My Favorite Bride (21 page)

At once the picture of Colonel Gregory sprang to
mind. No other man wore clothes as he did. His dark blue jacket hugged his shoulders, his brocade waistcoat embraced his waist, a pair of black trousers clung to his thighs like . . . well, like she would if she lacked good sense. But she had plenty of good sense, and just because she liked to look at him didn't mean she was slipping down the slippery slope toward dissipation.

And his face . . . a dozen men here were more handsome, but his features were noble, rugged, manly. A woman knew from the way he held himself, by his expression, that he would take care of her. And when he looked at Samantha . . . she slithered onto a stool. When he looked at Samantha, her knees went weak and prudence failed her.

She heard footsteps, light and sharp. Gorblimey. Someone was coming.

She arranged her features to an expression of ease. An expression she was hard-pressed to keep when Lady Marchant walked in in a billow of cherry-red silk and rose perfume, champagne glass in hand.

“I was looking for you,” Lady Marchant said.

What had Samantha done now?

Lady Marchant seated herself on a stool opposite, and placed her glass on the table with a decided clink. She took Samantha's hands—a move that made Samantha decidedly nervous. “You're all alone in the world,” she said. “There's no one to give you advice, so I'm going to.”

“All right.”
Why?

“Du Clos is charming, but poor. You've made a conquest of Mr. Langdon. He's a widower with
eight thousand a year. Of course, you'd have to look at that face every morning across the breakfast table, so that's something to consider. Lord Hartun . . . I would be careful. He's eminently eligible, but it's a noble old title and I doubt his family would accept you even if he lost his head so far as to propose.”

Bewilderment fought with cynicism as Samantha tried to understand Lady Marchant's motives. Selfish, surely, but the lady looked so . . . ablaze with sincerity. Determined. And almost . . . uncomfortable with her role as mentor. Samantha swallowed twice before she could speak. “My lady, I don't . . . I'm not here to find a husband.”

“Then you're a pretty fool.” Lady Marchant's mouth was firmly set, her eyes decided. “You have them eating out of your hand. They don't care that you're a governess. With a little labor on your part, you could be a wife. You'd never have to work for a living again.”

Samantha tossed the handkerchief into the basin, where it landed with a splash. “I like to work.”

“Nonsense. I like you. I don't why. I shouldn't, but I do.” Glancing toward the door, she lowered her voice. “Lady Featherstonebaugh has recognized you. From London. From the streets.”

At once, Samantha comprehended. Recognized. Caught. A thief. Forever. Perhaps Lady Featherstonebaugh was telling William now, and the next time he looked at her, his eyes would flash with contempt. This was what she'd been afraid of. As she inhaled, the air hurt her lungs. “Ruddy ‘ell.” The words slipped out. She wanted to snatch them
back, then she realized—what did it matter? Lady Marchant
knew
. “I suppose I'll have to leave. At once.”

Lady Marchant grabbed her arm and shook it. “No. I covered for you. I told her she was wrong. You're safe. I'm telling you, if you catch a husband fast enough, he won't find out until it's too late.”

Samantha didn't understand why Lady Marchant was saying these things. “That's . . . horrible. Then I'll be stuck with a husband who's ashamed of me.”

“Better that than no husband at all.” Teresa waved her hands impatiently. “You have a notoriety that already has a certain kind of luster about it. With a rich husband on your arm, you'll be feted, not avoided.”

“And if my husband is angered at being so tricked?” Samantha well remembered how much a blow from a fist could hurt.

“It doesn't matter. You're pretty and exotic enough to keep him entertained for a year or so. He'll want an heir and a spare and then he'll be off with his mistress anyway. That's the way the game is played.” Teresa toasted Samantha with her champagne, then tossed back the rest of it. “Is it any different in your lower classes?”

Samantha released an unwilling, cynical gust of laughter. “No. Marriage is the same everywhere. That's why I remain unmarried.”

“Good luck to you with that.” Lady Marchant's lips curled with distaste. “I'm a lady—a lady with a fortune, and I need a husband to be invited to all
the right places and to be seen with all the right people.”

Lady Marchant had been blunt. Lady Marchant had done her a favor. Samantha spied a chance to do both in return. “You've accomplished that. Wouldn't you rather be rolling, naked, under the sheets with the man you love?”

Lady Marchant took a sharp, shocked breath. “What do you mean?”

“You know very well what I mean. I like you, too. I don't why. I shouldn't, but I do.” She was telling the truth, Samantha realized, and that both startled and amused her. “You're the kind of lady who's done everything right her whole life. Married the right man, entertained the right people, worn the right clothes, all for . . . what? Not yourself, that's for certain.”

“I like my clothes and my . . . the people I entertain.”

Samantha considered her, trying to understand, and at last she did. “You can't even call them your friends.”

Pale and defensive, Lady Marchant said, “Friendship's not everything.”

A pang of loneliness struck Samantha, a longing to talk to Adorna and the other girls at the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. “Yet I miss my friends.” For a moment that befuddled, confused woman looked like a friend, too, and Samantha broke one of her own rules. She gave advice. “Mr. Monroe wants you so badly. He'd show you a fancy time.”

“It wouldn't last,” Lady Marchant said immediately.

“What does, my lady?” Samantha heard the cynicism in her own voice. “What does?”

Lady Marchant's mouth worked. Then she firmed her quivering chin. “By the time this party is over, I intend on acquiring a husband.” Bending her gaze meaningfully on Samantha, she said, “The biggest prize of all.”

Colonel Gregory. Of course. “If you do that, you'll both be cheated.” When Lady Marchant would have protested, Samantha held up a restraining hand. “I've never doubted you would bring him in. I think it's a shame, when you have a man waiting in the wings who urgently wants you. Nevertheless, I wish you happy hunting.”

Apparently Samantha's wishes weren't enough for Lady Marchant. “You can't have him. Do you know the story of his wife's death?”

“No, my lady.” Samantha didn't want to hear, but she listened with morbid fascination.

Lady Marchant spoke rapidly, as if she wanted to get the tale out and done. “We were all stationed in Kashmir, a lovely place in the mountains. Cool, spectacularly beautiful. We each lived in our own compound, and I don't know exactly how to explain the loneliness of living in a country where everything was foreign . . . and the natives hated us. Someone would send out an invitation, and we went. We traveled miles to see old friends, to catch up on gossip from home, to hear English spoken without an accent.” She stared at Samantha, but
she was seeing a place and a time long gone. “There was always some sort of unrest, fed by the Russians, and when there was, William always volunteered to lead the battalion. Right before the biggest party of the year, our soldiers were called out to quash an uprising. So once again he marched away.”

Samantha swallowed. Foolish to worry about a man who had obviously survived the danger . . . but she did.

“Mary was angry, and that was unusual, for Mary was the gentlest of souls. She adored William. She always let him get away with whatever he wanted. She wanted to return to England, but he didn't, so they stayed. She wanted the children to go to English schools, but he didn't, so they stayed. She missed her family . . . I told her so much indulgence wasn't good for a husband, but she didn't listen to me.” Lady Marchant flipped her hand to indicate the dismissal. “Anyway, she never asked William for anything, but she wanted to go to that party to see her friends. He told her no, to stay home. I don't know why she disobeyed him that night—I suppose they'd quarreled—but she set off on her own. She never arrived.” Her voice broke.

Samantha handed over her own handkerchief and wished she had another one. This was worse than she'd imagined, to hear about William's wife, to imagine how she'd suffered and died.

Lady Marchant dabbed tears from her eyes. “They found her body the next morning. Thieves
had run the carriage off the road. Mary was killed instantly, thank God, but the thieves killed the coachman and the servants and stripped everyone of jewels and clothes.”

Lady Marchant was reliving the horror, and she dragged Samantha into it with her. “Poor woman,” Samantha said. And more important, “Poor children.” Did they know their mother had been stripped and tossed into the ditch like offal?

“William was never a tolerant man, but after that, he was a man possessed. He became a martinet. He hunted down the robbers and had them hung. He hunted down every Russian and rebel and thief in Kashmir.” Lady Marchant shuddered. “He brought the children back to England and established himself as the colonel of his own private regiment of girls. I have no doubt he told himself it was for their safety. He blamed himself for Mary's death.”

“I would say he had reason,” Samantha answered softly. Poor William, with that sense of responsibility that he both suffered from and cherished. How he must have mourned and raged at the death of his beloved wife. How he must have sought revenge . . .

“Absolutely, he did. He had taken Mary for granted. He didn't realize what he had in her until she was gone. God.” Crushing the handkerchief in her hand, Lady Marchant breathed heavily.

Stricken by an epiphany, Samantha said, “You're angry at him for neglecting her.”

“He won't treat me like that, I assure you.” Lady
Marchant's eyes sparkled with a combination of tears and rage. “But Samantha, I swear to you. You'd better leave William to me. He would forgive you anything, but never being a thief.”

Chapter Twenty-one

The music floated out of the ballroom, the moonlight silvered the lawn and the lake, and, to William's indignation, Samantha stood on the veranda speaking to a leering Lieutenant Du Clos.

What is she thinking?
Only yesterday, she had assured William she would not be caught alone with
the lieutenant, a decision William had applauded. Now she leaned against the railing, her body a graceful, desirable curve, and watched Du Clos so worshipfully the little twerp looked dizzy with his good luck. He leaned toward her . . . his lips almost touched hers . . .

William slammed the door against the wall. “Lieutenant!”

Lieutenant Du Clos jumped and swung around, fists up.

“Your presence is required inside!”

The lieutenant had the audacity to snap. “By whom, sir?”

By whom, indeed.
“By your hostess. She needs partners for the dancing.”

Lieutenant Du Clos hesitated, knowing it was nonsense, clearly wanting to challenge William, but not quite having the nerve. Clicking his heels together, he bowed to Samantha. “May I escort you inside, Miss Prendregast?”

Samantha watched them both with an expression of condescending amusement. “I'm fine where I am, Lieutenant Du Clos.”

Lieutenant Du Clos bowed again and marched stiffly toward the ballroom. Stopping alongside William, he said, “Are you coming, Colonel Gregory?”

William stared until Lieutenant Du Clos's gaze dropped away. Then he said, “Don't be impertinent.” Without watching the lieutenant's departure, he strode to Samantha and looked grimly down at her.

She tilted her already stubborn chin at a yet more obstinate angle. “I have resolved to kiss more men.”

“What?” He hadn't followed her out here for
this.

“Ever since you kissed me, I have been”—she seemed to search for the right word—“distracted. When I see you, I blush.”

Leaning his hip against the railing, he crossed his arms. “It's charming.”

She forged on. “I find I'm not eating well, and I have a tendency to go off into a daydream, frequently when others are in the act of speaking to me.”

“Really?” She made him want to purr. To purr, and to roar, and to purr again.

She shook her head in reproof. “It's simply not acceptable, and upon reflection, I've decided the solution is to gain a little more experience.”

“I agree.”

She hesitated, then very quietly said, “Good.”

“But,” he pointed out, “experience need not be gained with other men. Especially not men like Du Clos.”

“Everyone has warned me he's a lady's man, so he must be adept at kissing.”

“He's adept at ruining young women.
I'll
help you learn more about kissing.”

“But that wouldn't stop me from blushing when I see you.”

“Perhaps I'll start blushing too.” She was so clever, and so stupid. So beautiful and so . . . beautiful. Her skin glowed from the light of the candles inside. Her full mouth trembled—she was truly hurt. Worried. Unhappy. She didn't know what to do with the emotions cascading through her.

He did, but he shouldn't. Shouldn't wrap his arms around her. Shouldn't kiss her as he had done the other night. But somehow,
shouldn't
became
did,
as he slid his arm around her silk-clad waist, and drew her close.

She pressed her palms against his chest. She turned her head away.

“Samantha,” he whispered, and bending his head, he found her lips.

Sweet. She was so sweet. So surprised, so giving, so willing, so inexperienced . . . he broke off the
kiss, as if that would make him better, more honorable, when he was being the world's worst cad. Debauching his children's governess, and imagining ever greater debauchery.

He almost chuckled. He had been a career soldier. He would have told anyone he did not own an imagination, but it seemed he did. As he held her form against his, letting the warmth of her soak into him, feeling the soft mounds of her breasts, seeing the sculpted shoulders, his imagination showed him, in vivid color, the tangle of two bodies on a bed. He would hold her hips, and gently press himself into her, leading her on a tender path to passion. Making her a woman—his woman.

“Colonel, please.” Samantha sounded stifled. “Someone will see.”

Her hands were at her side now, as if she couldn't stand to touch him. Her chin was up, and she looked . . . angry.

Angry?

“And if someone sees, it won't matter to you. You're a respected member of society. I'm not. I'm a governess, and before that I was”—she caught her breath—“even less respectable. Please. I know I can't stay here now, but don't make it impossible for me to obtain a post at all.”

He let her go as if she burned his hands. “You're right. I apologize.”

She brushed at her skirt, and watched her hands as she did it. “So you agree I must leave?”

No. No, he didn't agree to that at all. But if she stayed . . . he couldn't fool himself. If she stayed, she'd be in his bed, if he had to carry her there.

“Perhaps it would be better to ask if the children will be getting a new mother, in which case a governess is . . . well, she would want to choose the governess.” Samantha stepped away from him. “I assume Lady Marchant will be the lucky woman.”

He still didn't answer. Now was not the time. First, he had to take care of the Featherstonebaugh matter. Not that he could do anything tonight . . .

But no. He had to be sensible. In measured tones, he said, “Lady Marchant fills every requirement on my list, and she has proved to be a hostess of incomparable skill. She is my logical mate.”

“Well.” Samantha smiled tightly. “Then I wish you all the happiness in the world.” She turned jerkily and strode down the veranda, down the stairs, and out of sight on the grounds.

He fumbled for a cigar and lit it. His list of bridal requirements might as well be dust. On paper, Teresa
was
his logical mate. She fulfilled her duties admirably. She looked beautiful. William liked her. And he thought about wedding her with the same pleasure he experienced when he thought of going to a barber-surgeon.

Of course, in all truthfulness, Teresa seemed to think the same of him. She spent less and less time at his side, preferring to gossip with her friends, or supervise the servants—or avoid Duncan with such assiduousness that William wanted to laugh. His friends were infatuated with each other. God help them.

Very well. When Lord and Lady Featherstonebaugh were captured and Pashenka was on his way to Russia loaded with false information, he
would propose to Samantha. Then he would marry her. That was the only possible resolution to this battle.

In the doorway behind him, he heard the rustle of silk.

Stepping onto the veranda, Teresa said, “I have had, in my day, a number of touching declarations, but that is the one I want framed. Perhaps I'll cross-stitch it.
She is my logical mate.
That gives me such a warm feeling inside.”

Teresa was pleased to see he was at least smart enough to say nothing except, “Teresa . . .”

A most unusual impulse had come over her. It was noble. It was foolish. It would result in the loss of a great prize, both financial and social, and she didn't like the impulse at all. But she was tired of being clever and doing what everyone thought she should do. She was tired of all the proper men bobbing about her, wanting a piece of her fortune. She was tired of scheming and planning to save herself from a fortune hunter by marrying a fortune, when fortune hunters were always so much more charming than suitable gentlemen.

She lifted her hand. “Oh, don't! Don't ‘
Teresa
' me. I don't know if you're going to propose marriage to me, or not propose marriage to me, but let me lift you off the hook. I don't want you. I won't take you. I already married one man who didn't love me. He liked me. He enjoyed me. But he didn't love me. He loved his military instead.” Taking William's cigar, she took a puff of it. “You are so damned madly in love with that governess of yours—”

William drew in a sharp breath.

She didn't know whether it was because she swore, or smoked, or because she told him the facts. She didn't care. “You can scarcely keep your mind on your business—which, by the way, I have figured out.” She took another puff. “Because I'm not as stupid as I pretend to be. In fact, I'm smarter than almost anyone here—and I'm tired of hiding that, too.”

“My business?” he questioned cautiously.

She whispered, “The spying. Don't worry. I won't tell anyone.” Raising her voice again, she said, “But I will tell you—go and get Miss Prendregast. You're an honorable man with honorable ideas of what's right and what's wrong and who should marry whom. You're so damned honorable you'd ask me to marry you because you thought it was the right thing to do, and you wouldn't take Miss Prendregast as your mistress because that was the wrong thing to do, and I'd wake up every morning knowing you didn't love me. Every time we rolled around in the sheets, I'd know you were pretending I was her. And I'm too good for that kind of treatment.” She gestured widely with the cigar. “She's in her guest house, sulking or crying or, knowing her, trying to decide if she should go after you. I'd suggest you get over there and help her make up her mind.”

He stared at her. At the cigar. At her sardonic expression.

He smiled. He picked up her hand and kissed the back. He bowed, vaulted over the railing, and disappeared into the night.

She snorted and took another puff of the cigar. What an idiot she was. An idiot, and she didn't care a whit.

“Well.” A man's deep voice spoke from the deepest shadows near the house. “That was
the
most interesting scene I've ever had the pleasure to witness.”

Swinging around, she watched with a sinking heart as a tall, dark shape moved toward her. Ruddy ‘ell. It was
him
.

Duncan towered over her. “And here I've heard you brag you always get your man.”

The light from the windows softly lit his face, and she could see the dimples in both his cheeks. The blackguard. “How long have you been listening?”

“I followed you out here, of course. I have rather a vested interest in the results of that little talk.”

“Really? What interest could you have in whether I marry William?”

“Then you couldn't marry me.”

She sucked on the cigar so hard she brought on a fit of coughing.

Duncan, in another one of his spasms of ungentlemanly behavior, smacked her on the back. “Give me that.” He removed the cigar from her fingers and tossed it into the bushes. Taking her shoulders, he leaned over and kissed her.

She shoved at him and, as hard as she could, slapped him across the cheek. She hated him. God, how she hated him!

As she wound up for another shot, he grabbed her wrist. “That, my darling, was a mistake.” Wrapping his arm around her waist, he pulled her
hard against him and bent her backward.

And kissed her—a full-blown, open-mouthed, passionate raid.

She tried to scold, but his tongue was there, moving in and out in a brazen imitation of intercourse. He let go of her hand and cradled her neck. Off-balance, she grabbed for his shoulders. The railing dug into her thighs, and she wanted to be incensed. About the position, about the indignity, about his presumption.

But she couldn't. Not when a thrill swept across her skin unlike any thrill she'd ever experienced before. This was no gentlemanly buss. This was everything any woman had ever dreamed of, and it was happening to her. Eyes closed, she savored the encounter. She wanted to rub herself against him, over and over, getting pleasure from the mere contact with him. But he held her too firmly. He controlled her every movement, keeping her between him and the railing. When he came up for air, her sanity briefly surfaced. But he dipped his head again, sliding his open mouth along her jawline, taking her earlobe between his teeth and biting lightly. She jumped. She gasped. “That hurt!”