The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  He took her hand, which would have been a very wonderful thing under other circumstances, but now Sam was growing fearful again. The look in his silvery blue eyes was intense, his brows were knitted, his mouth was stern. “As you know, in the letter your father left for Amanda after he died,” he began, “he explained that your mother—whom he never named—died when you were born. But from the writings in Clorinda’s diary, we have reason to conclude … that your mother is still alive. At least, she was alive a year ago when Clorinda made her last entry in the diary just before her own untimely death.”

  Sam had never been hit in the chest with a cannonball before—and, God willing, she never would—but at that moment she knew exactly how such a dreadful thing would feel. Her heart seemed to stop beating completely. She couldn’t breathe. Everything at first was too bright … then all went black. The next thing she knew, she was stretched out on the sofa with Julian hovering over her, his stem mouth softened with concern, his eyes darkened with worry. At first it was quite pleasant to have his face so close to hers. Then she remembered … and felt her eyes fluttering shut again.

  “Oh, dear!” exclaimed Prissy, from somewhere in the background.

  “Perhaps another sniff of restorative?” Nan’s voice suggested.

  Sam forced her eyes open. “No…” She struggled to sit up. “I’m not a silly, swooning female. Just a glass of water, please.”

  “Get her some brandy,” Julian ordered, easing onto the sofa beside her and propping her against his side with his arm around her shoulder.

  Again Sam lamented that she couldn’t enjoy being close to Julian as much as she’d like to … not with such astonishing news battering her brain over and over again.

  Your mother is still alive. Your mother is still alive.

  She couldn’t believe it. If her mother was still alive, where was she … and why, along with her father, had she abandoned her?

  Nan handed Julian the glass of brandy, and he urged Sam to sit up. When he appeared to be going to tip the glass to her mouth, Sam shook her head and said, “I can do it myself.”

  Sam took the glass in a slightly shaky hand, drank the brandy in one gulp, then coughed when she felt the liquid sear her throat. But soon the liquor had warmed her numbed extremities and sharpened her thoughts. She turned to Julian and looked him square in the eye.

  “Who is my mother and where is she?” she said evenly, then held her breath.

  Julian paused, then answered quietly, “I don’t know, Sam.”

  Samantha felt profound disappointment. “The diary said nothing else about my mother except that she’s alive?”

  “No, there was more,” Nan revealed, still holding a salts bottle as she stood over Sam.

  “Yes,” Priss concurred, leaning over the back of the sofa. “But there was nothing conclusive. There was just enough information to worry one, I’m afraid.”

  “To worry—” Sam turned back to Julian. “My mother wasn’t a … a … murderer or a thief or a—”

  “No, Sam,” Julian assured her, then added with a wry, apologetic grin, “Brace yourself, brat. It appears you have even more claim to a place in society than your father’s position and respectability warranted. It seems your mother is even higher ranked than he. According to Clarissa’s diary, your mother is a titled lady of the ton.”

  “A titled lady of the—” Sam’s voice trailed off as her mouth dropped open.

  Julian nodded. “If such is truly the case—”

  “Clorinda always told the truth,” Nan interjected firmly.

  “If you say so, I will believe you,” Julian conceded. “However, quite obviously, Simon Darlington was not similarly plagued with such a virtue. He might have only told Clorinda the woman was highborn to fend off suspicion in another quarter.”

  “That may be,” Nan said with a sigh.

  “But it is reasonable to suppose, Sam, that if your mother is indeed a titled female of the ton, when she became pregnant with you, she must have been unmarried.”

  Finally finding her voice, Sam croaked, “Oh? And why do you suppose that?”

  Julian glanced at Priss and Nan as if for corroboration, then proceeded. “Because—and here, my dear girl, you will be getting a little more education of the world—it is the usual practice of aristocratic females to remain faithful to their husbands at least until they provide him with an heir. Once that happy event has occurred, however, they are free to take lovers as they choose.”

  Sam’s eyes widened as a disillusioning thought occurred to her. “But Amanda wouldn’t—”

  “No, Amanda wouldn’t take a lover and neither would Jack. You’re quite right about that,” Julian hurriedly assured her. “Jack and Amanda’s marriage is based on mutual affection. But, as I told you, many marriages are not.” Julian waited while Sam absorbed this information.

  “But if the woman gets with child the second time, isn’t there a chance the babe could be someone’s besides her husband’s?” Sam finally asked.

  “Yes, but if the purity of the line has been established through the heir, most husbands don’t worry about whether or not the second child … or third or fourth, et cetera … is actually his own flesh and blood.”

  “It seems most unnatural to me,” Sam muttered, disturbed to discover yet another hypocritical aspect of the so-called “respectable” society of which she was endeavoring to become an accepted member.

  “Nevertheless, it is the way of things,” Julian replied.

  “So you think my mother must have been unmarried, because if she had been married she would have kept me … despite the fact that I was not the natural daughter of her husband,” she concluded.

  “You have always been quick to catch on to things,” Julian observed with a world-weary smile.

  Sam’s head was spinning. By turns she was surprised, excited, distressed … but most of all, hurt. Whoever and wherever her real mother was, the fact still remained that Sam now knew she had been abandoned by not just one parent, but two. She fought back tears and shrugged, saying, “Well, whether or not she was married doesn’t matter now, does it?”

  “At least it gives us a clue to go on,” Julian answered.

  “A clue?”

  “Toward finding out if Mrs. Darlington’s writings are based on fact. In short, toward discovering who your mother is.”

  “Why even try? Why can’t things simply go on as before?”

  “That’s quite impossible, Sam.”

  “Impossible?”

  “It is imperative to discover her identity.”

  Sam gave an uncertain chuckle. “I don’t understand. Why?”

  “Because, my girl, I don’t fancy the idea of accidentally marrying you off to your … brother!” “Oh, I see,” Sam squeaked out, abruptly realizing how dire the situation was.

  “Yes,” Julian drawled. “People might marry their cousins, but siblings are definitely out of the question. Inbreeding has its limits … even in England.”

  Sam smiled weakly. “I suppose I could avoid the possibility of—” She grimaced. “—inbreeding by marrying an American.”

  “You’ll do no such thing, Samantha,” Julian snapped, surprising her with the vehemence of his tone. “I’ll find out who your mother is if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “But how do you propose to do that, Julian?” Nan ventured.

  “No one is going to own up to bearing, then abandoning a child,” Priss added worriedly.

  “I have a plan,” Julian answered.

  “And I suppose you don’t intend to tell us what your plan is?” Sam said.

  “I do not. Discretion is imperative in this undertaking.” Sam opened her mouth to object, but Julian forestalled her with an upraised hand. “Don’t bother to argue with me, brat. The Season has just barely begun. I want you to forget, as well as you can, what you found out today.”

  “How can I possibly—”

  “As soon as I find out anything, naturally I will share my knowledge with y
ou. In the meantime, just enjoy yourself. You and I worked very hard to secure you a brilliant entrée into society, and I won’t have it spoiled by inadvertently involving you in a scandal.”

  Sam was silenced and Julian was satisfied … for now. But he could tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that Sam was not going to give up on being as involved as possible in getting to the truth of the matter about her mother. He couldn’t blame her, of course. He’d feel exactly the same way if he were in her situation. Although he wondered if he could be as brave and strong as she was … as she had been all along.

  As he looked at her, at her eyes shining with unshed tears, her lips clamped tight to stop their trembling, he felt the most overpowering surge of protective affection. He just wanted her to be respectable and happy, but circumstances kept getting in the way.

  “I have to change for our outing in Hyde Park,” she said at last in a dull voice.

  “Do you think it’s wise to go out, my dear?” Nan asked, easing down on the sofa beside her.

  “You must be exhausted from”—Priss waved her hands ineffectually—“all this.”

  “A carriage ride might be just what she needs to get her mind off things,” Julian said. “But it’s only two o’clock. There’s plenty of time to allow her to get some rest first.”

  “I don’t need to rest,” Sam insisted, rising quickly to her feet, swaying dizzily, then sinking down on the sofa again with Julian’s hands firmly at her waist. “I guess I am a little tired,” she admitted with a weak smile.

  “You’ve received quite a blow, dearest,” Nan said, stroking Sam’s arm. She turned to Julian. “Perhaps you should carry her up the stairs, Julian?”

  Julian was quite willing to carry Sam up the stairs, but as independent as she was and as hard as she tried to appear invincible, he didn’t suppose she’d allow him to do any such thing.

  Sam looked at him, her eyes as blue and clear as a summer sky. But, despite his usual perceptiveness where she was concerned, he didn’t have a clue what she was thinking. He cocked a brow. “Well, brat? Shall I carry you, or do you insist on marching up the stairs unassisted?”

  To Julian’s astonished surprise, Sam said in a voice as soft as silk, “Carry me, Julian. Carry me up to my bedchamber.”

  Julian blinked. He’d carried a goodly number of women to their bedchambers, but not for such a pure, disinterested reason as saving them from the possibility of swooning on the stairs and breaking their necks in the resulting fall. Carrying a woman in his arms had always been a sort of foreplay, a preliminary game as old as Adam and Eve, ending in sexual consummation behind closed doors. So, perhaps that was why Sam’s innocently spoken request made him feel so damned … uncomfortable.

  “Julian? What’s the matter?” asked Nan.

  “Nothing’s the matter,” Julian muttered, feeling unaccountably guilty for reasons that were completely unclear. “Er … are you ready, Sam?”

  “You go ahead and take her upstairs, Julian,” Priss said briskly. “Nan and I are going to order her a luncheon tray and mix up a little medicinal tea to help her relax. We’ll see you upstairs in a few moments.”

  And before Julian could think of a single reason why they shouldn’t desert him to the task of carting his ward upstairs all alone, they had scurried out of the room.

  “Well, Julian?” Sam prompted him, looking wide-eyed at him as if he’d gone mad. Maybe he was losing his mind, for why else would he suddenly shirk at doing such a simple act of kindness as carrying Sam up the stairs to her bedchamber? After all, she was not his mistress or anyone he would ever consort with in an intimate manner. When he deposited her on the bed, she’d look up at him trustingly, gratefully, not with the same sultry, come-hither expression his mistress might wear in a similar situation.

  Encouraged by this line of reasoning, he turned to Sam and said cheerfully, “All right, my girl. Put your arms around my neck and I’ll slip my hands under your legs just so…”

  From his sitting position on the couch, Julian leaned over and swooped Sam into his arms, then stood up. She was as light as a feather and he easily held her high against his chest. But he still felt awkward and uncomfortable as he headed for the door.

  She’d nestled her head under his chin and his nose was buried in a tumble of blond curls. He’d never noticed before how silky-soft her hair felt, how good it smelled … something like lilacs. And her arms around his neck were so smooth and white, her hips against his waist and her small breasts against his chest so nicely rounded and firm. Her skirts had ridden up an inch or two and her slim, crossed ankles were showing at the bottom.

  He looked away. Then, for some reason, he conjured up a vision of his mistress, stark naked and voluptuous, holding out her arms in welcome. So intent as he’d been in turning Sam from a sow’s ear to a silk purse, he’d neglected his mistress for three long months. But he had time now to take care of his own needs. Yes, maybe even this afternoon he would find time to visit the charming Isabelle.

  Why have I never thought of this before? Sam asked herself. She was always so determined to be strong and self-reliant, scorning the swooning, simpering, tearful ways of the fashionable female. And while she could never embrace the practice of simpering and sniffling at the drop of a hat, the swooning part might indeed serve a useful purpose. She had been rather dizzy when she stood up in the library just now, but she could have certainly walked up the stairs to her bedchamber. Being carried in Julian’s arms, however, made the giving in to female fancies worth it.

  Sam was in heaven.

  Was there ever a stronger pair of arms? She’d never felt safer.

  Was there a broader, firmer chest than Julian’s? It was so nice to lean against it.

  Did all men smell so nicely of soap and some other clean, mysterious, yet deeply masculine scent? She doubted it. Julian was special.

  And then all too soon he had turned the knob and pushed open the door to her bedchamber with his knee, muttering to himself, “Where are all the blasted footmen when you need them?”

  He carried her to the bed and leaned over, placing her gently against the pillows. Then he let go.

  But Sam didn’t let go. Even while Julian pulled back to straighten up, she kept her arms firmly wrapped around his neck. Not expecting to be held on to, Julian was thrown off-balance and fell forward, landing chest to chest on top of Samantha on the bed.

  “Damnation!” Julian growled, pushing himself to his elbows. “Don’t you know to let go of a fellow when he lays you on a bed, Sam?”

  “No, Julian, I don’t,” she said, staring up at him with the most innocent look she could muster. “No man has ever laid me on a bed before.”

  And no man besides you ever will, she vowed in that moment. She had purposely held on to him, thinking to keep him close to her as long as possible, but she wasn’t prepared for the sensations that coursed through her body because of that contrived closeness. His chest against her breasts made her nipples harden and tingle. She got lost in the expression in his silvery eyes. She thought she saw anger, frustration and … longing? The chiseled mouth she had admired from afar was now close enough to touch, to kiss…

  Julian felt like he’d been picked up by a tornado, twirled in a vortex for a few hours, then dropped into a farmer’s field on top of a plump, sweet-smelling stack of hay. He was dizzy, breathless, and much more comfortable than he ought to be. Hell, that’s what he got for daydreaming about his mistress just minutes before! He even imagined that Sam had that same sultry, come-hither look as Isabelle always wore when she was about to draw his head down and kiss him. But that was a preposterous idea!

  Julian sprang from the bed as if a bugle had sounded, alerting him to the arrival of an avenging, almighty God. And, even worse than being found in an accidentally compromising position before deity, what if Priss and Nan had walked in before he’d gathered his wits and stood up? Horrors! While Sam gazed at him with a bemused expression, Julian tugged on his vest and straightened his cravat.
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  “Sorry, Sam,” he muttered, averting his eyes. “Damned cow-handed of me. Wasn’t your fault, of course.”

  Fortunately, in the midst of his confused apologies, Julian was extremely relieved to be interrupted by Priss bustling into the room with a cup of steaming liquid—medicinal tea, he presumed. He quickly made some excuse about attending to papers from his solicitor, promised to check on Sam presently, and hastily exited.

  In the cool of the library once more, Julian regained his composure. He couldn’t imagine what had come over him just now in the bedchamber with Sam. But fortunately, she was too young and naive to even suspect that the situation had been accidentally provocative. But it was over and, he trusted, soon forgotten.

  He sat down in a wing chair and picked up a book he’d been reading in odd moments of leisure, but after staring at the words for a while, he realized he wasn’t comprehending a bit of it.

  Feeling restless and vaguely dissatisfied, Julian stood up and moved to the window, pushed back the drapes, and stared into the stable yard. One of the stableboys was romping with the pups.

  Why had he ever approved her keeping all three? he wondered, his mouth curving in a rueful smile as he watched three wagging tails and a laughing boy. Obviously he had let his fondness for Sam make him too indulgent, and now he was paying for it.

  Julian moved away from the window and stared thoughtfully into the empty grate of the fireplace. There were three things he needed to do. Most importantly, of course, he must begin the search for Sam’s mother. Secondly, he must propose to Charlotte.

  But even more pressing than either of these tasks—should he be thinking of a marriage proposal as a task?—he had to see his mistress. And why he was loitering around in his library instead of fornicating in Isabelle’s satin-sheathed bed was beyond him!

  Julian looked at the mantel-clock. There were about two hours left before they needed to leave for Hyde Park to meet Sam’s throng of admirers. He grimaced. Taking into account the half hour of traveling to and from Isabelle’s house, then sprucing up for the drive in Hyde Park afterward, Julian estimated that he’d have about a half hour to pleasure and be pleasured by his mistress. Such haste was certainly not his usual style.