Yours Until Dawn (18 page)

Samantha’s gaze dropped to her sturdy leather half-boots. They were even more scuffed and dusty than usual from tromping across the park’s grounds in such a fine snit. She glanced back at the slippers, biting her lip. Surely there wouldn’t be any harm in just trying them on. After all, what were the odds that they might actually fit? Snatching up a buttonhook, Samantha plopped down on the rug and began to unfasten her boots.

Samantha had grown accustomed to clomping around the mansion in her practical boots. With the delicate, low-heeled slippers laced around her ankles, she felt as if she were floating down the long curving staircase. She stole a glance at her reflection in the mirrored hall tree as she passed through the foyer. She wouldn’t have been surprised to find a pair of gossamer wings sprouting from the creamy shoulders half bared by the elegant dress.

With its graceful skirt billowing about her ankles, she didn’t feel like Gabriel’s sensible nurse, but like a foolish young girl with a heart full of hope. Only she knew how dangerous that hope could be. As she turned toward the dining room, Samantha drew her homely spectacles from the pocket of the dress and defiantly slipped them on.

Although there was not a servant in sight, she could not shake the sensation of being watched, of doors softly opening and shutting behind her. As she passed the drawing room, she would have sworn she heard a wistful sigh, then Elsie’s delighted giggle, hastily muffled. She whirled around to find the drawing room doors standing ajar. The darkened room appeared to be deserted.

She arrived at the dining room just as the clock on the landing began to chime eight o’clock. The imposing mahogany doors were closed. Samantha hesitated, unsure of her welcome. Gabriel must have felt like a beggar at his own feast as he awaited her summons a few nights ago.

Mustering her nerve, she straightened her stole, then knocked firmly on the door.

“Come in.”

Samantha accepted the husky invitation, only to find the young prince from the portrait standing at the head of the table in a flickering pool of candlelight.

My darling Cecily,

I should warn you that you encourage my boldness at your own risk…

T
he man standing at the head of the long table could have comfortably graced any dining or drawing room in London. From the glittering diamond stickpin securing the immaculate folds of his snowy white cravat to the sprightly leather tassels on his second finest pair of Hessians, he was a sight to make any valet beam with pride. His ruffled shirtfront and cuffs were perfectly accented by a deep blue cutaway tailcoat and a pair of buff-colored pantaloons that hugged his lean hips like a second skin.

His unfashionably long hair had been smoothed back into a black velvet queue, baring the strong line of his jaw and the striking planes of his face. The candle glow softened the harsh edges of his scar, cloaked the emptiness of his gaze.

Samantha’s throat tightened with a yearning she could not afford to feel.

“I hope I didn’t keep you waiting, my lord,” she said, bobbing a curtsy he could not see. “I had planned to dine in the servants’ hall. Where I belong.”

The right corner of his mouth twitched. “That won’t be necessary. You’re not my nurse tonight. You’re my guest.”

With painstaking care, Gabriel moved to the chair at his right elbow and drew it out, arching one tawny eyebrow in invitation. Samantha hesitated, knowing she would be far safer if she remained at the foot of the table, well out of his reach. But Gabriel’s expression was so boyishly hopeful that she found herself sweeping around the table to join him. As he leaned over to guide her chair effortlessly beneath the table, she was acutely aware of the strength in his muscular arms, the heat radiating from his broad chest.

He sank into his own chair. “I hope you don’t mind the Worcester china. I’m afraid the Wedgwood met with an unfortunate accident.”

Samantha’s own lips twitched. “How very tragic.” Peering around, she realized that the sideboard was empty and the linen-draped table was set with a variety of dishes, all within easy reach. She eyed a luscious platter of fresh strawberries. “I don’t see anyone to attend us. Have you given the rest of the servants the night off as well?”

“I thought they deserved a respite from their duties. They’ve been very diligent this week.”

“I should say so. It must have taken hours of work just to make this dress.”

“Fortunately, there’s so little fabric involved in the new styles that Meg was able to whip up the gown while suffering only one or two sleepless nights.”

“And just how many sleepless nights did you suffer, my lord?”

Instead of answering, Gabriel reached for the bottle of claret that rested between them. Samantha snatched up her napkin, preparing for the worst, but his hand closed neatly around the graceful neck of the bottle. She watched in open-mouthed surprise as he poured a healthy splash of the ruby liquid into both of their goblets without spilling a single drop on the pristine tablecloth.

“I can see the servants aren’t the only ones who have been diligent this week,” she observed softly, taking a sip of the rich red wine.

“May I serve you?” he asked, reaching for the spoon in a silver chafing dish of chicken fricassee.

“Certainly,” she murmured, watching in fascination as he doled a precise portion onto both of their plates.

Disdaining fork and knife, he picked up his own spoon and began to eat. “So am I to assume the gown meets with your satisfaction?”

Samantha smoothed her skirt. “It’s nearly as lovely as it is impractical. How did Meg manage to size it so perfectly?”

“She has a good eye for such things. She said you weren’t much taller than my youngest sister, Honoria.” A smile flirted with his lips. “Of course, had I gone by Beckwith’s measurements, you could have worn the garment as a tent.”

“What of the slippers? Am I to assume you have an equally gifted blacksmith?”

“There are advantages to living so close to London, you know. It does Beckwith’s heart good to make the occasional trip to the shops on Oxford Street. And it wasn’t difficult for Mrs. Philpot to sneak into your room and trace one of your boots while you were dining downstairs.”

“The servants at Fairchild Park are a crafty lot, just like their master. You must know that I can’t possibly keep these lovely things. It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Oh, come, now. I didn’t flaunt convention that badly. You’ll notice that I didn’t include a single undergarment.”

“That’s just as well,” Samantha replied sweetly, tucking a tasty morsel of chicken between her lips. “Since I’m not wearing any.”

Gabriel’s spoon clattered to the table. He took a huge gulp of the wine, but still seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. “I must say that I’ve never regretted my infirmity more,” he finally managed to rasp out. He cleared his throat, his expression sobering. “I hope you’ll accept more than my gifts. I hope you’ll accept my apology for behaving so abominably the other night.”

As Samantha watched his hand pat the tablecloth, patiently searching for the spoon, her smile faded. The spoon was only a few inches from his searching fingers, but it might as well have been in the next room. “I’m afraid I’m the one who should be begging your forgiveness. I hadn’t realized how challenging such a simple task as eating must be for you.”

He shrugged. “A knife and fork are rather tricky to manage. If I can’t
feel
the food, I can’t
find
the food.” A thoughtful frown creased his brow. “Why don’t I show you?”

Shoving his chair back, he rose, napkin in hand, and circled behind her chair. Samantha’s pulse quickened as he leaned over her. His claret-warmed breath stirred the tiny hairs at her nape, making her regret sweeping her hair up into a frivolous topknot.

Before she could protest, he had reached around to draw off her spectacles. Working strictly by feel, he rolled the napkin into a band and gently draped it over her eyes, securing it behind her head with a loose knot.

Without the candlelight to guide her, Samantha had only Gabriel to rely on—his warmth, his scent, his touch. As the backs of his fingers grazed her throat, inciting a helpless shiver, she realized just how vulnerable she was to him.

“Are you to have your revenge by making me eat chicken fricassee with my fingers?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t be so cruel. Not when we have the blind feeding the blind.” She heard the scrape of platters as he reached around her to push one dish away and draw another one near. “Try this,” he said, pressing a fork into her hand.

Feeling more than a little ridiculous, Samantha took a stab toward the dish in front of her. She wasn’t sure what her target was supposed to be because it kept rolling away from her. After chasing it around the dish several times, she finally managed to impale the elusive thing. As she lifted the fork, the succulent aroma of fresh strawberry drifted to her nose. Her mouth started to water. The hard-won morsel was only an inch from her lips when it tumbled off of her fork to land with an impudent plop on the table.

“Blast it all!” she swore, waiting for Gabriel’s mocking laughter to ring out.

But he simply reached around and gently removed the fork from her hand. “You see, Miss Wickersham, when one is deprived of one’s sight, one is forced to rely on other senses. Such as scent…” As the tart fragrance of the strawberry flooded her nostrils, Samantha would have almost sworn she felt Gabriel’s nose graze the side of her throat in a whisper-soft caress. “Touch…” His warm fingers curled possessively around her nape as he brushed the strawberry back and forth across her tingling lips, coaxing them apart. His voice deepened. “Taste…”

Seized by a delicious languor, she could not stop herself from opening for him. Not since the serpent approached Eve in the Garden had a woman been so tempted by forbidden fruit. Accepting her unspoken invitation, Gabriel slid the plump strawberry past her parted lips, where its sweet flesh exploded on her tongue. A low moan of satisfaction escaped her.

“More?” he offered, his smoky voice as enticing as the devil’s in her ear.

Samantha wanted more. Much more. But she shook her head and pushed his hand away, afraid he might arouse a hunger that could never be satisfied. “I’m not a child,” she said, deliberately mimicking him. “And I won’t be fed like one.”

“Very well. Suit yourself.” She heard him shuffling dishes again, smacking his lips as he tasted each one in turn. “There,” he finally said, returning the fork to her hand. “Try that.”

Although the silky note in his voice should have warned her, Samantha boldly plunged the fork toward the dish, determined to prove she could capture whatever it contained on her first try. She gasped as her arm sank wrist-deep into a bowl of chilled goop.

“Étienne’s syllabubs are quite legendary,” Gabriel murmured in her ear. “He’s been known to spend hours whipping the cream until he gets it to just the right consistency.”

“Why, you sneaky wretch!” Samantha dragged her hand out of the sticky treat. “You did that on purpose.”

She was fumbling for her napkin when Gabriel’s hand closed over her wrist. “Allow me,” he said, bringing her hand to his mouth.

Samantha was unprepared for the shock of her forefinger sliding between Gabriel’s lips. The moist heat of his mouth was a stark contrast to the chill of the syllabub. He licked and sucked the rich cream from her finger with a sensual abandon that melted her defenses. It was only too easy to imagine him employing that same skillful tongue on other, even more vulnerable, parts of her body.

Samantha snatched back her hand, her cheeks burning beneath the blindfold. “When you invited me to sup with you, my lord, I wasn’t aware that I was to be the main course.”

“On the contrary, Miss Wickersham. You’d make a much more delectable dessert.”

“Because of my sweet nature?” she could not resist asking in her most withering tone.

He laughed aloud. Unable to resist witnessing that rare occurrence, Samantha dragged off the makeshift blindfold. Gabriel was sprawled back in his chair, a crooked grin deepening the beguiling crinkles around his eyes.

For the rest of the evening, he was the ideal dinner companion, giving her a glimpse of the legendary charm that had tempted so many women to vie for his affections. After they’d finished off the rest of the syllabub, using their spoons instead of their fingers, he rose and offered her his hand.

Samantha dabbed at her lips with her napkin, afraid that she might follow wherever he would lead. “It’s getting rather late, my lord. I really should retire.”

“Don’t go yet. I’ve something to show you.”

Unable to resist that earnest plea, Samantha rose and slipped her hand into his, her wariness increasing. Using his walking stick to guide them, he escorted her from the dining room and down a long, shadowy corridor to a pair of gilded doors she had never noticed before.

Groping for the brass handles, he threw open both doors at once.

“Oh, my!” Samantha breathed, gazing upon a vision straight out of her imagination.

It was the ballroom she had discovered during her very first exploration of the mansion. But instead of looking down upon it from the gallery, she was poised at the very heart of its splendor. Every candle in the brass chandeliers had been lit, casting a shimmering glow over the blueveined Venetian tiles. A row of French windows crowned with the graceful arches of glazed fan-lights overlooked the moonlit garden.