the white marble fireplace, and the lamp on his desk cast a golden glow over the room.
But in the absence of the noise from the party another sound caught his attention—a soft whimper and sniff. Will took a step deeper into the room. “Who’s in here?”
He heard the gasp, and then that golden head popped into sight over the back of the satin-striped sofa that faced the fire. Tears wet her fair cheeks, and her rosy lips were parted in surprise.
The look propelled him forward. Will strode around the sofa, went down on one knee before her. “Tell me who made you cry, and I promise he will regret it even more than I do.”
She smiled through her tears, such a brave upturn of those lovely lips. “You are too kind, sir, but I fear there’s nothing that can be done.”
He knew the feeling. There was nothing that could be done when his wife had died moments after bringing their son into the world. There was nothing that could be done when his older brother had been murdered, and Will had had to return home to comfort his father and take up his new role as heir. There was nothing that could be done when a bout of influenza had carried off his father two years ago.
I’m so sick of hearing that nothing can be done, Lord!
He took her gloved hands and held them in his own. Her fingers were long and slender, but he felt a supple strength in them. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “if you were to tell me the problem, we could find an amicable solution.”
She searched his gaze as if looking for hope. Those dark brown eyes reminded him of Saharan wells, giving restful relief from heat and travel. She had every right to pull back from his grip, order him to mind his own affairs. He only hoped she could tell that his intentions were honorable.
And yet his lips seemed to have other ideas. Before he even knew it, he was leaning closer. Like filings to a magnet, she drew closer as well, until he caught the scent of roses and their faces were mere inches apart.
The library door opened with a crack as loud as thunder, and Will jerked back. The lady stared at him, two roses blooming in her cheeks, and for an odd moment, Will had the insane notion that they were the source of the captivating scent.
Jamie strode into the room, gaze lighting on the sofa. “Oh, good. You’re here.”
Will stood, even as the lady rushed to her feet.
“Of course I’m here,” she said, turning to face his son as she smoothed the wrinkles from the blue of her gown. “Isn’t this where you said you’d meet me?”
Will felt as if he’d stepped under one of the icy waterfalls that plunged from the fells. So that was why she was at the party. She’d been searching the hall, for Jamie. She was waiting in the library, for Jamie.
Was she crying over his son as well?
“I suggest,” he said to Jamie, pulse pounding in his temple, “that you explain yourself. Immediately.”
Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for his son hurried around the sofa to take up his place at the lady’s side. With Jamie standing so close, it was apparent the woman was older than he was, somewhere between twenty and thirty, Will would have guessed. What would a woman who had to have seen much more of Society want with his untried son? His unease ratcheted up another notch.
“It’s all right, Father,” Jamie said, raising his chin as if to defend himself and the lady next to him. “I asked her to join us.”
“Father?” The word came out in a squeak, and all color fled from the woman’s face. She turned on Jamie. “You never said anything about your father.”
What was all this? Was this woman less than a lady? Why was she here? What hold did she have on his son?
And what hold had she already gained on Will that he wished so desperately for her to be innocent?
* * *
Samantha, Lady Everard, wanted to dash across the colorful Oriental carpet at her feet and escape. Never in the eight years since she’d first made her come out in Society had she ever been so embarrassed. Given the antics of her three guardians and cousins, that was saying a very great deal. She glared at her longtime friend Jamie, who immediately quailed.
“Samantha, Lady Everard,” he mumbled, “may I present my father, William Wentworth, Earl of Kendrick?”
Samantha dipped a curtsey, lowering her gaze to the shine of the earl’s evening pumps. “An honor, my lord.”
When she straightened and looked up, she found he had taken a step back, and his face had stiffened. She wasn’t sure what had upset him, her presence in his home or her friendship with Jamie. But she could feel his disapproval radiating out of him with as much heat as she’d felt when he’d leaned toward her.
For a moment there she’d thought he might actually kiss her, this stranger who had stumbled upon her. That wasn’t altogether surprising. She never had the least trouble turning a gentleman up sweet. She simply hadn’t found one she was willing to marry.
And knowing who he was assured her that he’d never offer her marriage. If the stories were true, he’d already won and lost his true love. The local ladies must be in mourning at the thought of a handsome earl on the shelf. She’d certainly noticed him when she’d first entered the hall and had begun searching for Jamie. A head taller than most of the men in the room, he was difficult to miss.
But there was something else about him—that sable hair waving around his head as if it refused to be tamed, that lift of one corner of his mouth, the light in his green eyes that said he was game for adventure.
Not, unfortunately, at the moment. Unless she missed her guess, he was now thoroughly annoyed.
“I believe we agreed Lady Everard would not attend,” he said to Jamie.
What was this? Would he ban her from his home? Did he hold her in even greater contempt than she’d expected? Samantha glanced at her friend in time to see him frown.
“I thought she couldn’t attend,” Jamie protested. “I didn’t know she had returned to Evendale until I stopped by the manor to give Mrs. Dallsten Walcott my opinion on the silver we intended to borrow.”
Ah, that was it. She probably made them uneven at table. “So I arrived unexpectedly and late as well,” Samantha summarized, returning her gaze to her host and offering him her most charming smile. “Forgive me, my lord. If it’s any conciliation, I didn’t intend to stay long, just until I spoke to Jamie, I mean Lord Wentworth.”
Her honest speech should have earned her a pardon at least, but Lord Kendrick’s green gaze only darkened.
Beside her, Jamie grimaced. “James. You promised.”
She had promised, but she found it hard to call him that. Though his height had surpassed hers by a good six inches, he was still eight years her junior, and just as likely to remind her of the boy she’d left behind when she’d moved to London.
“James,” she said with a smile to appease him, but she felt his father stiffen. Whoever would have thought the famous world traveller William Wentworth would be so censorious, or so devastatingly handsome? Jamie—James—must take after his
