Oh God. If she didn’t intervene, Lord Standish would kill the baronet. They might not have an audience now, but if anyone happened to walk past the antechamber door…
Taking a deep breath, she reached up and gripped his arm. “Lord Standish. William. Stop this at once.”
Somehow her wobbly but determined words and deliberate touch broke through his wrath. Blinking, he let Sir Francis’ inert body crumple to the floor, then slumped down against the table edge and closed his eyes.
Alarmed, she gripped him tighter. “William? Say something!”
“Just give me a moment,” he said hoarsely. “You are all right? He didn’t harm you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You shouldn’t have witnessed such violence. I went too far.”
“Don’t apologize. I know it’s wrong, but I’m glad you hit him. I just didn’t want you to hang for murder.”
“That would indeed be extremely disagreeable,” he replied, a half-smile on his lips, but he remained far too tense. Possibly because she was still touching him, stroking his arm as one would a fractious horse.
“I’m sorry...” she stammered, moving to pull away, but William’s hand came up and clamped her fingers to his arm. Then he stroked the top of her wrist and she shivered at the reminder of how good a hard, slightly calloused thumb felt dragging back and forth against her skin.
“Tell me to stop,” he rasped. “Tell me right now.”
The low, rough words sent fresh waves of heat through her body, luring her to the edge of scandal and daring her to jump.
Licking dry lips, Samantha rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease the constriction of stays which were chafing her hardening nipples unbearably.
His eyes darkened, his expression turned forbidding, and she almost groaned in disappointment. He was going to walk away again.
Then a slow hand lifted to cup her cheek. “Samantha, tell me, damn it,” he bit out, yet there was a hint of pleading there, too.
Instead of wrenching away, slapping him, and fleeing like a proper young lady should, she turned her head and brushed her lips against his palm. “No.”
With a muffled groan, William guided her to the other side of the room away from Sir Francis. One arm slid around her waist, his other hand cupped her neck, and then his mouth claimed hers.
The sensation of his kiss was almost too much, like being swept up in a fierce whirlwind. His lips were hard and warm, his darting tongue tasted of brandy, and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, could only shut her eyes, cling to his jacket lapels, and abandon herself to the scorching reality of her wickedest fantasy.
The poets were right. Kissing was the sun, the moon, and the stars.
And yet she wanted more. Her quivering, throbbing body was desperate for more.
Whimpering, Samantha stepped closer and wound her arms around William’s neck. Her breasts flattened and rubbed against his broad chest, but instead of easing her swollen, jutting nipples, it only intensified the ache.
“William,” she begged. “Help me.”
This was heaven. And hell.
Samantha’s mouth was sweeter than he’d even thought possible. He could only imagine how her nipples would taste, those taut little peaks she was torturing him with as she pressed against his chest. Or her tight, soaked quim as he spread her thighs wide and buried his tongue inside her.
His cock jerked, straining to be free of his trousers. She was so close, he could tilt his hips and rub against her mound. Christ, he wanted to. To grind his erection against her clitoris, circling and circling and circling until she begged him to take her, to fill her so full, so completely, she would never want any other man.
William sucked in a ragged breath. He had officially lost his mind. This was wrong, so very wrong, and the time and place couldn’t be more improper. But his body refused to obey. It had heard her plea—William, help me—and would do anything to meet that need.
“So soft. So sweet,” he murmured, leaving the pleasure of her lips and allowing his mouth to drift down the side of her neck to the curve of her shoulder. A wholly primitive urge overcame him and he lightly bit the satiny skin, then soothed the sting with a flick of his tongue.
“Please,” Samantha said, as she quivered and stepped closer, nestling against his chest. “Please.”
“What do you want? Tell me where you want me to touch you.”
In reply, she brushed her taut nipples against him. His cock jerked again, protesting the barriers of fabric between it and paradise. But he wasn’t going to allow her to be coy. Not now. Not here.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he lied, nipping her shoulder a second time. “Say the words and I’ll give you what you want. I’ll make the ache go away.”
Samantha moaned. “Don’t make me wait.”
Hell. Such a hungry, needy sound. This woman, this beautiful blonde goddess, would be the death of him. “Then tell me, sweet Sam, and I’ll oblige.”
She shuddered. Then finally, finally, she leaned back and met his gaze. Her cheeks were ruby, but she reached down, took his hand, and placed it on her right breast. “Here. I ache…here.”
“Very good,” William praised, cupping the lush fullness, and thumbing her nipple through the fabric of her gown. Even though it was near-killing him to go slow, he would do nothing that she didn’t want, nothing that might frighten her.
Panting, she arched her back, and in reward, he delved that same thumb down the front of her bodice and stroked the swollen peak.
A low cry escaped her. “More.”
“You know the rules,” he said, a smile curving his lips.
“Harder.”
Obediently, he slid his forefinger inside her bodice to join his thumb, trapping her velvety nipple between them and lightly pinching. Then he moved his hand across and did the same to her other nipple. “Does that feel good?”
Samantha gasped. “So good, William. I need…I need to touch y—”
The sound of broken pottery scraping the polished wooden floor was like being doused with a bucket of icy water. His head jerked toward the sound, to see Sir Francis’s foot give another involuntary twitch as he made a groggy sound of pain.
Good God. He’d beaten a man unconscious, albeit a bastard friend of Claremont’s. Far worse, he’d seduced a virgin in a damned antechamber at Tony Hartley’s home. There were no two ways about it. He was dishonorable, a Whitehall failure, and a disgrace to the Hastings name.
Removing his hand from Samantha’s bodice, he deftly maneuvered around her and away from the side table. “I am very sorry. What I did was inexcusable.”
His heart clenched as the passion and warmth faded from her eyes to be replaced by a dull acceptance. “It’s fine.”
“It is not fine. You’re a lady. Once upon a time I was a gentleman. I don’t blame you if you wish to have Stephen or your father call me out.”
Samantha twisted away from him to smooth her gown, her shoulders rigid. “Do not worry, Lord Standish. Your secret…no, our secret…is safe. No one will ever know you kissed a lowly Buchanan.”
“Lady Samantha…”
“Please don’t say another word. I understand, my lord, I truly do.”
You understand nothing! I’m goddamned filth. Spying on you. Interrogating you. Using you. Finding out whether or not you have knowledge of or are involved in the activities of your father who may well be a bloody traitor.
“No. You don’t,” he bit out, running angry fingers through his hair. Thanks to his utter lack of control and weakness, he’d not only hurt her, he’d probably destroyed any chance of being able to complete his assignment. White would be furious and forced to assign a new operative to the task. That was, if Lady Samantha hadn’t already alerted her newly attentive father during one of their daily meals that others were interested in his activities.
Christ. Hell. Damnation. Fuck. The groaning scapegrace over in the corner had nothing on William Hastings when it came to bad behavior.
/> “Oh?” Lady Samantha snapped, her brown eyes flashing. “Exactly what is it that silly little me doesn’t understand, my lord?”
Good. Temper was far better than the hollow emptiness he’d seen in her eyes before. That stoic acceptance as a person braced themselves for yet another extended period of crushing loneliness, which he knew far too well.
“At age twenty, a great many things, my lady,” he said, forcing the words to be deliberately goading.
“I see,” she laughed, a horribly brittle sound that roiled his gut. “You want me to slap you. Will that make you feel better? A suitable punishment for your fall from grace?”
William stilled as the arrow found its mark. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
“Am I?”
“Completely. And might I also suggest, Lady Samantha, that in future you avoid accompanying men like Sir Francis Quinn onto private balconies? Next time my fists might not be around to provide assistance.”
“Quite. Nor your lips to kiss me. Or your fingers to pinch my nipples, I daresay,” she replied softly.
He looked away and cleared his throat, anything to banish the memories of Lady Samantha in his arms, the feel of her satiny skin, and the taste of her mouth, from his mind. “We need to return to the musicale. Go to the powder room—it is three doors down from here—and pretend you have been attending to a torn hem. I’ll go now and find Tony Hartley, inform him of Sir Francis’s misfortune in being too intoxicated and tripping over furniture.”
“You have it all planned out. What skills of deception you possess, my lord.”
You have no idea.
“I am truly sorry, Lady Samantha. It won’t happen again.”
She lifted her chin. “Thank you for the clarification. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go and attend to that, er, troublesome hem.”
William clenched his fists as she swept past him like an empress, lest he pull her into his arms again. Once she was safely gone, he walked over to where Sir Francis still lay prone on the floor.
“Sir Francis.”
The baronet’s eyelids fluttered. Eventually one eye inched open, and when the man saw who was looming over him, he flinched. “Don’t…hit me…again.”
“That depends entirely on you, sir. If you go straight home, and never speak a word of this to anyone, you will be quite well. If, however, you feel compelled to speak of me, or worse, Lady Samantha, things will go very, very badly for you. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, my lord,” croaked Sir Francis. “I was an idiot. Too much brandy.”
“Indeed. In future, I suggest that you never again venture near Lady Samantha. You know she has friends who care a great deal about her wellbeing? Rest assured those friends would think nothing of eliminating any threat to her happiness.”
Sir Francis went parchment pale. “I believe I shall go on a voyage. Several interests in India and Ceylon that need checking on.”
“A sound idea. Good evening to you.”
And with that, William turned on his heel and left the antechamber.
He had a host to apologize to. Thank God Tony had worked at the Home Office for many years before his forced retirement thanks to a leg injury sustained in a successful raid on some French smugglers. He would accept an explanation short on facts and long on words unsaid. Actually, speaking with Tony would be the easiest part of his evening.
Speaking with White, and indeed, his next encounter with Lady Samantha Buchanan—those were different matters entirely.
Chapter 6
The thought of leaving her bedchamber and eating with others made her whole body hurt, but the morning after the Hartley musicale Samantha forced herself to venture downstairs to breakfast with her parents. Now that the routine had been established, the last thing she wanted was a barrage of unwanted questions if she attempted to cry off.
When she entered the dining room, she found her father shaking his head in irritation as he read from a note.
“Is something amiss, Papa?” Samantha asked cautiously. The memory of him hitting that delivery man was too fresh to risk provoking his temper, no matter how amiable he’d become.
Lord Claremont grunted and took a swig from his teacup. “You wouldn’t believe it, Samantha. Just received a note from Sir Francis Quinn saying he was set upon by a pack of ruffians after leaving his club last night. Broke his nose, dislodged some teeth, and gave him a pair of shiners! What is the world coming to, when a gentleman cannot even walk the streets without being attacked?”
“How terrible!” her mother gasped from the other end of the table. “I simply cannot believe it. Sir Francis is such a dear! Has he hired one of those men from Bob Street to investigate?
“Bow Street. I don’t believe so, would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Thugs who attack gentlemen usually scurry back to the sewers from where they came quick enough. Aren’t you eating, Samantha?”
She looked up, her cheeks flushed red with guilt.
Eva tsked. “See, now you’ve gone and frightened her with your talk, Claremont. Samantha is obviously shocked to hear of Sir Francis’s bad luck.”
Samantha bit her lip and nodded, all the while keeping one eye out for lightning bolts. Although she was proud of herself for halting the fisticuffs, it would be an icy day in purgatory before she felt a whit of sympathy for the lecherous baronet. As the silence stretched, she snatched up a piece of toasted bread and began buttering it with unusual precision.
Her father frowned and went back to reading the letter. “As I was saying, Sir Francis has taken himself off to the country to recuperate, so is not able to come to dinner tonight. Actually, he writes once he is better, he will be setting sail for India. How very odd.”
“Declining dinner? Oh bother!” Eva cried, her lower lip curled into a childlike pout. “At such short notice, too.”
“Before you start railing at the injustice, I do know of someone who could make up the numbers. He is a distant acquaintance, but a very savvy investor who is planning a new venture.”
Samantha smiled encouragingly at her father, wondering if this might be a topic he could teach her about. “What kind of venture, Papa?”
“One to potentially provide the funds for a whole wardrobe of pretty gowns and bonnets. Would you like some new geegaws, m’dear?”
“That would be lovely,” she replied politely, trying not to shudder at the thought of another shopping trip.
“Samantha needs a whole new wardrobe anyway—her gowns are far too girlish and plain,” said Eva. “How else will she bring a man like Standish up to scratch?”
“Conversation? Shared interests? Love?” Samantha muttered under her breath.
“What was that? Oh, if only you had been a son I wouldn’t have this constant pain. Nothing is more important than doing your part to better the family fortune and position. Tell her, Claremont.”
Samantha raised an eyebrow, waiting for her father to dismiss the comment, as he often did when his wife spoke. Instead, he nodded firmly in agreement.
“Listen to your mother. On this matter she is absolutely correct.”
“Of course I am,” Eva replied with a sniff. “Now, I must go and supervise preparations for my dinner. If I don’t watch Cook like a hawk, she will make some sort of low-class country fare and embarrass me in front of my friends. Excuse me.”
When her mother had gone, Samantha finished her toast, then glanced down to her father. “Do I have to attend tonight?”
The earl’s lips twitched. “If I must, then you must. Besides, it is good practice to dine with those we do not like. Teaches restraint.”
She shuddered. Not liking was an understatement. Her mother fancied herself a patroness of the arts, and often invited an eclectic collection of painters, sculptors, and poets to dinner. Another opinion might say every handsome man in a two mile radius with no money or prospects, yet an undeniable aptitude for petulant complaints, vicious gossiping, and endless self-congratulating.
Hour
s later, indeed, nothing had changed.
Beyond miserable, Samantha watched with pure envy as her father poured himself a fourth large brandy. Having no awareness whatsoever of her surroundings was very appealing right now.
“I don’t believe I’ve heard so much twaddle in all my years.”
She jumped in surprise and smiled hesitantly at the bespectacled and bearded elderly gentleman sitting to her left. She wasn’t sure what to make of Papa’s business acquaintance, even though he had been the opposite of the other guests, pleasant and courteous.
“They certainly are a most interesting group, Mr. Ashcroft.”
“Ha! What a generous estimation, my dear. Are you always so kind? I hope not, the tabby cats of the ton will eat you alive.”
Samantha shrugged and smiled. “Perhaps. But I am fortunate enough to have the company of protective family and friends whenever I go out.”
“Ah yes, the most worthy Earl and Countess of Westleigh. And a special friend in the Marquess of Standish, if the gossip is factual.”
The events of the previous evening flashed through her mind, and she was torn between blushes and a groan of frustration. Those indescribable kisses. The way William had held her. Touched her. The raw heat that had throbbed between her legs when he’d delved under her bodice and teased her nipples. Nothing had ever felt so good, or so right. And yet he’d pushed her away. Apologized repeatedly. Sworn it would never happen again.
“I have known Lord Standish since I was very small, yes. Are you acquainted with him?”
Mr. Ashcroft dabbed at his lips with a napkin and nodded. “As a matter of fact, I am. Got to know him rather well through my grandson, Paul; they were at Cambridge together. A most upright and gentlemanly character, Standish is, although I must say it cannot be easy juggling his day to day life with his, er, other activities.”
“His what?” she said, startled.
“I refer to his work for the government. Oh dear, perhaps I’m speaking out of turn. Please ignore an old man’s musings and let us enjoy this berry syllabub instead.”
Unaccountably, mention of the government sent a frisson of uneasiness straight down her spine. Yet the emotion was waging a battle with the strong desire to find out more about William.
Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3) Page 8
