June

Bloody White and his penchant for the dramatic.

Getting rowed out to the military ship in the dead of night, fully disguised, that William could understand. But right now he was draped in woolen blankets and strapped to a board, being carried down the gangplank by four soldiers, with his arm wrapped in about seventeen bandages. No makeup would be needed for the remnants of his supposed fever—his cheeks were flushed and his forehead dripped with sweat in the heat of the sun already.

“There he is! Get out of my way, sirs. Your lordship! Your lordship!”

William lifted his head as far as he could and smiled at the sight of his housekeeper barging through the crowds on the docks. Hard to believe he’d missed the old battle-axe, but right now, having someone around who was actually loyal to him and only him was as welcome as rain to parched earth.

“Mrs. Kingsley. A sight for sore eyes.”

She harrumphed. “Look at you, all feverish and trussed up. But the carriage is waiting just over there, with Mr. Jensen in it. Do you know the damned fool implied I wouldn’t be able to manage the task of collecting you by myself?”

“My father hired Jensen because he was the best butler in London, not because of his understanding of women and their abilities.”

“Indeed. It’s just as well he is good at something,” she said disdainfully as their group made their way toward his carriage. “Abundantly clear why he never married.”

“Now, now. Be charitable. Not everyone is as, ah, capable as you.”

“From the current state of the nation, that is patently obvious. Now, gentlemen, we need to untie his lordship and lift him into the carriage. Can you manage the task?”

“Yes, ma’am,” the soldiers chorused, clearly recognizing a Voice of Authority.

She nodded and climbed into the carriage. Soon William lay stretched out on the left side squab, his head cradled on her lap, and they were on their way.

“My lord,” Jensen intoned. “May I say how good...how very, very good it is to have you—”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, Mr. Jensen, stop sniveling,” growled Mrs. Kingsley, the effect quite ruined when two tears splashed onto William’s cheek.

“All right,” he said, and even to his own ears his voice sounded rough. “Who are you and what have you done with General Kingsley?”

“You are exceedingly fortunate I’m not a general,” his housekeeper replied, dashing a hand across her eyes. “I’d be ordering a flogging for each day of worry you put me through with your foolishness.”

“And she’s back. Not to mention fighting fit.”

“Unlike you, my lord,” Jensen replied. “We need to fetch a physician to look at your wounds.”

“My arm will be fine. It has been tended to most admirably, I promise.”

His butler sniffed. “A military sawbones? Hardly. I’m speaking of a good, proper English doctor.”

Rolling his eyes, William sighed. If he didn’t appease Mother and Father Hen, he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace when he got home. “Very well, Jensen. I’m sure between you and Mrs. Kingsley the necessary arrangements will be made.”

“Of course, your lordship,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “And then you’ll receive visitors? I’m sure his grace will want to see you as soon as possible. Not to mention Lady Samantha. I hear she has been fretting for you something terrible.”

His insides alternately burned and iced at the words, and his fists clenched. “No.”

“Beg pardon? I don’t understand,” she said, her brow furrowing. “I have it on best authority Lady Samantha confined herself to her rooms for days when the news of your shooting arrived. Poor lovie. So smitten she was, plain as the nose on my face.”

“I said no. I don’t want to see either of them.”

“But my lord—”

“Mrs. Kingsley,” he said, so coldly she actually recoiled against the window of the carriage. “I will not say the words again.”

His housekeeper pursed her lips, and they travelled in silence the rest of the way to Hastings House. As the carriage pulled up outside the front door, a wave of weariness overtook him. Suddenly nothing sounded better than collapsing in his own bed.

“Now, your lordship, to get you inside,” Jensen began. “I can gather as many footmen as necessary...”

“It’s all right, I can walk.”

“Oh. Of course. But perhaps you’ll permit us to find you a suitable physician?”

“Looks like someone suitable is already here,” said Mrs. Kingsley. “There’s Dr. Murray.”

William glanced out the carriage window and smiled grimly. Geoffrey Murray was indeed the best in the business. Old-school doctors hated the man because he not only combined traditional practices with herbals, and advised against bleeding patients as a cure, but had trained his daughter to medical school level so she could assist him. Yet he’d been the savior of many undercover operatives, as well as Stephen, and Louisa Trentham, and he remained utterly trustworthy and discreet.

“Go and offer the doctor some refreshments, Mrs. Kingsley. Tell him I’ll be pleased to see him shortly.”

“At once, your lordship,” she replied, climbing out of the carriage and bustling away.

Turning, Jensen bowed. “Welcome home. Everyone is going to be beside themselves.”

“Not sure I like the sound of that,” William said as they made their way up the front steps. “Will cost me an absolute fortune in extra wages.”

“How convenient you are richer than Prinny then!”

“Everyone is richer than Prinny.”

“True, but you have far better bloodlines. And a much more handsome countenance. Not to mention—”

“Jensen.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“I am quite well. In fact, it is only if you persist with these truly horrifying attempts at flattery that I will become violently ill.”

His butler sagged. “Oh, thank heavens. Don’t know what I’d do if you turned into one of those dandies who wanted to be admired all the time.”

“Resign?”

“Ha. This household would fall to rack and ruin without me. Certain others might think they run everything, but I’m sure you are aware who is really in charge.”

“Naturally,” said William, suppressing a smile.

“Now, would you like anything, your lordship? Some breakfast, perhaps?”

“No. It’s been a long seven weeks, Jensen, I’m going to see the doctor and then rest. I don’t want to be disturbed unless the house is ablaze.”

“Of course, my lord.”

A quarter hour later he sat on his huge four-poster bed, piled high with pillows and made up with linen so cool and crisp it felt like water. Except now memories were bombarding him of the last time he had slept here. Samantha underneath him, her sweet, lush body arching as she climaxed. Samantha draped over him, her blonde curls spilling onto his chest. Damned woman. Even after everything, it was still her face he saw in his dreams. Her touch he craved.

“Lord Standish. It’s a relief to see you.”

He glanced over at the familiar visage of Geoffrey Murray standing next to Mrs. Kingsley. He was dressed, as usual, entirely in gray, his face unsmiling. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’ve been made aware of your injuries. May I take a look?”

William nodded and stripped off his borrowed linen shirt. The doctor raised his eyebrows at the sheer quantity of bandages surrounding his shoulder, but removed them without comment and peered closely at the wound site.

“Well? What’s your verdict?”

“I do believe you’ll live, my lord,” the older man replied gravely. “The stitches are well done, and there is no infection present although some of the surrounding tissue appears raw. Too much whisky dousing, I daresay, but Victoria can make a poultice to soothe that. All in all, I’d pronounce you very lucky.”

“I did try and tell everyone I am fine. But some people refused to take my word for it.”

“Indeed. Now, your shoulder will suffer soreness and a lessening in mobility until fully healed. But I would strongly recommend you spend a few days in bed. The body always heals better when it is well rested. I shall return this afternoon with the poultice. Good day to you, Lord Standish. Mrs. Kingsley.”

The physician strode from the room, and William stared impatiently at Mrs. Kingsley, who was still hovering. “See? You worried over nothing.”

“I disagree. Your dying would be extremely inconvenient—I’ve no desire to go searching for another employer. Now,” she said, picking up a heavy tray, “sit up and eat your breakfast. You need to regain all your strength.”

“I said I didn’t want anything to eat. And chicken broth and barley water will do nothing for my strength.”

She smiled sweetly as she set the tray on his lap. “It’s the perfect meal for an invalid. For the next two days, at least.”

“You are truly something...special.”

“Why thank you. Your mother always thought so,” she called as she swept from the room.

Shifting the unappetizing tray to one side, William lay back on his pillows. Rest might be the instruction, but it would take more than a few days for his mind to fully comprehend everything that had happened recently. One part of his life might have been set to rights, it was an enormous relief to not have to wear David Underwood’s god-awful padding and makeup anymore, but everything else had been sent to hell.

What did he have to look forward to now?

Samantha and Alexander marrying. Her belly growing big with child. Which, of course, he would only witness if he survived a brutal reckoning with the Earl of Claremont, a man who never played by any rules.

Cursing under his breath, William ran a hand through his hair and turned onto his side.

Two days respite. And then he had to return to the world as himself.

Bloody hell.

* * *

“Would you prefer to drive the carriage yourself?”

Samantha flushed at the realization her muttered curses at the responsible carefulness of Alexander’s driver had been audible, but she still glared at the duke. “Oh, go bathe in the Thames, your grace. Or better yet, I could ask Lord Trentham to sing for you again. I understand he has added several more tunes to his repertoire.”

“You and your mean streak. I don’t know whether to admire or fear it. William is a brave man, taking on a lady knife thrower.”

“William doesn’t know about my talents in that area. And no one will share such information with him, except me, at the right time. If you so much as breathe a word, I will sharply ensure continuation of the Langley line becomes quite impossible.”

Alexander’s eyes widened. Then he coughed. “I wonder how William is, truly. Mrs. Kingsley’s note was damnably vague except to say he’d been visited by Geoffrey Murray, ordered to rest, and looked forward to seeing us both as soon as possible.”

“Who is Geoffrey Murray?”

“Best physician in the country. Use him myself when the need arises. Come to think of it, he helped with the birth of the Westleigh twins. You should get him to tend to you, when the time comes.”

Samantha nodded absently and stared out the window as the streets of London rushed by, her stomach knotted with a mixture of nausea, fear, and anticipation.

Today was the day.

It had been seven weeks since she’d seen William, but it felt like a lifetime. Apart from a frantic desire to throw her arms around him, a thousand questions swarmed through her head. Would he be happy to see her? Did he still care? How would he react to the news of his impending fatherhood? He’d be lucky to get a word in edgewise once she began to speak, she had so many things to tell him. How desperately he’d been missed, obviously. The torture of waiting for news that had only come sporadically. Then the baby announcement, once she plucked up the courage.

Or more small talk? Perhaps she should tell him about Mr. Underwood. That might make him laugh, and put him in a better frame of mind to hear he would be a father in the New Year. Then again, who knew how much conversation was adequate before telling the man you loved that the preventative sponge had failed miserably. Now Aunt Jane and Caroline knew, if he didn’t agree to marry her, there would be hell to pay from the Westleighs. Oh God. Maybe she should skip the pregnancy confession altogether and get straight to shirt-ripping. William wouldn’t need to do a thing. She could just take his cock deep inside her quim and ride him to orgasm like she had last time…

A sharp clicking sound startled her from her reverie and she glared at one amused duke. “Don’t you snap your fingers at me! What are you laughing at?”

“I don’t even want to know what you were thinking about, but we’ve been sitting outside Hastings House for at least two minutes.”

“As long as that?” she muttered, allowing him to help her out of the carriage. “How awful for you.”

“Your grace! I’m very glad you are finally here.”

“Mrs. Kingsley,” said Alexander, inclining his head as William’s housekeeper hurried down the front steps.

“And Lady Samantha. How wonderful to see you again.”

Samantha blushed. Mrs. Kingsley’s face was blankly polite and professional, but for heaven’s sake, the last time they had seen each other the woman had been organizing a bath and untorn clothes for her after the evening in William’s bed.

“Hello, Mrs. Kingsley,” she mumbled.

“If you will both follow me, I’ll take you to see his lordship. Dr. Murray has confined him to his bedchamber for a few days to ensure he rests, but I’m afraid he is not being a very good patient.”

“How...how bad is his injury?” Samantha asked tentatively, taking Alexander’s arm for courage as the housekeeper led them across the cavernous foyer and up the first set of stairs.

“Not as bad as we were initially led to believe,” said Mrs. Kingsley, glancing sideways and nodding approvingly. “The bullets missed his heart and lungs, and his shoulder will suffer no permanent damage save a few scars.”

“Thank God,” said Alexander. “Based on what my brother saw and the initial report we received from Whitehall, we held little hope Standish would survive, let alone recover enough to come home within a few weeks of the event.”

“It was a distressing time for us all, your grace,” she replied briskly, but her hands were twisting and untwisting themselves in the folds of her apron as they made their way along the painting-lined hallway to the master bedchamber. “However, I don’t think his lordship wishes to dwell on France. In fact, I believe he has, ah, other matters on his mind.”

Samantha frowned. For a strong and forthright woman, Mrs. Kingsley looked very nervous. “What kind of matters? Is something wrong?”

“Your grace, Lady Samantha, I must apologize in advance for what I’ve done. His lordship does not know I sent you a note. Actually, his specific orders were that he didn’t want to see either of you. At all. I believe he has heard rumors—”

“Excuse me?” said Alexander incredulously as Samantha’s jaw dropped in shock. What on earth was the housekeeper talking about?

Mrs. Kingsley lifted her chin. “It is not for me to comment on gossip, your grace. But it is my firm belief that wounds must not be allowed to fester. If there is a confession to be made or a misunderstanding to be cleared up, it should be done sooner rather than later.”

“For a plain-speaking woman, you are certainly spouting a great many riddles,” snapped Alexander is his coldest ducal voice.

“Again, I ask your grace’s forgiveness,” Mrs. Kingsley replied stiffly, knocking perfunctorily on the door of the master bedchamber.

At the muffled sound of William’s voice saying “come in”, Samantha nearly swooned. He had truly returned. Yet before she had time to compose herself, Alexander stepped around the housekeeper and into William’s room, dragging her behind him in a tight, painful grip.

“Alexander,” she muttered, annoyed. “I am not a cart.”

Then a glorious sight filled her vision, and she forgot all about her arm.

William. In his bed, alive and well.

A whimper escaped, followed by a sob as pure joy surged through her body. Dare she believe he was real? The only way to find out was to touch him, hold him, and she leaped forward to hurl herself onto the large bed, desperate to burrow against him and never, ever move again.

Until she saw his expression was one of complete disgust.

Halting, her hands twisting together as Mrs. Kingsley’s cryptic words repeated over and over in her head, Samantha stared back at William. Had he found out about her knife-throwing in Hyde Park? Or worse, about the baby she carried and wanted nothing to do with her?

“William?” she whispered shakily, terror twisting her stomach into knots.

“Ah. If it isn’t the Duke of Southby and his pregnant mistress,” he answered frigidly, his handsome face expressionless but his fingers gripping his blankets as though resisting the urge to knock them both into next week. “Or have you done the decent thing and proposed, your grace? Either way you are cluttering my bedchamber, and knowing how busy the two of you are together, I can only urge you to leave. Now.”

* * *

It almost made William want to laugh, the utter shock on their faces. And the way Samantha had flinched at his words as though he’d slapped her. What the hell had they expected, brazenly marching into his chamber holding hands? Warm congratulations on their news and an invitation to tea?

“You still haven’t departed,” he snarled. “Do you need to be escorted out?”

Samantha paled and groaned, dashing across the room and falling onto her knees in front of an empty chamber pot.

Tsking rather sympathetically, Mrs. Kingsley, the latest addition to his list of betrayers, bustled into the room, soaked a cloth in the washstand and then leaned down to hold it to her forehead. “Dear, dear. ’Tis a terrible thing, the nausea, is it not?”

“Mrs. Kingsley, if Lady Samantha is unwell, it is Southby’s problem. Not yours.”

“I will assist whomever I—”

Alexander folded his arms and glared. “What the hell is going on, William? Never thought I’d hear that sort of filth from you, but if you don’t apologize at once, I’ll put a bullet in your other shoulder so you have a matching pair.”

Incredulous, William looked at his former best friend, his face remaining expressionless only by sheer force of will. Rage boiled again, the urge to leap out of bed and commit unspeakable violence overwhelming. “It would have been so much neater if I’d actually died in France, wouldn’t it? But I survived to come home to the pleasure of your news. So many people told me about the two of you, the secret visits at all hours of the day and night, but I didn’t believe them. It wasn’t until I...” William halted, even more furious at what he’d nearly blurted out. He hadn’t seen or heard anything at the Westleigh ball. Only David Underwood had.

“Until you what?” Alexander replied icily.

“Until...I saw you today. Holding hands, and witnessing your beloved’s newly delicate constitution. For once the gossip was true. I never thought two people could stoop so low, especially the man supposedly my oldest friend and the woman I...well, obviously I was utterly wrong about both of you.”

“William—”

“Let me finish, Southby. Just for fun, I’ll guess the reason that brought you together. Hmmm. Some relative left a fortune for Lady Samantha if she married no lower than a duke? Or perhaps you are dying of some terrible disease, and she selflessly offered herself as a loving companion for your few remaining days?”

“William—”

“Don’t say another word, your grace. The pair of you are revolting. So I say for the third time, get the hell out of my house and don’t ever return, or I will be the one doing the shooting.”

Alexander blinked, his frigid rage easing. “I cannot believe my ears. You truly think Samantha and I...together...” he spluttered, then to compound his multitude of crimes, the bastard actually started to laugh. Indeed, Alexander Langley, the man who rarely even thawed enough to smile, was laughing.

“What the hell is so amusing?” William bit out.

“The thought of such a thing being true. No offence, William, or to you, Samantha,” Alexander said over his shoulder to where she was still huddled beside the chamber pot. “But I like my women...milder. Significantly sweeter of temperament. Less inclined to partake in acts of violence.”

“Did I say go bathe in the Thames before, Alexander?” snapped Samantha, dabbing her mouth with the cool cloth as she slowly got to her feet. “I meant drown.”

“See what I mean, William? But my main prerequisite for a wife is that they care for me rather than someone else. Hell, I’m famished. Mrs. Kingsley, do you think there might be something in the kitchens for a late lunch?”

His housekeeper had the gall to curtsy and nod, and the two of them quickly departed, leaving him and Samantha alone in the chamber.

William leaned back against his pillows, his mind whirling. Alexander had sounded so bloody sincere; even their spat had appeared more brother and sister than lovers. But he’d seen them, damn it, embracing in the garden. And the assassin had said. White had said. Claremont had said. Everyone bloody knew.

Finally, he glanced over at Samantha. She glared defiantly back at him, her hands on her hips.

“Well,” he said, just to break the silence, without a clue where to begin.

“Well,” she replied, marching to his side of the bed until he could see the flashing fury in her brown eyes.

“You’re angry?”

“Do you have any idea what it’s been like here, waiting for news, hearing the worst thing possible, and not knowing if you were alive or dead? Then discovering I was going to have a baby sans husband? And finally, you calling me Alexander’s mistress?”

“So, you think to deny—” William began, his own anger returning in a rush. The widening of her eyes was his only warning before her hand connected sharply with his cheek, snapping his head back on the pillow and leaving it stinging.

“How dare you be mad at me,” she cried.

“What do you mean how dare I? It’s a perfectly reasonable way to feel in the circumstances.”

“Reasonable? Reasonable! How could you possibly think I was intimate with another man—no, not just another man, but your best friend while you were away in France risking your life?”

“Because you were seen in the garden at Forsyth House, Samantha. Embracing Alexander, telling him you were with child. And him saying he was so happy!”

“Seen by who?” she demanded.

“David Underwood! Although because of his...loyalty...to me, being an old family friend, he didn’t stay long. I don’t think he could stomach anymore of what he saw.”

The rage drained from her expressive face, to be replaced by an aching sadness. Then she absently cupped and patted her belly, as though reassuring the child growing within.

“He heard wrong,” she said quietly. “And if he had stayed a little longer, he would have heard Alexander putting himself forward to be godfather.”

A boulder caught in his throat, making it hard to breathe. “The baby can’t be mine. We used a sponge.”

“Yes. We did. But it seems they aren’t so reliable after all. They can move. Dislodge. Leave some, ah, seed behind when removed. If you recall, William, you filled me with a great deal that night. Repeatedly.”

Christ.

Could it be true? He was going to be a father?

Fierce emotion poured through him, making his eyes sting and his limbs unsteady. Very, very tentatively, he reached out and rested a hand on her belly.

“Mine?” he said roughly.

“Of course it is yours,” she said in a dull, flat voice.

His gut clenched. “But so many people said...is it true you visited Alexander at all times of the day and night?”

“Yes. After Lord Robert returned and told us what happened, I collapsed. I wouldn’t leave my chamber and I couldn’t eat or sleep. The only notes I read were the ones from Alexander, when he would send news from Whitehall. Sometimes, I think I just needed to talk to someone who was as frantic with worry as me. No one else truly understood except Aunt Jane and Stephen, really. Then I started getting sick each morning, but thought I’d just picked up some horrid illness. Pregnancy didn’t even cross my mind until Aunt Jane came in one day when I was bent over a chamber pot and started asking questions.”

“She knows?”

“Yes. As does Caroline, so probably Stephen too. They have…expectations as to how this will finish.”

Of course they would. Marriage, at once. And if they were a few months in the future when Samantha turned twenty-one, he would be sprinting to the archbishop for a special license so fast his boots would make sparks on the ground. But right now she was twenty, and English law said she had to have her father’s permission or the marriage would be invalid. In that Claremont was a traitor who wanted to kill him…

William briefly closed his eyes, self-loathing almost paralyzing him. If he’d left Samantha alone, like an operative with any sense, exercised actual judgement and control…

“Samantha, I’m sorry,” he began.

She held up a hand. “Don’t bother, your face just told a thousand tales. And I understand perfectly. Why would a Hastings wed a Buchanan? I’m just like my mother, after all. The lowest of the low.”

“That is not it at all—”

“Besides,” she continued relentlessly, every word stabbing him like the dagger she’d thrown so accurately in Hyde Park, “it doesn’t matter. My being with child will barely rate on the list of family scandals. I’ll just go somewhere, pretend I am a widow. Maybe one day I’ll meet a man who wants to share his life with me and my baby, and we’ll marry.”

“You will do no such thing!” he bit out, wincing as a jolt of agony raced from his shoulder to his toes, the wound beginning to throb in time with a shocking headache.

But Samantha’s fresh, beautiful face aged and hardened before his eyes. “Farewell, William.”

And she was gone.