“Do come in, you are most welcome. Lord Ardmore, Lord and Lady Westleigh, and Lord and Lady Trentham are enjoying a pre-dinner drink in the formal dining room. May I take your pelisse?”
“No!” she blurted.
The butler blinked. “Ah…of course, my lady. It is a little, ah, chilly this evening…”
“Lady Samantha! Welcome to my home.”
Her heart sank. Of course, the marquess looked utterly perfect in black jacket, gray trousers, and a muted gold waistcoat. And there was that dimple again. Why did he have to be so blasted handsome? “Lord Standish.”
He tilted his head. “I have all the fireplaces lit. No need for the extra layer, I promise.”
“Yes. There is.”
“Is something wrong?” he murmured. “You seem on edge.”
Samantha sighed. How did she even reply to that? In the end, she threw caution to the wind, and settled on the truth. “My lord, I went shopping with my mother, and am presently wearing the worst gown in history.”
His dimple deepened. “I see. A few extra ruffles, perhaps? Please do not worry. We are all aware of Lady Claremont’s fashion preferences. Now, your pelisse?”
She shook her head, her cheeks burning. “The problem isn’t just ruffles.”
“Feathers?”
“Worse.”
Lord Standish’s brow furrowed. “My dear Lady Samantha, I am starting to worry your gown has a set of dueling pistols or perhaps an assortment of dead insects attached. It cannot be that bad.”
Sighing again, Samantha unclipped her pelisse and shrugged it off. “Here.”
“Christ,” he choked out, taking a step away.
Confusion swirled. Was the marquess having a heart episode? Except…he wasn’t looking at her ruffled gown, but directly at her bodice. And his expression could only be described as hungry.
He liked her too-full breasts? The charged silence stretched, and as though drawn to his molten sapphire gaze, her nipples hardened painfully and rubbed against the fabric. She wanted to touch them. No, she wanted him to touch them. Even more alarming, an odd pulsing had begun in that forbidden place between her legs. “Um…”
Lord Standish snapped to attention. “Forgive me. Perhaps…would you object if I, er, fetched one of my mother’s shawls to wear over your gown?”
“That would be wonderful. I’ll wait here…” she replied, but she was already talking to his back.
The marquess had practically run from her.
Oh God.
He’d made two significant mistakes.
The first, inviting Lady Samantha to dinner. The second, prolonging the pelisse conversation.
Leaning against the wall outside his mother’s old dressing room, William breathed deeply and willed his pulse—and his cock—to calm the hell down.
Damn the Countess of Claremont. Yes, the gown color and style was atrocious, but the inappropriate bodice couldn’t have accentuated her daughter’s curves more. To see their plump perfection so utterly on display had made him hard in an instant. But when Lady Samantha had blushed with the awkwardness of fledgling desire, and her nipples had visibly peaked against the fabric, straining to be free, to be pinched and sucked to ease the ache…
He’d wanted to oblige. More than anything in the world. Right there in the foyer.
Rubbing a hand across his jaw, he turned and entered the dressing room. In one corner was a heavy rosewood trunk, and he knelt in front of it and opened the lid.
Faint lemon scent hit him with the force of a cannonball, and his fingers clenched the carved wood as his eyes burned. Trinkets. Her favorite hair combs. Handkerchiefs. Reticules. And evening shawls.
“Will! Look what your father brought me back from his trip. Isn’t it beautiful? I am very spoiled.”
“Not spoiled enough, Sophia,” said Richard gruffly, adjusting the silver shawl over his wife’s shoulders.
William could only stare in wonder. Made of lace as fine as cobweb, it looked like Mama wore a thousand sparkling, shifting diamonds. “Where did you get it, Father? Which town were you in?”
“Oh, some market somewhere,” said Richard, shrugging in that maddening way. He never said where he went.
Reaching into the trunk, William selected the silver shawl. Then he slammed the lid back down on memories he didn’t want to think about, and returned downstairs to the foyer.
“Here,” he said, almost shoving the shawl at Lady Samantha in his eagerness to not be holding something of his mother’s.
She blinked. “My lord. That…that is…exquisite. I can’t wear it, it’s too precious.”
“Please put it on,” he said curtly, about ready to beg. “The others are waiting.”
“Oh. Of course. I’m so sorry for the trouble,” she replied, draping the shawl around her neck and shoulders, and thankfully covering her breasts entirely. “This is the loveliest thing I’ve ever worn.”
William offered his arm. “To the dining room.”
Here he recalled his third mistake, Lady Samantha seated immediately to his right. Thank God there were other people present. George and Louisa sat to his left, Stephen sat next to Samantha, and next to him was Caroline. Thomas Reid MacLeod, Marquess of Ardmore, sat next to Louisa.
“At last! Here’s to you, Standish,” Thomas announced, raising his brandy glass. “Many happy returns, old man.”
“Less of the old, if you please,” William shot back. His father would have had palpitations at his friendship with possibly the most disreputable peer in England, but behind Thomas’s overlong red hair and devil-may-care manners sat a razor sharp mind, and he ruled his trade empire with an iron fist.
“Face the facts, my friend, you’re on a slippery slope. Starts out with a few birthdays, next thing you’re bald and walking with a cane.”
“Really?” he replied, eyebrows raised. “I’ll have to take your word for it, older man.”
“Humblest apologies for my lateness,” said Alexander Langley, Duke of Southby, as he marched into the room and paused beside William’s chair. “His Majesty wished to discuss a matter of great import.”
William gave his closest friend a sardonic look. “Indeed? What troubled the king today?”
“Invasion by chickens,” Alexander muttered, running an impatient hand through his jet-black hair. Then he stopped and fixed his icy pale green gaze directly on Lady Samantha, and William felt every hackle rise. If Alexander switched into his “I am the premier duke of the realm, offend me and you’ll be unwelcome everywhere, forever” persona with her, there would be serious trouble.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Alexander intoned, his huge frame looming over her. “Southby, at your service.”
She appeared frozen in place, her eyes wide. William cleared his throat to speak when Stephen stood. “Your grace, may I present my cousin, Lady Samantha Buchanan. She very recently made her come out, and now thanks to your walking, talking glacier routine, has forgotten how to breathe. Please plant your esteemed ducal backside in a bloody chair so we can eat and she can drink until her face regains some color.”
“Hear, hear,” said Thomas.
“At once, before we all perish of hunger,” added George.
Alexander bowed mockingly, continued on, and sat at the other end of the table.
William leaned toward Lady Samantha. “Don’t be alarmed, he’s the same with everyone.”
“Really?” she replied hoarsely, her tongue darting out to wet her pink lips in a way that had him shifting in his chair.
“Indeed. Actually, you held up remarkably well to the Southby stare. I’ve witnessed swooning, crying, and teeth chattering, which is rather disconcerting. Especially in the House of Lords.”
Finally she smiled. As the evening continued with a first course of fragrant herb and tomato soup, she appeared to relax further, even occasionally laughing at the lightning-fast banter flying back and forth across the table. Always the way with this group, but he, Alexander, and Thomas had been friends si
nce Eton. Stephen was four years younger, George another year still, but they’d been part of the circle for as long as he could remember.
“I say, Lady Samantha, that is a stunning shawl,” George said, raising his glass.
“Coming from the best dressed man of the ton, I am well complimented!” she replied with a warm smile.
“Sam! The fur would fly if Mr. Brummell heard you. But George is absolutely right,” agreed Caroline, grinning, “You do look very pretty, glowing almost. Must be the company. What do you think, Lord Standish?”
Before he could answer, Stephen interjected with, “Well of course it’s the company. Documented fact that dining with splendid gentlemen has numerous health benefits.”
“Splendid gentlemen like Lord Standish, yes,” Caroline retorted, shooting her husband a glance that silenced him.
Abruptly Lady Samantha stood, her expression an odd mix of irritation and desperation. The men dropped their soup spoons and stood also, giving her quizzical looks.
William frowned. “Is something wrong, Lady Samantha?”
“No. Yes. Excuse me,” she said, her cheeks scarlet. “Lord Standish, would you point me in the direction of the powder room?”
“Of course. Right this way,” he replied, indicating she should follow him.
“You don’t have to show me. I’ll find it.”
He shook his head and took her elbow, leading her away down several long hallways lined with paintings. “It’s a labyrinth, for years I took string and a sack of provisions with me whenever I explored. Far too risky to let a first-time visitor wander unaccompanied. Aunt Jane would have my head if you went missing. The powder room is just up here somewhere. Ah, there we—”
“Thank you!” she said, yanking open the door and disappearing inside. His frown deepened. What was going on?
Then again, this just might be the perfect opportunity to ask some questions.
Folding his arms, William rested his hip against a side table and waited. A few minutes later, the door flew open and she bolted out, just about mowing him down. Again.
“Oh God. Of course you stayed,” she mumbled, then coughed in embarrassment.
“Having to send out search parties for guests is bad form,” he replied, trying not to grin. “And I wanted to ask...how is the Season going so far?”
Lady Samantha tilted her head. “Oh. Well, thanks to you all, instead of being ignored I’m being toasted as a diamond of the first water. Quite amusing.”
“But true.”
“I don’t think so. People will say anything to gain favor with Stephen and Aunt Jane. Yet I can see how ladies get caught up in it all, promenading around ballrooms while gentlemen recite odes to their eyes and lips—”
“Their eyes and lips?” he interrupted without thinking. “Hell.”
“Some ladies like it,” she replied, a little stiffly.
Christ. He was a complete failure as an interrogator, and a romantic swain. “Naturally. But such odes are so common. A real challenge to the aspiring poet would be the honoring of something else like, hmmm, an ear for example. Or big toe.”
Samantha’s lips twitched, then she laughed. “How right you are. A verse about my toes would definitely transform a stuffy ballroom, desperate thirst, and aching feet into a wonderful evening. How did no one think of it earlier?”
“If only they’d consulted me. And, er, how are things at home now?”
“Actually,” she said thoughtfully, “Much improved. Especially between Papa and me.”
“Oh?”
“We’ve started having a meal together. Although sometimes he has meetings, so we drink tea instead.”
“Ugh, meetings. I have far too many of those. Always sit next to Southby because he promises to elbow me if I fall asleep. Does your father enjoy his business dealings?”
“Mostly, I think,” she said, biting her lower lip as she considered. “Except for the time I told you about, with the delivery man. He explained about that, though—it was just a deal not going well.”
“I see. That must have been a relief.”
“Yes! But he’s been a lot happier recently, he actually apologized for being ill-tempered and gave me money to go shopping. But gracious, Lord Standish, you sound just like him.”
William stilled, a warning tingle shooting up his spine. Trying to keep the situation as casual as possible, he attempted a light laugh. “Oh? Your father is also blessed with razor-sharp wit and devastating charm?”
Fortunately Samantha giggled at his weak joke and twirled a blonde curl around her finger, both making him smile even though he half-dreaded her response.
“No, silly. He asks me where we go, what we talk about, just like you do. I always hoped if we spent some time together, if he got to know me, that we could have a warm relationship. And now it is finally happening.”
She paused, and sighed. “Although he doesn’t tell me much about his day, even when I ask. Always says town, or visiting acquaintances. Poor Papa, it cannot be easy to hurry from place to place when...ah...anyway, I wish the men sending him brandy would stop, too. Cases are forever being delivered, and he already drinks far too much...my goodness I’ve been talking on and on, we really should get back to the dining room.”
Blinking, he shook his head at his own foolishness. They had been gone awhile, any longer with his incompetent interrogating and everyone in the dining room would be visiting him with a pistol, not just Stephen. “You’re quite right. My apologies. I hope Stephen and George haven’t eaten everything...wait, don’t move!”
She froze and he gestured behind her to where a corner of the silver shawl was trapped in the powder room door. Carefully freeing it, he settled the shawl back in place, his fingertips brushing her skin.
Mistake number four.
Unable to stop himself, he smoothed the lace against her collarbone, dangerously close to the tops of her breasts. As in the foyer her nipples peaked, and she shuddered, sinking two white teeth into her bottom lip.
At least he wasn’t the only one suffering here.
“Don’t do that...” William murmured, reaching up and tracing her lips with his thumb.
Lady Samantha moaned softly and tilted her head back. Waiting. Offering.
Would one taste really be so bad?
“Yes,” she breathed.
Shocked, he pulled back with a swift, hard shake of his head. Bloody hell. He’d been a moment away from ruining everything.
“Now the others really will be wondering where we are,” he bit out, furious with himself. “Can’t have them all attempting to find us and getting lost, London would grind to a shuddering halt.”
And turning, so out of sorts he didn’t even offer his arm, William marched back toward the dining room.
Chapter 4
God, he would give anything for a brandy.
Grimacing, John took another swallow of the revolting pressed herb cordial that masqueraded as alcohol. He’d become so adept at the tipping out of spirits and replacing at this brothel, it didn’t even register anymore.
As always, this unpleasant task was part of a far greater plan. And men who willingly took on the worst tasks earned the greatest rewards.
“Evening, Claremont!”
He forced a smile at the approach of Sir Francis Quinn. An idiot, middle-aged dandy who continued to pretend he hadn’t fucked Eva. Why the man bothered, he didn’t know. Half of London had rutted between his wife’s thighs, and he truly didn’t care. Eva also served a purpose, a nod to convention.
“Sir Francis. You look like a man with news to share.”
“Not really. Just wanted to compliment you on your daughter. Taking the city by storm, a credit to you and the countess, she is.”
Interesting. The baronet wanted to fuck Samantha now.
For a long moment, John pondered offering his daughter for an evening. Sir Francis would love that, and it would ensure his loyalty and a robust flow of news from the East India Company docks. Then again, there wer
e men far higher up in society who wanted Samantha. He’d seen it in their eyes. With her mother’s looks, a figure that screamed fertility, and family connection to the Westleighs, the little bitch was quite a prize. Spending time with her and pretending to play the devoted Papa revolted him as much as this damned cordial did. But for his greater plan, he would do it. And much, much worse.
“My thanks. Samantha is indeed a treasure.”
“Westleigh is very protective of her. As are his cronies,” said Sir Francis peevishly, fiddling with a lacy shirt cuff.
John stifled a smile. Sir Francis and his petty jealousies. Smart men said nothing, lulled enemies into their confidence, discovered weak points, then delivered the fatal blow. A man like the baronet was too stupid to get close to the likes of Westleigh or more importantly, the thoroughly intriguing Marquess of Standish. William Hastings was a mystery, much like his damned father before him. But easily solved puzzles were no fun. And men without conscience or scruples were no challenge to destroy.
The best foes were worthy ones.
“Why are you thinking about them, when we are surrounded by beautiful, available women?”
Sir Francis sighed. “Bit short of blunt. And they are so damned insistent on payment at this establishment. But it is to be expected, better class of whore here.”
“Then allow me to assist.”
The baronet brightened. “Really?”
“Of course. Been too long since the two of us entertained three or four women at once. Who do you fancy, my friend?”
“Blondes,” said Sir Francis, his eyes glittering. “Several of them, to be whipped until they serve my cock as all obedient slaves should.”
So predictable. Inwardly rolling his eyes, John lifted a hand and beckoned the brothel madam. “Your wish is my command.”
The things one did to cultivate relationships.
Chapter 5
Four excruciating balls, two pairs of ruined boots, five shattered brandy glasses and an irate Gentleman Jackson threatening to resign as his boxing trainer. In every way, a damned unimpressive list of achievements for the past week.
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 6
