Tempting the Marquess (The London Lords Book 3)

by Nicola Davidson

  Oh no. That cool tone. “Is…is something wrong?”

  “Not as such. I don’t have a lot of time, but I just…wanted to tell you personally that I have to go away for a while. And I won’t be contactable.”

  Samantha stilled. “Not contactable? How can that be? Are you traveling to Siberia?”

  He didn’t smile, and her heart plummeted further. “I’ve been asked to join a diplomatic mission to France. Our ship sails tomorrow morning at first light.”

  “How long f-for?” she choked out, unsure whether to throw herself at him or throw him out. Going away tomorrow and only deigning to tell her now? He must have known for some time—diplomatic missions to other countries didn’t just leap up out of nowhere.

  “I’m not sure exactly. Hopefully only a few weeks or so, but you never know with politics. Especially considering the current state of the continent.”

  “Where in France will you be? Deep in the countryside?”

  “No. Just outside of Paris.”

  Icy fright made it hard to breathe. “Paris? Napoleon is in Paris. He doesn’t like Englishmen at all. And there is unrest over there. I saw it in the newspapers!”

  William hesitated a fraction too long before nodding and taking her hands in his. “That is true, but we won’t be there for long. Mainly Rouen, then back along the coast to Calais.”

  “Oh yes, because even outside of Paris, the French will be delighted to see you,” she said acerbically. “Try not to eat too many cakes at each mayor’s welcome celebration.”

  He had the grace to look uncomfortable. “I’ll be traveling with a party of very experienced and skilled men, plus we’ll have soldiers accompanying us wherever we go. We’ll be as safe as we can be, and have sufficient funds in case of any trouble.”

  “It still sounds very dangerous. Do you have to be involved?”

  “Yes. To ensure the wellbeing of some very important people, I do,” he answered quietly, lifting up each of her hands and brushing a lingering kiss across her knuckles.

  Samantha stared up at him in consternation, even as her skin tingled in delight at his touch. There was something altogether wrong here. “William. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Everything is going to be fine, Samantha. I promise. Aunt Jane, Stephen, and the other Lords will look out for you. Trust them.”

  Then he kissed her hands again, turned, and strode toward the front door and down the steps, not looking back once.

  Numb with shock, Samantha somehow made it back to her bedchamber. William was going to Paris. The current center of French intrigues, where that general held power. Or was he Emperor again? She couldn’t remember. But one thing was true. Napoleon was a very intelligent and efficient man; Papa had said so on many occasions. And now that intelligent and efficient man looked very much like he was preparing for war. But against who? How far could he go? Would other countries join him or fight him?

  After discarding her uncomfortable gown and stays, she sat on her bed in just her chemise for hours, her arms hugged around her knees. Knocks sounded on the door at various times during the evening, but she ignored them all, including an invitation to supper, infinitely preferring to be alone with her worry. Even as the servants retired for the night and the sounds in the house grew less and less, Samantha remained wide awake.

  Her thoughts had been getting progressively darker; even though William wasn’t in the army, she’d started imagining him in a uniform, charging across a blood-soaked French field, like those poor men in the Peninsula Wars. Fighting with swords and pistols. Being surrounded and beaten down to the ground until he lay in a pool of blood, his beautiful blue eyes open and staring sightlessly…

  “No. Oh no,” she moaned.

  They couldn’t part like this. Not with her knowing so little of what William was doing. She needed facts. She needed details.

  Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Samantha flexed her cramped muscles, then walked over to her armoire. Without Trudy to assist, stays would be impossible, so instead she donned a heavy, full length cloak, picked up a pair of slippers, and crept on stockinged feet to peer out the bedchamber door. The hallway was clear, although she could hear the faint sounds of her father’s snoring.

  Her heart pounded like a drum. Her mind informed her of all the reasons why this would probably be the most foolish thing she ever did. And yet she still made her way downstairs, careful to avoid the steps with the worst creak. The polished wooden floor of the foyer was unpleasantly cold under her feet, but she made it to the front door which thankfully opened without a sound.

  Stepping outside, Samantha paused to put on her slippers and pull the cloak hood over her hair, then walked down the steps and hailed a passing hackney cab. The ride was a little unnerving, the grizzled-looking driver hardly looked left and right as he darted around carts and carriages in the surprisingly busy streets. Soon, too soon for her nerves, they were outside the imposing three-storied Hastings House in Grosvenor Square.

  “Want me to stay, luv?” the bald and broad-shouldered older man asked as he helped her down. “For a shilling I can wait a few hours, especially you without a minder and all.”

  “Excuse me?” she replied, startled.

  “Ah, I thought you might be new. Some cabbies get uppity at driving ladybirds about, but not me. We all gotta make a living as best we can, eh? So if you want, I can stay while you do your private business, then take you home after, like.”

  An embarrassed blush rose in her cheeks. The hackney driver thought she was a courtesan, or someone’s mistress. Well, she definitely wasn’t acting like a lady. And the throwing dagger in her reticule was definitely not an item a lady should know about, let alone carry.

  “You are very kind, but I will be fine. Thank you,” she replied, and pressed sixpence into his hand.

  He blinked at the generosity, tipped his hat, and leaped back onto his hackney. A crack of the whip and he sped off in search of his next fare, leaving Samantha alone on the steps of the townhouse.

  Taking a deep, calming breath, she made her way up the stairs and gave the door knocker a sharp rap.

  This was it.

  Tonight she would discover once and for all the truth about William Hastings.

  Chapter 7

  Nursing his third glass of brandy, William stared at the flames dancing in his library fireplace. The pleasantly mild spring weather made a fire rather redundant, but the light and warmth were soothing, and the crackling and hissing far better than silence.

  Most of the time silence didn’t bother him at all. He liked it. Felt renewed by it. But sometimes it closed in on him, and even in this enormous townhouse surrounded by servants and activity, it could be smothering.

  Tonight was one of those times. He shouldn’t feel such unease over a mission, especially when in this case deception was the right and best thing to do. One mission, two positive outcomes: Robert rescued, and Samantha no longer put at risk through their association. But the sight of her pale face, the concern he’d heard in her tone…the temptation to provide more detail had been strong. He’d had to remove himself from the situation so he didn’t make any more mistakes. Although it had taken a concerted effort not to turn around, hoist Samantha over his shoulder, and remove her permanently from the threat her father posed with his treasonous games.

  “Ahem,” coughed Jensen, peering around the doorframe, a look of pursed-lipped disapproval on his face.

  “Yes?”

  “You have a visitor, my lord.”

  William frowned. “I’m not expecting anyone. I take it I know whoever it is, otherwise you wouldn’t have admitted them…for God’s sake, Jensen, you look like you’ve been sucking on lemons. Is it someone wanting a loan?”

  “No, my lord. And do hurry. Your caller is not dressed for visiting.”

  Raising an eyebrow at the odd reply, William straightened his cravat and followed his butler from the room and down the hallway. Whoever it was would just have to accept him sans
jacket and waistcoat, and with shirtsleeves rolled up. It was late. Although if they weren’t dressed for visiting, they could hardly complain about his attire.

  Jensen scooted away to the kitchens, his shoulders rigid. In the vast marble foyer, William found a cloaked figure crouched in front a half-sized statue of Minerva. Too small to be a man, but not slight. Curved. Rounded backside.

  His heart began to thump. Surely it couldn’t be…

  William cleared his throat. “Minerva is one of my favorites too. Always thought it was a good thing, keeping the warrior goddess of wisdom and protection close by.”

  The woman shuddered and pushed the hood off her head, allowing golden curls to tumble down her back. “Rather important in your line of work, I would think.”

  He rocked on his heels. Suspecting it was Samantha didn’t lessen the impact of seeing her. And it was no wonder Jensen the fusspot had fled. His unexpected late night guest appeared to be wearing a cloak and slippers and not much else.

  Christ.

  “What are you doing here, Samantha?” he said carefully, as rampant curiosity and disbelief at the fact she was here in his home was well overtaken by far more rampant lust. She might admire Minerva, but had the figure of Venus.

  Trembling, she linked her fingers together and looked back at the floor. He walked over and took her hands in his, chafing at them when he realized she was chilled to the bone.

  “Samantha?”

  “After you left, I sat in my room for hours. I didn’t have supper because I couldn’t eat a bite. Then I couldn’t sleep thinking about what you said. I want to...I need to know about your mission. I couldn’t bear it if something bad happened and I never knew.”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Please, William,” she whispered, her eyes glistening with tears. “I’m sick with worry already.”

  He sighed. Giving her any kind of detail went against everything he’d ever been taught by White. And yet, having someone who cared, and not in a maternal or brotherly way…

  Perhaps you could give her a little information. Just a little, to ease her mind.

  “Very well,” he replied slowly. “Southby’s younger brother, Colonel Lord Robert Langley, was injured in a skirmish with French soldiers. Our mission is to go to Paris, bundle him up, and bring him back to England. That’s all. No fighting or storming of castles, I swear.”

  Samantha tensed, suspicion at his bland reply clear on her expressive face. “But why must you go? Surely the government has many men who could undertake such a mission.”

  He gritted his teeth. “Because I can speak French with any regional nuance needed. I am trusted implicitly by the Home Office to carry out delicate negotiations, and can send and receive missives in code. And Robert is a friend of mine. It is in my power to help, so I will.”

  “I know you would,” Samantha replied, her gaze fixed on him. “It just sounds like a plan where things could go horribly wrong at any time. Not because of you, but because of what is going on over in Paris. Men signing up for the army by the thousands, and the Bourbons fleeing.”

  “That is true. I admit, there is a small element of danger. But to save a man from the pain of losing a brother…you remember how it was for Stephen when Gregory died.”

  She flinched. “Yes. I was so far away, and couldn’t do anything. They wouldn’t let me return. I could only write letters.”

  “Well, I was relatively close. So many times I have gone over that day in my mind, wishing I had accepted the invitation to Nexham’s. I might have been able to help Gregory. Or stopped Uncle Andrew from getting on that horse with the bloody doctored saddle. Instead, I had to help pick up the pieces of two shattered souls left behind. It might not seem like it to others because Southby is, well, you know how he is, but he cares about his brother very much. To lose Robert would…I will not permit that.”

  Samantha stared at him, wide-eyed. Truth be told, he was off-balance himself. He’d never shared his thoughts on the terrible aftermath of those two murders with anyone except Stephen. It brought to the surface paralyzing memories of another time, the hideous, cruel day he’d been orphaned. And he couldn’t think about that and remain sane.

  “I understand,” she said, swaying forward until her forehead came to rest on his chest. “But I still think you are too loyal and dutiful for your own good, William.”

  He wrapped one arm around her waist, while his other hand cupped the back of her head. Samantha might call him dutiful, but that was about the last thing on his mind right now. A dutiful man would be marching this twenty-year-old virgin to an unmarked carriage while giving her a blistering lecture about propriety. Not inhaling the scent of her floral soap and holding her so close that her lush curves pressed against him.

  “So you say,” he answered, reluctantly stepping back and taking her hands in his instead. “However, I think we’d better get you home before I forget I’m saintliness incarnate.”

  “What if you did forget?” she whispered, her cheeks pink.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Would it really be so bad…if you sinned?”

  William froze. Or at least most of his body did. His cock jerked, hardening and straining against his trousers at the thought of sin. Hot, naked, pleasurable hours of sin. “Yes.”

  “I disagree.”

  Hell. Her cloak had parted, and all she wore underneath was a chemise. Knee-length, but damned near-transparent, and in the well-lit foyer he could easily make out the outline of large pink nipples ready to be teased. Sucked hard until she moaned. And further down, the curve of her belly and the shadow of soft hair guarding the succulent folds of her quim. Even now, her clitoris could be swelling. Her thighs pressing restlessly together as her body grew wet to receive his cock so very, very deep inside her…

  No. No! What the hell is wrong with you?

  She was a virgin. A lady.

  Near the center of a treason investigation.

  “Samantha,” he said hoarsely. “You need to leave. Now.”

  His mouth said one thing, but his body said something else entirely.

  Samantha stood her ground, her keen gaze traveling from head to foot and back again. William’s blue eyes were glittering. His grip on her hands was firm, and his thumbs were rubbing over her knuckles so sporadically, he probably didn’t even know he was doing it. But most telling of all…the huge bulge pressing against the front flap of his trousers.

  He wanted her. She wanted him. Tomorrow he would be sailing away, potentially into great danger. Why couldn’t they have tonight?

  “I don’t think you want me to go, William,” she said softly. “I don’t think you want that at all. I think you want me to stay and keep you company, so you won’t be alone with thoughts dark enough to drive you mad.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I want,” he bit out. “What matters is propriety. Duty.”

  Samantha shook her head. “I care about you. But if you aren’t attracted to me, if you haven’t thought about us kissing again, touching each other everywhere…tell me truthfully and I’ll leave at once.”

  He shuddered, and the bulge between his legs grew even more prominent. “I haven’t…haven’t thought about it.”

  “Liar,” she whispered, and loosening one hand from his grip, she delved into the gap below the collar button of his shirt and splayed her fingers across warm, hard flesh. His skin was smooth, but crisp hair lightly scratched her fingertips, and she wanted to tear the fabric away and explore him fully.

  “Goddamn it, Samantha. Don’t do this to me.”

  “Do what, my lord?”

  “Make me want you so badly, when I can’t have you.”

  Samantha leaned close to him, and pressed her lips to the bare flesh her fingers had found. “But you can have me. Tonight. Well, we can have each other, because I want to kiss and touch you so much. I’ve thought about it over and over since that taste at the Hartley’s.”

  “No,” said William, rigid as a statue even as his h
eart pounded near her ear. “You’re a virgin. And I won’t make promises I don’t know if I can keep. My work…I won’t put you at risk. Not for the world.”

  She stilled, her cheeks heating. This was it, the moment of confession for a foolish act from her past that she couldn’t change. It was a thoroughly humiliating subject to discuss, but if she didn’t, he would send her away for sure. “I’m not. A virgin, I mean. A few years ago…I was with a gentleman in Yorkshire, just once. He was the son of a viscount, so persuasive, so full of flattery…promised it would be marvelous and just the start of our future. Actually, it was swift, on a chaise, and, um, hurt a lot. Much ado about nothing, as they say. Two weeks later he married another lady, and I refused all invitations after that…until you kissed me at the Hartley’s.”

  There was a long moment of silence, and her spirits plummeted. William didn’t want her. He thought her soiled goods. Now he would throw her out.

  “That man was a complete fool,” said William, his tone so low and rough, she quivered. “If that had been me, I would have taken my time. Spread you across my bed and worshiped every inch of you until you were so wet, so ready, you begged me to fill you.”

  Samantha blinked in confusion. “Wet? Do people usually bathe during the act? I don’t understand.”

  He smiled, a slow, wicked grin that hardened her nipples and set a pulse throbbing between her legs. “I know some couples enjoy being intimate in a bathing chamber together. But I am speaking of something different. When a lady is prepared…properly prepared…her body creates a special wetness to ease a man’s way inside her. And it doesn’t hurt, it feels good. Very, very good.”

  “Then why, my lord,” she murmured, lighting running her fingernails against his chest, “are we still here in the foyer when we could be upstairs?”

  “You’re sure?” William stilled her venturing hand, serious now. “Because once I have you in my bed, I’ll want all of you. And once won’t nearly be enough.”

  Heat jolted through her and she squirmed, the heavy cloak and chemise she wore far too much for her suddenly sensitive skin. “I insist.”