leaned his hip against the sofa, trying not to overreact. Neither his son nor Will’s consequence would thank him for it. “And did she return your sentiments?”
Jamie gazed out the door. “She wrote back, but she never claimed anything more than friendship.”
Relief was palpable. He could only hope the lady would remain nothing more than a friend. “And may I ask your intentions now?”
Jamie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I should have known better than to try, but I thought perhaps she might see me differently with her back against the wall.”
She felt trapped? Was that why she’d been crying? Despite his intentions, Will straightened and came around the sofa to join his son by the door. “What do you mean? What’s troubling her?”
Jamie flushed. “Apparently she doesn’t wish me to speak of it. I cannot abuse her trust, Father. I hope you understand.”
Will was afraid he understood all too well. Jamie was in love with Samantha Everard. He was tempted to put it down to calf-love—that tempestuous emotion that sometimes plagued the youth. But he had not forgotten the feelings he’d had for Jamie’s mother, and at an equally young age. He would never have claimed that was anything short of love.
“You need say no more,” Will promised him. Indeed, at the moment, he was less interested in hearing from his son and more interested in hearing from the lady herself. But he needed no audience save hers.
“Perhaps you should return to the party,” he suggested to Jamie. “You are the guest of honor, after all.”
Jamie nodded, but Will was certain his son would take little joy from the remainder of the evening.
He escorted Jamie back to the hall; introduced him to the wife of a local baronet, a lady who would in no way affect his emotions as they danced; ignored yet another imperious look from his hostess; and darted for the entryway. If Lady Everard was waiting for her carriage, he wanted to catch her before she departed.
He had never met any of the Everards personally, but what he suspected would be enough to give most men pause. He’d been in the process of marrying and mourning when Arthur, Lord Everard, had moved his wife and young daughter into Dallsten Manor, the estate to the south of the Kendrick seat.
While he was away trying to forget his lost love, Samantha Everard had grown into a beautiful woman, one who had gathered an offer of marriage from more than one gentleman, he’d heard. Yet despite her wealth, charm and beauty, she had accepted no man as husband. He wasn’t sure why and feared the reason would only hurt his son. He could understand Jamie’s infatuation, but he could not allow it to go any further.
As he had hoped, she was waiting in the entryway. One of his footmen must have retrieved her evening cloak, for the black velvet that draped her made her seem all too slender, almost ethereal, as if one of the fairies rumored to live in the forests nearby had come to visit.
She certainly had more energy than a mythical creature. Instead of standing regally as a lady normally would, she was striding back and forth in front of the white marble columns that separated the entry from the wood-paneled main corridor of the house. She moved so quickly, in fact, he wondered that her kid leather slippers didn’t wear out against the black-and-white marble tiles.
But at least her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall proved she was the only guest waiting. With the late supper soon to be served, none of his other visitors were ready to depart. The only other people in the space were the footmen who stood at attention in their coats and breeches on either side of the wide-paneled door that fronted the drive, and Will knew he could count on their discretion.
“Lady Everard,” he said, approaching her, and she pulled herself up in obvious surprise, skirts swirling about her ankles like a gentle tide. The smile that brightened her face stopped his movement, his thoughts and very nearly his breath.
“Lord Kendrick,” she said. “You didn’t have to abandon your other guests for me. Your staff is wondrously efficient. I expect my carriage any moment.”
He thought the footmen stood a little taller at her praise. He wanted to stand a little taller as she gazed up at him. This was ridiculous! He wasn’t an eighteen-year-old lad on his first year in Society. And he feared something far darker lay beneath that pleasing smile.
“I wished a word with you before you left,” he said, lowering his voice. “I must ask your intentions concerning my son.”
Her golden brows shot up. “My intentions? Isn’t it generally the lady’s father who asks that question, of a suitor?”
She was right of course, and she could not know he’d just asked Jamie the same question.
“Generally,” he acknowledged. “But these are unusual circumstances. The gentleman is usually the elder and therefore more experienced.”
Now her brows came down, and he felt as if a thundercloud was gathering. “Are you implying I am too experienced for your son, my lord?”
In some matters, he very much feared that for the truth. Oh, he had no doubt she was still a lady; her three guardians would have horsewhipped any man who had tried to change that. But she had seen things Jamie had yet to discover, things Will hoped he never would.
And thank You, Lord, for that!
“I merely meant,” he said, “that you have had more time in Society than Lord Wentworth, and you must know he isn’t ready for a serious courtship.”
She cocked her head, curls falling against her creamy neck, and he had to pull his gaze away. “So you’d prefer he merely dally with me,” she mused, though her voice held an edge, “perhaps increase his reputation with the ladies while sullying mine. Heaven forbid that he actually marry me.”
This was getting worse by the minute! Will tugged down his waistcoat and raised his chin, trying to look every inch the Earl of Kendrick even while using his best diplomat’s voice. “Suggesting my son dally with you would be most ungentlemanly,” he assured her. “But if it’s a husband you’re seeking, I should point out that as a baroness in your own right you could do far better than Lord Wentworth.”
He thought that would appease her. It was the truth, after all. Jamie might be the heir to an earldom, but only Will and his steward knew how tight the purse strings had become. Unless Will was very careful, his son would inherit nothing but an empty title.
But Lady Everard did not appear appeased. “Your son,” she said, each word precise with tension, “is a paragon—clever, loyal and kind. I assure you, I could do far worse.”
Was she intent on capturing Jamie, then? He ought to feel protective of his son, annoyed by her presumption, aghast that she would parade her intentions before him like a challenge. But the emotion striding to the front of his mind was nothing short of jealousy.
He drew himself up, shoved his feelings down deep. “I must ask you to leave my son alone. I will not countenance a marriage between you.”
She blinked, then a laugh bubbled up, soft and lilting. Another time, he was certain he would have been enchanted.
“How funny,” she said, steepling her fingers in front of her lips. “I would have thought a gentleman who had seen so much of the world would have acquired more sense along the way.”
