Regina Scott (18 page)

Her cheeks were heating. “You didn’t accost me. You won the race fairly, and you claimed your prize.”

She thought he smiled, but he bent to retrieve a stone from the path before she could be sure. “The prize you offered was a kiss to your hand. I took more.”

Perhaps even her heart. But she couldn’t tell him that. “I didn’t protest.”

“No, you didn’t. But I never gave you a chance.” He slung the stone into the pond. To Samantha’s surprise, it bounced across the water three times before sinking.

“How did you do that?” she demanded.

Will’s gaze swung from the water to her. “Did none of your cousins ever teach you to skip a rock?”

“Not one,” she said, thoroughly annoyed with them. “I don’t know what they were thinking. Show me how to do it.”

He started laughing. “Madam, I brought you out here to explain my actions.”

Samantha waved a hand. “You did. I accepted your apology. Can we move on?”

He cocked his head. “Is it that simple for you?”

“Nothing about our friendship is simple,” she replied. “But that doesn’t mean I intend to wallow in it. You have chosen not to marry. I have chosen not to marry. Let’s leave it at that.” She bent and picked up a stone. “Now, show me.”

Will shook his head. “You are an amazing woman, Samantha Everard. Very well. We will remain friends.”

For some reason the answer disappointed her nearly as much as her cousins’ lack of teaching on the fine art of rock skipping.

“You truly wish to learn to skip a rock, at this very moment?” he asked.

In answer she merely pushed the rock toward him and raised her brows. He could not know how badly she needed a distraction.

He laughed again. “All right. How could I claim myself a gentleman and refuse you?” He glanced around, then leaned down to pick up a rock. “To begin with, you need a certain kind of stone. See here, how it’s relatively flat?”

Samantha peered at the smooth oblong stone. “Oh, yes.” The scent of Will’s cologne washed over her, clean and crisp with a hint of the exotic, the perfect combination for her diplomat-adventurer. She had to stop herself from drinking in the scent like water.

Will angled the rock in his hand. He had long fingers, strong fingers. She remembered waking to the feel of them, tender, on her cheek when she’d been struck. She forced herself to focus on his words.

“Hold the stone between your thumb and fingers and release it with your wrist. Like this.” He flicked the stone at the water. It leaped four times before sinking.

“Wonderful!” Samantha cried. She cast about until she found a rock similar to what Will had described and picked it up. Aiming at the water, she let it fly. It sank immediately.

She stepped away from the pond. “What did I do wrong?”

“I’m not sure,” Will admitted. “Let’s try again.”

He turned to look for a stone, and she did likewise. She could feel him nearby, hear the crunch of his beautiful boots against the path. Perhaps it would be enough to take comfort and pleasure from his company. She didn’t need to hold his strong hand as they walked, know the touch of his lips against hers. They could be friends, just as he said.

They regrouped, and Will demonstrated his throwing technique again. Samantha watched his fingers cup the rock, his arm move with the motion of throwing. She shook her head as the rock ricocheted off the surface three times.

“I’m certain that’s exactly what I did,” she exclaimed.

“Here,” Will said. He stood behind her, wrapped an arm about her and cradled her hand in his. “Hold your hand thus. Do you feel the difference?”

Oh, but did she feel the difference. Her heart had sped, her cheeks were heating again, and the rock suddenly weighed ten stone. “I think so,” she managed.

She could feel his body behind hers as he drew back her arm.

“Ready?” he asked.

She would never be ready—to let him go, to let go of her feelings. But if she wanted to be free of the past, she had to do both.

“Yes,” she said. And she threw the rock toward the pond.

It arced across the water, touching once, twice, three times, before dropping beneath the surface in ever-widening circles.

“Well done,” Will said, stepping back. “You seem to have the hang of it now.”

Perhaps. But she was afraid she would never get the hang of being friends with him.

Chapter Eighteen

S
amantha waved Will goodbye and trudged back up the drive to the manor, thoughts as heavy as her steps. He was such a wonderful man, kind, considerate, willing to play along with her mad whims. Yet how could she trust her feelings, knowing how quickly they had come?

She had reached the foot of the grand stair when the knocker slammed down on the front door. She turned with a sigh to find Chevers eyeing her.

“Go ahead,” she said. “We might as well answer it.”

With a smile of understanding, he turned to do his duty.

Jamie spilled into the entryway, hat askew and eyes stormy. Samantha’s heart slammed into her ribs. Something had happened to Will. His horse had tripped in a marmot hole and thrown him. Her cousins had challenged him to a duel. She couldn’t know how he had been hurt, she only knew that he had, and that she had to help him. She flew to Jamie’s side.

“What’s happened?” she demanded. “Where is he? How bad is it? Oh, why aren’t you speaking!”

Jamie stepped back from her. “What are you talking about?”

She took in his rumpled cravat, the pallor of his face. He was hurting more than she was.

“Oh, Jamie,” she murmured. “What do you need from me?”

He drew in a shaky breath. “A few moments of your time. Alone.”

“Of course.” She nodded to the footman. “Lord Wentworth and I will be in the library, Chevers. Please wait outside the door.”

She led Jamie to the library and glanced inside the room, quite ready to evict her cousins if needed. But the room was empty for once. She entered, leaving the door open for propriety’s sake. Motioning her friend toward a chair by the fire, she went to take the opposite one.

Jamie sat, but stiffly, fists knotted on the buckskin of his trousers. “I had to talk to you.”

She nodded encouragement. “What’s happened? Has your father been hurt?”

“Hurt?” He frowned, then shook his head. “No, no, not in the way you mean.” He edged forward on his seat as if intent on making his case. “Samantha, my father is in love with you.”

Her hopes leaped like a startled grouse, but she shot them down. She had decided to ignore these feelings—she certainly wasn’t about to confess them to Jamie!

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said. “I didn’t encourage him.”

Jamie gaped at her. “Why not?”

He sounded like he wanted her to return his father’s affections. But that made no sense! She shook her head. “Forgive me. I seem to be rather confused at the moment. Your father is fine—no fall from his horse, no mishap on the way home?”

Jamie shrugged. “Nothing, unless you find riding off in a temper disturbing. I did. That’s not like him.”

She thought she understood. “It’s all right, Jamie. He was here just now, apologizing. We settled things between us.”

His face scrunched up until he looked ages older. “The only way to settle things between the two of you is for you to marry him.”

Samantha raised her chin. “You presume too much.”

“Do I? You care for him. I know it. I saw how you reacted to his kiss.”

“It was nothing,” Samantha insisted. “I wish you wouldn’t refine on it.”

“And I wish you would,” Jamie declared, leaning back so solidly the chair rocked on its hardwood legs.

Samantha threw up her hands. “I cannot understand you. Are you saying you think I
should
encourage your father?”

“Certainly,” Jamie said hotly. “He’s not bad looking, and he’s an earl.”

“And you think those should be my criteria for a husband?” She felt her temper rising even as her back stiffened. “I’ll have you know that I have been courted by men more handsome who were dukes. I was less impressed with them than I am with your father.”

“So why not marry him?” Jamie demanded. “It would solve your problem!”

“And possibly cause any number of other problems,” Samantha assured him. “No, thank you.”

Jamie surged to his feet. “Why are you so stubborn?”

Samantha rose to meet him. “Well, if that isn’t the pot calling the kettle black!”

Jamie drew in a breath as if realizing he’d pressed too hard. “Perhaps I am stubborn,” he admitted. “When I see an injustice, I feel compelled to right it. I got that from my father.”

“And as I told your father,” Samantha replied, forcing herself to return to her seat, “while I appreciate your intentions, I don’t need your help.”

“If you don’t,” Jamie challenged, “he does.”

Samantha’s concerns rose once more. “What do you mean? What’s wrong with your father?”

Jamie sat and leaned closer again, lowering his voice as if he didn’t even trust her footman with the news.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” he murmured, “but I can see the problem in the estate books. Kendrick Hall is failing. There’s not enough farmland to support the rising costs. If things get any worse, we may have to sell.”

Something twisted inside her. “Sell? How can you sell? Isn’t the estate entailed?” She knew entails were a way to keep properties safe for the next generation.

His face tightened. “The entail was broken when my uncle died, and Grandfather never had a chance to reinstate it.”

So yet again the former Lord Wentworth’s death brought pain. “You’d lose the estate, your home?” she pressed.

“Everything but the London house,” Jamie confirmed, dealing her hopes a death blow. “With the proceeds, Father and I could live there.”

The situation was so like hers it brought tears to her eyes. “Oh, Jamie! I’m so sorry. I wish I could help.”

He fell onto his knees before her, took both her hands in his, eyes as beseeching as when he’d offered for her.

“You can help, don’t you see?” he begged, gaze searching hers as if he could find assurance. “If you marry Father before your birthday, you get to keep Dallsten Manor and you could help us keep Kendrick Hall. We all win.”

She could see how he’d come to that conclusion. There were many things to commend such a match. She’d be a countess as well as a baroness in her own right. As Imogene had pointed out, Samantha would never have to leave her beloved Cumberland again. With access to the legacy Will would have the money he needed to maintain his estate, perhaps make improvements that would allow it to bring a profit again.

Was that why he was kind to her? Had he been hoping for just such a match? She felt as if her heart shriveled at the thought. But no, surely not Will! Why protest her friendship with Jamie when she’d first arrived if he was intent on getting his hands on her inheritance? Her marriage to his son would have brought him just as much access to the funds. Oh, but she would never understand men!

And they could not know what they asked by suggesting she join her family to theirs. How could she bring the true Everard legacy—the secrets, the emotional upheaval—to her marriage? That burden crushed any monetary benefit or change in position or prestige. And she’d never much cared about position or prestige anyway.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I can’t marry your father, Jamie. I told you—I doubt I’ll marry anyone.”

“But why?” Jamie asked, giving her hands a squeeze. “Are you so determined to hang on to your independence?”

“It’s not that,” she promised.

“Then do you think Father would squander your inheritance?” He released her hands to gesture with his own. “He’s an excellent manager. He didn’t cause these problems with the estate, and he’s done all he can to solve them.”

“I’m sure he has,” Samantha said. “I would trust him with the legacy.”

“But not your heart,” Jamie guessed.

Not her heart. That she must keep hidden, along with the secrets it defended, the emotions that all too often guided it.

Samantha smiled at him, but wished she actually felt happy with her decision. “It’s for the best, Jamie. Your father deserves a woman who will truly love him.”

“So you keep saying,” Jamie replied, rising. “But it seems to me that if two people love each other, they should be together.”

“The world isn’t that simple, I fear,” Samantha told him, remembering when she’d thought otherwise.

“And it isn’t as complicated as you’re making it,” Jamie said before heading for the door. “For someone who claims to enjoy adventure, you’ve put quite a hedge around yourself. I just hope you don’t end up finding that by shutting everyone else out, you’ve boxed yourself in.”

* * *

Will also assured himself it was all for the best. Surely he and Samantha could build a companionable friendship. He would not refine on that kiss, the sweetness of her, the way she melted against him, the feel of her in his arms. He was a gentleman, an earl, with responsibilities to consume him.

For some reason those responsibilities felt hollow.

Instead he found himself unaccountably eager for services the next morning. He told himself that such devotion was commendable, but the church seemed brighter, his prayers more heartfelt with Samantha sitting in front of him. Had he reached out his hand, he could have touched her golden hair. Had he whispered of love, she would have heard him.

He refused to whisper in church!

Determined to be proper, he sought her out in the churchyard afterward, but she kept slipping away from him. He’d approach the group where she was conversing, and she’d excuse herself. He loitered beside her carriage, and she prolonged her discussions or chased her cousin’s children across the lawn. And when the sun popped into view at precisely half past eleven, her feet did not so much as turn to seek her waterfall.

The other Everards had no trouble greeting him. Each of the gentlemen and their wives took pains to talk with him, encourage him to join them on various outings and in activities. He tried to question Vaughn Everard about his horse, but the fellow fended him off with witty jokes. Besides, Will was more concerned about Samantha. She didn’t come near him. He felt as if he’d lost the best part of himself.

His focus had been on gaining her trust to learn the truth about his brother. Now he was more interested in the cares that burdened her. He’d thought his apology yesterday had cleared the air between them, but he’d obviously been wrong. What else could he do to restore their friendship?

He decided to ask his son’s advice as they headed for home in the carriage. “Do you know why Lady Everard is avoiding me?” he asked.

Jamie shifted as if the padded leather seat had grown too hard. “For the same reason you avoided her, I warrant. But I am resigned that you are both fools determined to make yourselves miserable.”

“How highly you hold me in esteem,” Will quipped.

Jamie shrugged, hunching in his navy coat. “You are my father. I have a duty to you. That doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you do or say.”

“No, indeed,” Will assured him. “But may I remind you I earned my years honestly? I have some pretense toward knowledge.”

Jamie’s face was tight. “And may I remind you that you were my age when you first knew love?”

“What Samantha Everard and I feel for each other isn’t love,” Will insisted, his voice sounding gruff even to him.

“So you say. But it seems you’ve forgotten that emotion in the intervening years.”

The chastisement stung, yet Will could not argue with his son. Indeed the revelation stilled his tongue for the remainder of the ride home. Had he forgotten the stirrings of that tender emotion? He tried to remember his time with Peg—how it had felt. But the circumstances were so different. He was so different.

His brother had been the one to point out Peggy Demesne to him one day as they rode through the village. Will had just finished schooling at Eton—much like Jamie—and Gregory, a few years ahead of him, liked to flaunt his town bronze.

“Now there’s a tasty morsel,” his brother had said with a nod toward the village mill. Peg had been standing by the side of the pond with her father, helping him remove plants that had sprouted in the water and could hinder the mill’s working. “Perhaps I could learn to enjoy flour. I wager a few of the lads around here do.”

Will had been uncomfortable with his brother’s insinuation, but he’d said nothing. Gregory had been the older brother, the heir. Everyone from their father to the lowliest chambermaid acquiesced to his wishes. Will knew their father would never countenance a marriage between his brother and the daughter of a miller. But he had a feeling his brother had something other than marriage in mind.

“I saw her first,” he’d said when he’d actually only noticed her at Gregory’s direction. “We have an understanding.”

Gregory had scoffed. “Well, then, I wish you and your future brats well.” He galloped ahead, his laughter floating back to Will on the breeze.

And Will had stopped to talk to Peg. Talk had led to walks across the green, holding hands behind the church, kisses stolen at the garden gate. He knew he was expected to choose a bride from among his own class, a lady who understood Society’s dictates, someone who could enrich their family. But back then he had felt tongue-tied among those ladies. Like Gregory, they seemed to laugh at his intentions, his dreams to enter the diplomatic corps and see the world.

Peg had made him feel smarter and stronger than even his brother. With her his character seemed more noble, his ambitions worthwhile. Peg saw him as the leader. He was the most important person in her world, whereas he often felt like the least important person at Kendrick Hall.

Was that all it was, Father? Did I love her because I first felt truly a man in her presence?

But he had no doubts who he was now. His experience in the diplomatic corps, seeing places and cultures so different from the sheltered village where he’d grown up and the school he’d attended, had made him a better man, a stronger man. He knew what the Lord wanted of him—to take his responsibilities more seriously than his brother had, to see Jamie to manhood, to manage the estate and care for its people. A wife wasn’t necessary to any of that.

Who can find a woman of valor? For her price is far above rubies. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no lack of gain.

He knew the verse. He could not argue that Samantha was a woman of valor; he simply wasn’t sure his heart was ready to trust again.