Regina Scott (2 page)

“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 mother.

“James,” Lord Kendrick said, very likely through clenched teeth, “I believe you wished a moment of my time.”

Samantha touched her fingers to her lips. “Oh, dear, I must have misunderstood. I thought you said you wished to talk to me about a matter of great urgency, James.”

“I did,” Jamie promised her with a nod to his father as well. “I wished to speak to you both, in private. You see, I know why you’ve returned, Samantha, and I thought Father and I could help.”

He knew? The breath stopped in her chest. How could he know? Had she told him once, years ago, about her father’s will? Did anyone except her solicitor, her guardians and their wives know what this month meant to her, that she stood to lose everything she held dear?

Her gloved hand seemed to be moving toward her throat; she consciously lowered her arm. She would not let them see her pain. She’d slipped already, giving in to the dismals on the sofa, but she would not repeat her mistake, not with Lord Kendrick glowering at her as if she’d somehow stolen something from his precious home.

Lord, please help me to be strong!

“I’m here for the annual summer party at Dallsten Manor,” she told Jamie. “All my cousins and their families are coming. I have sufficient help, I assure you.”

He shook his head, then turned to his father. “That’s not why she’s here. She turns five and twenty the day after the party. That’s the problem.”

No! She would not discuss her life with them. Her family hounded her on a daily basis it seemed, concerned for her future, for her state of mind. It was no one’s business but hers how she chose to lead her life. When she turned five and twenty, her cousins’ guardianships would finally end, but her choices now were still her own.

Samantha pushed past him, and the rustle of her skirts fueled her agitation. “You should know better than to reveal a lady’s age, sir. This discussion is at an end. And I repeat—I need no help.”

“Then why,” Lord Kendrick said, the tone guaranteed to stop her at the door, “were you crying?”

Samantha felt the tears threatening again, pricking at the backs of her eyes. She straightened her spine and put her hand to the door latch.

“You were crying?” Jamie strode to her side to stare at her face so intently Samantha felt compelled to turn her head. But that only meant her gaze collided with Lord Kendrick’s and held. His look had softened, as if he knew the pain inside her. But he couldn’t help her. She knew what she must do.

“I’m fine, Jamie,” she said. “Leave off, and let me go.”

“How can I?” Jamie demanded. “I knew this business troubled you. You don’t have to lose the manor, you know. We can find someone to...”

“Stop!” Samantha ordered, heat washing over her. “Now.”

“But,” Jamie began.

Samantha held up her hand. “I have nothing further to say in the matter, to either of you.” She picked up her skirts and swept out the door. The life she’d known might be ending in a fortnight, but she was not going to beg for assistance, particularly from Lord Kendrick, who could never love her, no matter what she did.

Chapter Two

W
ill reacted first, the consequence, he feared, of too many years fending for himself. “Lady Everard, wait!”

What was he doing? What did he hope to gain? He should rejoice that she was leaving his home and his son untouched. Already in the corridor, she paused to glance back at him. Something called to him from those dark eyes, as if the ache inside her sought understanding. Perhaps he’d been holed up in Kendrick Hall for too long, but some part of him longed to help.

Why? He knew she was trouble. He’d heard the stories over the years about the wild and wily Everards. And he suspected they were connected with his brother’s death. He should let her walk away. Isn’t that what he wanted?

“Yes, Samantha, please wait,” Jamie said, reaching out a hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”

Her gaze met his, and the anger melted. “There’s nothing to be done, Jamie. I’ve made up my mind. Please let the matter go.”

Will had seldom seen his son’s face so mulish. His brows were gathered, his lips tight and his head was every bit as high and proud as hers as he dropped his hand to the side of his coat. “How can I let it go when your choice will take you away from me...away from Evendale?”

If she noticed his lapse, she was wise enough not to comment on it. “I will come visit. I promise.”

“It won’t be the same.”

Will winced at the adolescent whine. With every movement, every word, his son proved how young he was. And Will didn’t want him any more attached to this woman.

“James,” he said, “the lady asked you to drop the subject. I suggest you comply.”

He regretted his suggestion immediately, for his son blanched. Jamie snapped Lady Everard a bow. “Never intended to hurt you. Sorry.”

Now she paled, and Will could not understand the reason. “There’s no need to apologize,” she replied. “I know you have my best interests at heart. Please tell Mrs. Dallsten Walcott I’m sorry I missed the party. I should go.” Her curtsey was a mere bob of her head before she fled.

“You didn’t need to berate me in front of her,” Jamie said in the silence that followed, his gaze on the floor. “She already considers me a child.”

Jamie’s actions spoke louder than Will’s chastisement, but Will didn’t think the boy would appreciate the fact. He kept his voice gentle. “Sometimes those who watch us grow up are the last to see us change.”

“I suppose so.” His deep sigh could have felled a forest.

Under other circumstances Will would have been hard-pressed not to smile at the dramatic performance, but now he could only wonder how far things had progressed between his son and their lovely neighbor. “I realize you’ve known her for years,” he ventured. “Your grandfather wrote me letters and told me about your antics as children.”

Jamie nodded, clearly avoiding Will’s gaze. “She was always there, as long as I can remember.”

When he hadn’t been. Will had run off with the diplomatic corps shortly after Jamie had been born, and only his brother’s death had brought Will home. He tried to ignore the guilt that tugged at him. “I suppose it’s natural that you’d come in contact with her. The Everards are our closest neighbors.”

Jamie shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. “She was more than a neighbor. She was my best friend. And she was always up for a lark. We used to ride together and play catch-me-who-can in the woods. Grandfather even had me take lessons from her governess when we were between tutors.” He sighed again, and another forest tumbled.

“But she’s been in London the past few years, hasn’t she?” Will asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. From what he knew of the Everard family, it would not have surprised him to learn that his son and the lady had been meeting in private.

“Eight years,” Jamie agreed so heavily he made the time sound like decades. He glanced up at his father, defiance shining in his eyes. “I wrote to her.”

Will 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.”

Will was prepared to take offense, but she leaned closer, and the scent of roses seemed far too soft for the hard feelings he was trying to muster.

“Ask yourself this,” she murmured, gaze on his. “If I truly wished to marry into your family, why would I pursue the cub instead of the lion?”

Will recoiled. Her gaze danced with laughter; her smile could only be called smug. She knew she’d shocked him. Even with his years of experience as a diplomat, he had no idea how to respond.

The clatter of horses’ hooves outside announced her carriage. She straightened. “Thank you for a most diverting evening, my lord,” she said, and she turned and followed one of his footmen toward the door as the other servant threw it wide for her.

Will could only stare after her. He should speak to Jamie, confess his concerns, forbid the boy to see anything more of the beautiful Lady Everard. But as he moved to return to his other guests, he passed the gilt-framed mirror, and he wasn’t entirely surprised by the smile lining his face.

* * *

Samantha cast a quick look over her shoulder before the door of Kendrick Hall shut behind her. Lord Kendrick was smiling, and she felt an answering warmth inside. She could imagine laughing over a game of chess, pacing him across the countryside on horseback, dancing with her hands on his, the admiration of his gaze filling her to overflowing.

Oh, no! This would never do. She simply could not entertain such thoughts about the Earl of Kendrick.

William Wentworth would never be in charity with her. At times she was amazed Jamie was still willing to speak to her. After all, she was the reason the previous Lord Wentworth, William’s brother, had been killed.

Surely he knew. Surely that was why he was so concerned that Jamie seemed to care for her. Lord Kendrick didn’t understand it was merely an abiding friendship she and his son shared. She’d watched young James grow up with only his grandfather to guide him, while his father was busy defending British interests in far off places like Constantinople and Alexandria. How Jamie had pined for a moment with his father, much as she had pined for more time with hers. Come to think of it, she had every right to be annoyed with Lord Kendrick!

How could he have abandoned his son on his wife’s death? Jamie had been an infant! William Wentworth had only returned after his brother’s death, she was sure, because tradition required him to take up his place as the new heir. Did he care nothing for family? Was he only concerned she was pursuing Jamie because of her own past?

She shook her head as she settled herself against the velvet-covered seat and the carriage headed down the drive for the road to Dallsten Manor. Her thoughts moved faster than the lacquered wheels. Jamie’s father, this new Lord Kendrick, was not what she had expected. He looked nothing like his son; he acted nothing like his father, who had always treated her with the utmost kindness, even after her connection to his older son’s death.

And as for any resemblance to his dead brother, she had refused to think about the former Lord Wentworth for a very long time. She’d only lost her composure tonight when Jamie had cut short his sentences, an annoying habit that had, alas, been his late uncle’s.