry, Sam thought to herself. She was torn between pity for the cruel trick fate had played on Charlotte when she had to call off her wedding the very day before it was to take
place … and gut-wrenching jealousy. Was Julian acting on some chivalrous notion to pay attention to Charlotte because Jack had broken her heart? Would he be so gallant as to marry the woman just to undo Jack’s wrong?
As Sam’s heart beat wildly and her mouth went dry, she told herself not to get carried away with silly, unfounded notions. Julian was going to marry her, not Charlotte Batsford or anyone else. But first he was going to dance with her.
“Pardon me, Miss Batsford,” Sam said at last, having recovered her courage along with her determination. “Would you mind if I spoke to Julian alone for just a moment?”
Charlotte looked surprised, but only said, “Why … no. I don’t mind. I’ll just wait for you over here, Julian.” Then she retired into the alcove, some ten feet away.
“That bordered on rudeness, Sam,” Julian admonished her when Charlotte was out of earshot.
“Well, I’m very sorry,” Sam said, lifting her chin defiantly. “But she made me nervous.”
“What do you want, Sam?” Julian said in a beleaguered tone. “In a matter of seconds the orchestra will play the beginning strains of the waltz and your partner will be wanting you. Who the deuce is the fellow, anyway?”
Julian caught Sam’s wrist and read her dance card. Again his brows arched in surprise. “Me? But I don’t remember writing on your card. Besides, I’ve engaged Miss Batsford for this dance.”
Now Sam felt foolish … and childish. Miss Batsford darted an occasional discreet look their way, making Sam feel even more embarrassed. She had mistakenly assumed that Julian wouldn’t dance the entire night … except with her. She had spent so much time with him over the last three months, she had begun to think of him as entirely her own. She had even convinced herself that as desirable as Julian was, he was not sought after by other women, nor did he seek out any of them. She had assumed that he had no intention of marrying, and that she was the only woman who could turn his opinion around.
