Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  “No, Mama. Last time I kicked the wrong way and nearly broke your ankle.”

  “All the more reason to practice, my angel! The lady of your dreams will thank me for it!”

  “Lord Standish? Is everything all right?”

  Startled, he stared down at Lady Samantha’s concerned face and hastily nodded. What the hell was wrong with him? He never woolgathered, especially not in the company of others. Since he’d been recruited by White, he had been lauded as the man who watched and assessed and noticed the details that others missed. The man always ready to solve an unsolvable puzzle. Not some moonstruck dandy who sighed and penned odes to the majesty of raindrops or some other bloody nonsense.

  Taking a deep breath, William took her hand, encircled her waist, and moved to begin this newfangled dance, the waltz. Except instead of stepping backward, she went forward and slammed hard into his chest.

  Oh hell.

  For an excruciatingly long moment her breasts pressed and rubbed against him, and several of the soft, floral-scented curls piled high on her head teased his cheek. Just as they would if she were naked under him. She’d be flushed and panting, hoarse from crying out with pleasure as he sucked and pinched her jutting nipples. But he wouldn’t oblige her with his cock, not right away. No, he’d tease her. Take her to the edge and back until she begged for it. Only then would he spread her thighs wide and take her, feel the tight, scalding grip of her quim, the sting of her nails leaving crescent moons on his back as she arched and screamed in ecstasy…

  Even faster than in the hallway, his cock hardened painfully. Yet seconds later, in her gasping haste to disengage herself for a second time, Lady Samantha managed to grind her heel into his instep.

  “Terribly sorry,” he said, welcoming the eye-watering punishment for such obscene thoughts, and salvation from another potentially humiliating breeches situation. “Obviously it’s been far too long between ballroom outings for me.”

  And too long between women.

  It was a very sad state of affairs when a man of details couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d ventured into a feminine boudoir.

  “You are kind to tell such a large fib,” Lady Samantha replied, her cheeks crimson and her eyes huge with dismay. “But I know it’s entirely my fault. Two months is not nearly long enough to learn how to dance.”

  Intrigued, he tilted his head. “Two months?”

  “Yes. I’ve only recently returned to London from Miss Chadwick’s Academy for Young Ladies. That was the school I attended, and taught at, up in Yorkshire. Unfortunately they didn’t have a dancing master, so since I came back to stand as godmother to the twins, Aunt Jane and Caroline and Stephen have been trying to teach me some basic steps. As poor Stephen knows, and you have now experienced, I’m a lackluster student.”

  William frowned. “Not at all. I doubt anyone could learn these dances in such a short time. But what did you do between terms when the school closed? Travel? Stay at the Claremont country estate?”

  Hurt flashed across Lady Samantha’s face, and her feet faltered again. Christ. Too soon. His first foray into interrogation, and he’d bungled it completely. At this rate she wouldn’t be running into him ever again, but sprinting in the other direction if she so much as glimpsed him in her vicinity.

  Swiftly, he guided her away from the other dancers and toward the edge of the ballroom so she might relax and hopefully forget that he’d even asked a question. But then she rallied and half-smiled.

  “No. Mother and Papa preferred me to stay at Miss Chadwick’s year round, London being so dirty and unsafe and all. And there was nobody at the country seat, so I couldn’t go there. That is why I stayed in Yorkshire even after my schooling was completed, as an assistant teacher. It wouldn’t have been so wonderful in London anyway, with everyone so busy…although seeing Stephen and Caroline get married might have been nice,” she finished wistfully.

  Anger rose on her behalf, until he remembered this could all be an elaborate lie. “Not well done by your parents.”

  Lady Samantha’s lips tightened momentarily. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t so very bad.”

  “I’m sure. But twelve years is a long time to remain in exile.”

  “Sometimes it felt like forever. Making friends, only to wave goodbye when they went home or graduated. I shouldn’t complain, though. There were some lovely teachers and students, and I quite enjoyed the church fetes and village afternoon teas. Plus, Aunt Jane sent me money and gifts and weekly letters with all the news. Occasionally she wrote about you!”

  “I’m sure I can guess the topics,” William replied, almost smiling at her clumsy attempt to move the conversation topic away from herself. “I work too hard, am away too much and it is past time I found a nice lady to marry?”

  Her eyes shifted guiltily, but she remained silent as the closing notes of the waltz sounded, and her loyalty had him fighting the urge to pull her close. Instead, he bowed and then guided her back to where Stephen and the others were standing.

  When, exactly, had he lost his mind? Dancing and a little conversation shouldn’t inspire much of a reaction, yet for the first time in months he actually felt...alive.

  Damnation.

  White might have neglected to pass on a “Beginners Guide to Interrogating Possible Lady Traitors” manual, but if one did exist, no doubt the first rule outlined why an operative did not think about bedding the person they were supposed to be investigating. Rule two probably covered the ban on liking or admiring them.

  Thank God the actual assignment appeared straightforward. A few more conversations, some dancing, perhaps a picnic or two, or brisk trot along Rotten Row, and he’d surely have all the information he needed. A month at most and he could provide several reports to White and move on, leaving her unscathed and his conscience clear.

  An outstanding, remarkably well thought-out plan, said conscience applauded. By the way, you remember the hand that was platonically and appropriately at Lady Samantha’s back while you were walking? Well, let’s just say it has travelled significantly south.

  William glanced down and closed his eyes.

  Oh hell.

  Chapter 2

  “Ouch!”

  Eyes watering, Samantha gripped the edge of her dressing table. A sleepless night tossing, turning, and analyzing everything from Almack’s meant her hair was now the bird’s nest she’d joked about. Her new maid Trudy had already broken two brushes attempting to tame it.

  “Good grief, like brambles,” the older woman muttered as she tugged through knot number six hundred. “Try not to scream too loudly, my lady, or your mother might investigate and there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  Samantha nodded. It was always sobering to be reminded of her status in Claremont House—a temporary guest with few allies, although Trudy was friendly and obliging.

  At times like this, she missed the academy dreadfully.

  Twelve years of excruciating loneliness, but her small, plain chamber had been a refuge, and the brisk headmistress a mother figure of sorts. It was she who had nodded approvingly when French verbs were mastered and tsked at torn hems. It was also she who had scolded when Samantha escaped choir practice to go to the nearby village. But if Miss Chadwick had known that one of the neat stone cottages housed a former circus troupe performer with a particular talent for knife throwing—and instructing—a lecture would have been the least of it. Fortunately the headmistress never learned about that, or the short, sharp dagger that rested at the bottom of Samantha’s reticule and accompanied her wherever she went.

  Yet her parents were as indifferent as ever. Papa was forever at his club, a meeting or locked in his library. Her mother merely waved as she climbed into yet another unfamiliar carriage. It was obvious they had only taken her back under extreme duress from Aunt Jane and wished their unwanted daughter gone again as soon as possible.

  Trudy sighed audibly. “There. All done. Now, which dress are you going to wear today? The yellow always looks fetch
ing, or there is the pink-striped gown with the white sash. Perfect to receive callers in, that one.”

  “You think I’ll have visitors?”

  Her maid smiled as she gathered a fresh chemise, stays, and the pale pink gown. “Judging from the bouquets in the parlor, yes.”

  “What?” Samantha gasped. “I have flowers? Why didn’t you say so!”

  Forcing herself to remain still while Trudy finished dressing her, she eventually slid her feet into matching pink slippers and nearly sprinted from the room. Bouquets meant gentlemen declaring friendship, interest or even affection! Almost dizzy at the possibility that one of the accompanying cards might say Standish, Samantha hurried down the creaky staircase to the ground floor. Even before she could see them, her nose twitched at the heady scent of blooms in the air.

  Once she reached the sunny front parlor, Samantha stared reverently at a side table covered in bouquets. Oh, but they were beautiful. Pinks and reds and purples and yellows, like a chunk of rainbow brought down from the sky.

  “Planning to open your own flower stall?”

  Startled, she lurched around to see her portly, dark-haired father standing behind her, his usual glass of brandy in hand. “Papa! I can’t believe they’re for me.”

  “Well, unless there is another Lady Samantha Buchanan in residence. When did you become so popular?”

  “I made my come out at Almack’s last night. You remember, Aunt Jane and Stephen escorted me.”

  “Ah, yes,” John Buchanan, Earl of Claremont, replied, absently twisting a waistcoat button straining to hold in his swollen stomach. “That came around fast. You must have made a splash. Hopefully soon I’ll be inundated with gentlemen fighting to take you off my hands.”

  Trying not to wince at the phrasing, Samantha walked over to the side table and began reading the gilt-edged cards attached to the bouquets.

  “My goodness! So many flowers!” Eva Buchanan, the beautiful Countess of Claremont, trilled from the doorway, tossing her enviably perfect straight blonde hair and striking the pose which enthralled every man between eighteen and eighty—except her husband.

  John chuckled. “Sorry, my dear, but they are all for your daughter. Apparently she made a favorable impression at her come out.”

  “From family, mostly,” Samantha added, when her mother visibly drooped. “Aunt Jane, Stephen, and Caroline. Plus, er, Sir Eustace Quinn, Baron Vercoe, Lord Hannery...”

  “Never mind,” Eva replied, all smiles again. “I’m sure if you attend lots more parties and try very hard to be charming, some eligible man who isn’t related to you will send a bouquet.”

  “Thank you, Mother. Do you have time for tea? I could see what Cook is baking—”

  “Goodness me, no, I have a modiste appointment. Uppity woman gets very cross if I’m even a little late, last time she threatened me with a plain gown. Imagine, not a single feather or bow! Perhaps another day,” she finished vaguely, and drifted out of the room, quickly followed by her husband.

  Samantha slumped onto a chaise beside the arrangements. Maybe one day her parents would forgive whatever crime she’d committed as a child and start to like her. Another example of their aversion, on top of a crushing lack of flowers from Lord Standish, made her want to eat her weight in candied fruit. And her stays already struggled enough.

  “How on earth do ladies survive a Season without losing their minds?” she groaned aloud.

  “Hartshorn and shopping,” replied an amused voice from the doorway.

  Samantha’s head shot up to see Caroline, and she flushed, embarrassed even a friend had heard such an outburst. “Don’t laugh. I now understand how ton daughters are driven to madness.”

  Strolling into the room, Caroline then settled herself into an upholstered chair and absently smoothed her violet-sprigged day dress. “Comparing yourself to those of Polite Society is excessively harsh. They are mostly pea-brained henwits. Talking of odd people, what is wrong with your butler? Penn always tracks my movements like I’m eyeing up the silver or about to open his cupboard of body parts.”

  “Papa says a good butler is dedicated to protecting household secrets,” Samantha said piously, trying not to grin.

  “Wise words from a man who probably needs an entire floor for his skeletons.”

  “Oh, please! Mother might, but Papa is an open book. Well, apart from drinking a little too much.”

  “Dearest, everyone in England knows that. Going bottle for bottle with Claremont is considered the ultimate in impossible dreams, much like enjoying a hackney ride or painless childbirth. When the time comes, just say no.”

  Samantha laughed. “Except your girls are scrumptious. When I see those cooing little cherubs, I think I’d like ten.”

  “Well, the making of them is fun. The delivering of them not at all,” said Caroline, then she grimaced. “Hell and damnation, forget I said that. I’m supposed to be a responsible matron, not soiling your innocent ears.”

  Guilt heated Samantha’s cheekbones. Innocent, she wasn’t. But much like her knife throwing, her indiscretion would remain a secret untold. “Do you, ah, like my bouquets?”

  “Gorgeous. Who from? Anyone worthy of admiration?”

  “Perhaps. I had to tell Mother a tiny lie about the senders to stop her feeling down.”

  Caroline grinned. “Only a tiny lie, hmmm? Dare I ask who will be forever oblivious to the fact they sent you a bouquet?”

  “Sir Eustace Quinn, Baron Vercoe, and Lord Hannery.”

  “Really, Samantha. You couldn’t do better than a toothless ancient, a near monk, and a heeled slipper wearer to assuage your mother’s sensibilities? My, you are a dutiful daughter. I hope Lord and Lady C are equally thoughtful when it comes to approving your future husband.”

  “I hope so, too. But I don’t hold out much hope. Papa doesn’t like me at all, and Mother generally avoids me like the plague.”

  “Oh, dearest,” Caroline began, but Samantha held up a hand and forced a smile.

  “Enough gloomy talk. How did you find Almack’s?”

  “Tolerable enough. Even Stephen admitted it’s not so bad when married. But I didn’t come here to talk about last night, poppet, I’ve come to escort you to the Havenhursts. Go and fetch your bonnet and pelisse.”

  “The infamous bruised drawing room? Hooray! Oh, wait. I’ll have to tell Papa.”

  “Let’s go and find him then.”

  A maid stood outside the parlor, dusting an urn. Samantha tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Excuse me, have you seen my father?”

  “Out the kitchen way, mum,” the maid replied, bobbing a curtsy. “One of them delivery carts arrived before.”

  “Thank you.”

  As they reached the kitchens, Caroline sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmmm. Nutmeg and apple. You know, I’m tempted to stay and cast judgement on your cook’s tarts, but the on-dits awaiting us at Mary Havenhurst’s will be far too diverting. I swear the baroness creeps from window to window with paper and pencil, or owns at least one of the scandal sheets. Actually, my brother is convinced she is responsible for the Glorious George poppycock.”

  “Poor Lord Trentham. I can’t believe those poems still appear. He’s married now, and seems happy.”

  “He is. Ridiculously so. Him and Louisa complement each other in all sorts of bizarre, sulphur-scented ways. I think some women just cannot stand the fact that not one, but two extremely eligible young earls are well and truly taken. I almost feel sorry for the other London Lords now. The husband hunters are becoming even more determined and ruthless.”

  Samantha shuddered. “So I saw. Good grief. Remind me who the other London Lords are again? Stephen, Lord Trentham, Lord Standish…”

  “Plus the Marquess of Ardmore, Colonel Lord Robert Langley, and the Duke of Southby. Remember the names, poppet. They’ll be the ones hovering, ready to both halt flirtations and crush your critics to powder. The protector role is taken very seriously.”

  “Ummm…they so
und terrifying.”

  “They are. Also rather overbearing,” said Caroline archly. “There were many occasions when I wanted them all to go and bathe in the Thames, from a starting point of London Bridge…what on earth is that sound?”

  Halting, Samantha cocked her head and listened, and a frisson of unease shot straight down her spine. “Papa and Penn shouting,” she said, lowering her voice. “And...someone crying. But not a child. Perhaps we should just go.”

  Shaking her head, Caroline tugged her forward. Tip-toeing across the gravel, they then crouched on a patch of grass behind a flower-covered trellis.

  Her father, arms folded, was glaring at a crying, simply-dressed man. “My butler tells me the delivery is missing some items. Would you explain how that came to be?”

  “Sir! I s-swear, sir, everything is there. I went to the d-docks like your man said, put them things in the c-cart, and brung ’em straight here.”

  “So you aren’t trying to cheat me?”

  “No sir! N-never!”

  “I am relieved to hear it. But should I discover you’ve lied to me...”

  Even from a distance, the stranger turned visibly paler. Then, without warning, her father viciously backhanded him, and the man fell to the ground.

  How awful! No one deserved such treatment! Samantha indignantly made to get up, until Caroline’s hand gripped her arm and yanked her back down. Heeding the warning, Samantha turned back and peered through the trellis. Penn was escorting the delivery man away while her father watched. When he was quite alone, she stood up, took a deep breath and began to clomp her heels on the gravel.

  “Papa? Papa, are you out here?” she called, walking in a circle before continuing down the path, Caroline in tow.

  Her father turned and gave her an annoyed look. “What do you want, Samantha? Oh, good afternoon, Lady Westleigh.”

  “Good afternoon, Lord Claremont,” replied Caroline, uncharacteristically docile.