said. “We have work to do if we’re to have everything ready for the summer party in a fortnight.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott waved her hand again as if the effort amounted to nothing. “That is well in hand, thanks to all your work in the intervening months. You have done quite well in that regard, so you have no reason to avoid tea tomorrow. I have already accepted for you.”
Heat licked up her. It seemed no matter how old she was, her life was not her own. Well, perhaps it was time to make it her own.
“Since you accepted, you can explain why I don’t show up,” Samantha informed her chaperone, pushing open the door and marching into her room.
She thought the lady would wait to continue the argument until after Samantha had changed, but Mrs. Dallsten Walcott followed her into the bedchamber, ignoring the maid who came hurrying from the dressing room.
“But he’s the heir to an earldom,” her chaperone protested. “Surely you can see the benefits of such a match!”
The benefits were evident—the combination of their lands to provide a larger estate for both houses, the fulfillment of her father’s will. She could live among her beloved fells, surrounded by friends and family.
But she would have cheated Jamie out of finding a bride who could truly love him. Surely her way was better! Help me be strong, heavenly Father!
She pasted on a smile as she raised her arms to allow her maid to help her out of her soiled habit. “I’m sure Lord Wentworth will make a wonderful husband, for the right young lady. I am not that lady.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott went so far as to stamp her foot, and the maid cringed.
“Oh, how can you be so stubborn?” her chaperone cried. “Adele let this chance slip through her fingers. She was engaged to the former heir to Kendrick Hall, and she let him get away. Do not make the same mistake!”
Samantha had nearly been engaged to the former heir as well, something she could never forget. Lord Gregory Wentworth had been years older and a sophisticated gentleman who’d had years to master London Society. She’d been fascinated from the moment he had been introduced to her. He’d seemed so attentive, so sure of himself and her.
But she’d later learned that his pursuit of her had been dictated by his mentor, a villain intent on treason who had already hurt her family. The former Lord Wentworth’s role in his powerful mentor’s evil plan had been to keep her cousin Vaughn so busy worrying about Lord Wentworth’s courtship of Samantha that Vaughn forgot his quest to find the villain who had murdered her father, his beloved uncle.
The plan might have worked but for two things. Vaughn hadn’t been jealous; he’d already fallen in love with the villain’s daughter, of all people! And Lord Wentworth had fallen in love as well, with Samantha. The knowledge that he would put her before his mentor’s plans had driven the villain to kill him. Samantha could not help feeling that she should have done something, anything, to save Lord Wentworth. Perhaps, if she’d been more observant, if she hadn’t been ruled by her emotions, if she hadn’t been so fixated on gathering her third proposal, she might have discovered his connection to the treason plot and acted before he’d been killed.
Now she turned her back on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott as the maid pulled off her habit.
“The gravest mistake, madam, would be for me to marry,” she said, gaze on the far pink wall. “And nothing you or anyone else says will change that.”
Though she heard Mrs. Dallsten Walcott stalk from the room, Samantha was fairly sure the argument wasn’t over. But she knew she’d already won. And lost.
* * *
Will reacted with nearly as much determination when he was informed later that day about Jamie’s invitation to have Lady Everard join them for tea. He had returned from his ride sure that he could find a way to uncover the secrets he saw lurking in the lady’s deep brown eyes, if only to protect his family. That effort would require him to meet her again, gain her trust. But he had not expected his son to steal a march on him.
“And what exactly is the purpose of this event?” he asked Jamie as they sat in the library discussing estate business.
Jamie shrugged, lounging with great satisfaction in the leather-upholstered chair. “I told you—I want to reacquaint myself with our neighbors. Tea seemed a good way to start.”
“Will you pour or shall I?” Will quipped.
Jamie colored. “Mrs. Dallsten Walcott will be joining us. She can pour. And I would be delighted for you to attend, Father. Unless you have better things to do.”
Nothing more important than protecting his son from possibly predatory females. And attending would give him a chance to study Lady Everard more closely.
“Of course I’ll attend,” he told Jamie. “This is my home. I’d insult the ladies by not making an appearance.” He slapped his son on the knee. “Count on it. I’ll be there to support you.”
Jamie nodded, but somehow he did not look comforted.
He looked even less happy when he and Will gathered in the withdrawing room the next day to await their guests. Will’s mother had designed the formal room, from the elaborate pattern of the inlaid wood floor to the gilded chevrons on the white paneling of the lower walls and white marble fireplace. The creamy floral wreaths on the red silk wall hangings were mirrored in the sculpted wreaths edging the high ceiling.
Will hadn’t paid the decor all that much attention growing up. Peg had hated the room, particularly the snowy carpet in the center with its red silk fringe. She’d been afraid to walk on it lest she soil it. He had to agree it was rather impractical. He should have removed it years ago, but it reminded him of Peg.
Today Jamie refused to sit on any of the elegant white, curved-back chairs or sofa. He paced from the windows overlooking the fells to the doorway into the corridor, peering out each and pausing only long enough to tug at various articles of clothing. Already his cravat was wilting, his blue patterned waistcoat was rumpled, and his tasseled boots had lost their shine. Will felt for him.
“You’ll be fine,” he offered, stretching out his own tooled leather boots where he sat near the hearth. He hadn’t dressed the part of the earl today, choosing instead a tweed coat and chamois trousers. But the boots had been with him too many years to forego. Far more elaborate than the ones his contemporaries generally favored, they were as soft as butter and as comfortable as old slippers. He’d had them made his first week in Constantinople, and they’d been with him ever since.
When Jamie didn’t respond, Will glanced up. His son was frozen on the carpet, and their guests were at the door.
“Lady Everard and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott,” said their butler, a relict as formal as the room.
Will could understand why his son was gaping. He was hard-pressed not to gape himself. Samantha, Lady Everard, had been a vision in her cerulean ball gown. Now it seemed as if joy had entered the room. Her pale muslin gown was covered in a fitted blue jacket that brought out the gold of her hair. The collar was a frivolous affair with multiple points edged in lace; it was as whimsical as her smile.
He found himself smiling back and forced a more serious look. He’d met women from every part of the Ottoman Empire and places in between, from dusky-skinned princesses to platinum-haired grand duchesses. Why
