London, 5 April 1815

“If you won’t carry a pistol, my lord, at least take a few daggers. I hold grave concerns for your wellbeing.”

Shrugging on his black greatcoat in the vast, lavish foyer of Hastings House, William Hastings, Marquess of Standish, quirked a brow at his butler. “I know it’s been many years since I made an appearance at Almack’s, Jensen, but surely it hasn’t gotten that bad.”

“Ha. Reliable sources inform me that the opposition are so cunning and ruthless even the French would take notes,” the staid older man replied in a dire tone. “You’ll be a plump chicken at Christmas. Toffees on May Day...”

“Your confidence in my ability to fend off a few young ladies and their mamas is truly gratifying.”

“Do not think of them as women, my lord. Perhaps…wolves. Yes, a pack of hungry, rabid wolves. Mark my words, there will be blood in the hallowed halls.”

William suppressed a snort. It was true, some ton, and almost-ton families took the marriage mart exceedingly seriously. Perhaps he should record some words for a tombstone, just in case. Here lies William David Richard Hastings, lord of the realm, codebreaker, and loyal servant of His Majesty’s government. Succumbed to a herd of stampeding spinsters and carnivorous chaperones somewhere between the refreshment table and string quartet. Mourned by his beloved…

He ruthlessly halted the thought. No. While his foster brother Stephen Forsyth, Earl of Westleigh, and friend George Grenville, Earl of Trentham, had made love matches with their wives Caroline and Louisa respectively, that path was not for him. He would marry only to secure the marquessate with a legitimate heir. And as he rapidly approached his thirtieth birthday, that point needed to be sooner rather than later. He hadn’t given much thought to his future wife, other than she should be scandal-free, wellborn, also dedicated to duty, and a gracious hostess. Preferably a woman who would be a kind and doting mother.

For this she would be compensated with a generous allowance, gowns and jewelry, and a lofty position among the cream of society. But they would be amiable acquaintances. Nothing more. The Marchioness of Standish would never be put at risk, or sacrifice herself, because of love.

“Wolves, Jensen? Mention that to their faces, and I will purchase you a knighthood.”

“All I’m saying,” his butler replied, ignoring the remark with a disdainful sniff, “Is the dowager asks an awful lot of you.”

William frowned. Surely everyone knew he would face down the hounds of hell for the woman who had taken him in and cared for him like a third son after his parents’ horrific murder. If said hounds happened to wear pastel ball gowns and heeled slippers, so be it. Besides, he couldn’t possibly have denied this request, not when Aunt Jane was so excited about sponsoring her niece’s come out.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t set eyes on Lady Samantha Buchanan in over a decade, nor how she looked or what manners she possessed. He would nod approvingly and dance a set with her. The poor chit was starting from an unenviable position—not only was she making her come out much later than others at age twenty, but her parents the Earl and Countess of Claremont were notorious for all the wrong reasons. Lady Samantha needed as many powerful supporters as she could get.

“Lady Westleigh asks nothing that I’m not prepared to do,” he said coldly, the topic closed as far as he was concerned. “Now, I’m off to—”

“Excuse me, my lord,” interrupted a footman, hurrying to his side. “A note has just arrived from Whitehall.”

“Add it to the other correspondence in my library,” William replied, not in the mood for one of those right now. “I’m about to go out for the evening.”

“Begging your pardon, but the runner said it’s urgent.”

They always are.

Since he’d first joined the shadowy branch of government that defended the realm against foreign threats, protecting king and country had come first. No request was denied, because they were all urgent, all matters of life and death. Every late night meeting, every page of unbreakable code, every translation of obscure dialect. Intelligence wasn’t a career for the fainthearted; for every moment of blood-fizzing triumph, there were ten times that of defeat or despair. If he were honest, sometimes the latter was so soul-destroying it was difficult to continue. There seemed to be an unending supply of English traitors, French spies, and those who created mischief and unrest for their own amusement or financial gain.

“Very well,” William said, reluctantly taking the parchment, breaking the seal, and swiftly reading the short message.

Standish,

We must discuss an important matter without delay. The usual location.

W.

Bloody hell. What now? Further news on Napoleon? The colonies? It had better not be another debacle with the Prince Regent. The self-absorbed dandy and shocking spendthrift was a barnacle on the backside of the throne.

Crossing the cream marble floor to a small fireplace, William threw the note in. Watching, as always, until nothing but ash remained.

“Is my carriage ready?” he asked, glancing back at the footman, who nodded hastily. “Then inform the driver we’ll be stopping at Whitehall prior to Almack’s.”

A half hour later William slipped through a discreet side entrance of the stately building, striding up several sets of stairs until he reached a suite of rooms on the upper floor. Even during the day it was quiet up here—few men had permission to walk these corridors—and he knocked then entered a large, well-lit office.

“Well, White? You summoned me, here I am.”

The Home Office intelligence coordinator, dressed in gray from head to toe and sporting faded ginger hair thinning by the day, peered distractedly from behind several piles of paperwork. “Standish.”

Eyebrows raised, William settled himself into a truly uncomfortable wooden chair. The coordinator could be damned bloody aggravating, but he was arguably the most dangerous man in England. White wasn’t his real name, just a shortened version of Whitehall. Nobody knew his real history, but those who reported to him did know he was tenacious, cunning, unapologetically ruthless, and spoken of in hushed terms by even the hardiest politicians and generals. The fact that his attention was diverted right now could only mean one thing: trouble.

“Your ghostly pallor and rather wrinkled clothing indicate several all-night vigils. Anything wrong in particular?”

“Apart from the damned Corsican returning to Paris and rallying thousands to his cause? Nothing. My apologies for delaying your evening, I’m sure you’re eager to get to Almack’s.”

“That goes without saying,” William replied guardedly. White both distracted and irritable did not bode well. “Are you itching for a young bride yourself, or is it a regal chaperone who has caught your eye? Either way, I’d recommend first combing what remains of your hair, and second hiring a valet to assist with your wardrobe. Bit of color, a touch of silk, and your cause would be helped no end.”

White’s lips twitched until he remembered he had no sense of humor, and his usual bland expression returned. “Lady Samantha Buchanan, the Earl of Claremont’s daughter. How well do you know her?”

“Not very.” William shrugged. “The Claremonts often left her in my foster mother’s care as a child, but I was away at Eton then Cambridge, so I only saw her occasionally before she got forcibly sent north to some cheap and obscure school. Both Lady Samantha and Lady Westleigh were devastated, but neither had a say in the matter.”

“What do you recall about the chit?”

“Hmmm. Sweet-tempered, a bit clumsy. Curly hair. Undersized. Enjoyed dolls and pony rides, but I believe the same could be said for most young girls.”

“Nothing else?”

“No scars, tattoos or known criminal associates I can remember, although she did try to befriend a stray cat once,” William finished, his own level of irritation rising. What the hell was all this about?

“So it’s been over ten years since you last saw her?”

“You are clever.”

“So they say,” the older man mused.

William refrained from hurling an inkpot. Just. “Perhaps we could get to the urgent matter? I have no desire to duel with a patroness, or Lady Westleigh, if I’m late.”

Steepling his fingers, White sat back in his chair. “Lady Samantha is part of it. I’ve been debating whether to involve you, due to the foster family connection, but it might well be the perfect cover. The central issue is her father. We strongly suspect, albeit without much solid evidence, that the Earl of Claremont is not only a supporter of Napoleon, but actively working on his behalf here in England to destabilize parliament and encourage invasion.”

Christ. Aunt Jane’s dissolute younger brother a traitor? The idea was so preposterous, he could barely form the words to respond. “What? But he’s a foolish drunk…”

“A drunk, yes. Foolish? I’m not so sure.”

“I see,” William said, chills icing his neck. “So how exactly do I fit into this?”

“There is a chance Lady Samantha could be aware of, or worse, be involved in her father’s activities...” Holding up a hand at William’s exclamation, he continued, “...or she may be an innocent bystander. Starting tonight, I need you to spend as much time with her as possible. Use whatever means necessary to gather information and report back to me.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a codebreaker and translator, not a damned interrogator. And you are asking me to behave very dishonorably toward my foster mother’s niece, a countrified chit only twenty years old.”

“Quite,” said White, without a hint of regret in his voice. “Of course, if you felt you couldn’t complete the task, I would understand. But I’d be forced to give it to someone else. Someone whose methods wouldn’t be as, ah, courteous as yours.”

Silently, William wished him straight to hell. The coordinator asked too much and bloody well knew it, yet how could he refuse the task knowing who was available and might be called on? The thought of one of those jaded, deadly operatives threatening or even cold-bloodedly ruining a probably-innocent young lady in their information quest was enough to turn his stomach.

“Very well,” he replied curtly, standing and sketching a bow. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. I’ll expect your first report within the week.”

As he departed, William’s fingers itched to slam the door. This was insanity. The thought of spying on any young lady in the guise of courting her was abhorrent enough. But a young lady loved by the Westleighs, his own foster family?

Exhaling heavily, he paused in an abandoned corridor and let his head rest briefly against the cool, pale stone wall.

Buck up, man.

Yes, at first glance there seemed no way this could end well, but he had to pull himself together. This was for king and country. To halt the advance of Napoleon, the greatest threat in centuries. And a Hastings never shirked his duty, no matter how terrible the circumstances.

Never.

* * *

When her aunt’s luxurious carriage pulled up outside the brightly lit but outwardly plain Almack’s building, Lady Samantha Buchanan’s heart plummeted.

Naturally there hadn’t been any overturned carts blocking the cobbled streets, or lunatic hackney drivers doing their best to cause an accident. No, tonight, when arriving here after eleven o’clock and being denied entry by the assembly hall’s formidable patronesses would have been the ultimate blessing, they’d had clear roads all the way.

This was all wrong. She didn’t want to be here. Shouldn’t be here. But her aunt was so happy…

“Well,” Samantha said, smiling through gritted teeth. “Almack’s.”

Jane Forsyth, dowager Countess of Westleigh, leaned over and squeezed her hand. “It will be fine, I promise. Keep your head held high, ignore the cretins, and enjoy the entertainment and chance to make some new friends. You look divine, darling. Ivory is a fabulous color for you, sets off those Buchanan brown eyes and blonde curls to perfection.”

“Please don’t remind me about my hair. At some stage tonight all ten thousand pins are going to escape, and some poor gentleman will be attacked by a bird’s nest. That is, if he isn’t already writhing on the floor, maimed by my clomping feet.”

Aunt Jane’s lips twitched as she opened the carriage door and allowed a footman to assist her out. “Pfft. Your quadrilles and waltzes have progressed superbly over the last few weeks.”

“Oh, indeed,” Samantha replied wryly, as she stepped down onto the pavement. “Yesterday Stephen’s toes were only crushed hourly rather than every five minutes. I don’t know why he puts up with me.”

“Because you are his favorite cousin.”

“I’m his only cousin. But now I owe Stephen the largest of favors, because he is morally opposed to Almack’s. Something about recurring nightmares of dastardly chaperones, stale cake, and warm lemonade.”

“Just wait until I...ah...he was joking.”

“Really? I think you must have pleaded, cajoled, and bribed better than a politician to make all this happen.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” her aunt replied with a haughty sniff, as they strolled toward the building entrance. “Never would I employ such tactics.”

“Then how did I get my vouchers? I know Mother has many gentlemen friends, but ton ladies cross the street to avoid her!”

Aunt Jane shrugged. “I merely mentioned to Emily Castlereagh how terribly disappointed Stephen and I would be if you were denied your come out. And that William would be too, considering you’ve been dear friends since childhood.”

“What?” Samantha choked out incredulously. “It’s been so long I could walk past Lord Standish in the street and not realize! The only reason I know anything about him is because of your letters!”

“A tiny and insignificant detail. Besides, he isn’t so very different. Still far too clever for his own good, and scrupulously dutiful, if entirely too reserved. But I must say his appearance has improved a great deal, and he’s not nearly so awkward.”

A reluctant grin tugged at Samantha’s lips. “How very fortunate. Imagine the casualties if we’d partnered each other a few years ago.”

“In that my hartshorn is miles away, thank you, but I’d rather not. Now, chin up. It’s time to face the grande dames.”

Samantha gulped. The Almack’s patronesses stood like sentries in a semi-circle inside the entrance, exquisitely gowned and even better connected, to welcome arrivals to the first assembly of the Season. But somehow her shaky curtsy and lackluster conversation passed muster, and in minutes they were waved in.

“Well done, darling,” her aunt whispered. “They thawed enough to nod. Half the battle already.”

Almack’s was a different world. A supper room, another housing several card games, and the main ballroom where an absolute crush of people were gossiping, dancing, and listening to the cheerful tunes played by musicians sitting unobtrusively in one corner. Eagle-eyed chaperones were encouraging or scolding their charges while subtlety pinching cheeks and patting hair, but the sheer number of men fascinated her most, all ages, shapes, and sizes, and immaculately turned out in formal jackets and knee breeches.

“Aunt Jane,” she whispered, “Why do the men look so, er...”

“Like they would rather wrestle an ornery bull? Don’t worry, it’s all an act. They are privately thrilled to be here and cannot wait to surrender their dull bachelor lives…oh look, Stephen and Caroline. I told you they would be here.”

Samantha swallowed hard. Blood relative support was one thing, but to be publicly backed by the formidable Caroline Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh, was a blessing she hadn’t dared to hope for. Not for a young woman lacking in so many ways, and with enough secrets to make a hardened soldier swoon.

“Aunt Jane, I...ooof...” Samantha gasped as she was nearly mown down by a pack surge of determined feminine chins and elbows heading toward the east wall.

“My word,” replied the dowager, hauling her out of the way. “Keep to the safety of the potted plants, darling. I’ll go and fetch us some lemonade.”

“Sam!”

Turning, she waved at Caroline. Stephen’s wife was unconventional in every way, not only a shade over six feet tall, but bold, witty, and unashamedly opinionated. They had gotten to know each other quite well since Samantha had returned to London, especially as she stood godmother to Stephen and Caroline’s adorable infant twins Serena and Olivia.

“You’re here! Thank goodness.”

Her friend chuckled, jade-green eyes glinting with mirth. “Never say you aren’t enjoying your first taste of indoor warfare? Honestly, nothing has changed since I made my come out. Eligible gentlemen will always turn ballrooms into battlefields.”

“I’ve never seen anything like it. How lucky you are to be married already.”

“My husband is adequate, I suppose,” said Caroline, glancing at tall, dark-haired Stephen with such warmth that Samantha’s heart clenched in envy. The likelihood of a love match of her own was less than nothing. “Although I may leave him for Standish or Ardmore if he continues to raid my apple tart supply.”

Stephen folded his arms. “Four females in the house, plus Louisa and Sam who visit regularly, and I’m the one accused?”

“You can hardly blame the babies. Besides, the crumbs tell tales.”

“And you always were partial to apple tarts,” said Aunt Jane as she reappeared with two cups of lemonade. “Here you go, Sam dear. The first sip is always the worst.”

Caroline grimaced. “Don’t do it. Your stomach deserves better.”

“It’s only lemonade,” said Samantha.

“And lions are merely large kittens,” said Stephen.

Rolling her eyes, Samantha lifted the cup to take a healthy gulp. And nearly choked as the warm, sour liquid made her mouth rebel and eyes water. She tried to remain still, but a paroxysm of coughing overtook her, and the rest of the lemonade spilled down the front of her gown.

Oh God.

Cheeks ablaze, she quickly excused herself to the powder room. It was thankfully empty, allowing time to dab at the ivory silk with a lace handkerchief in privacy, before bracing herself and returning to the narrow hallway.

Just in time to hear the semi-hushed voices.

“I, for one, cannot believe they granted her admittance. To think, a plump rustic of dubious virtue at Almack’s! Alongside well-bred ladies from England’s best families!”

“Oh, I agree. One can only sympathize with the Westleighs, being related to such bad apples. Apparently Lord Claremont had to be carried from his club last week, and do you know yesterday that his harlot wife propositioned Daisy Newland’s brother? Why, he’s still at Oxford! They’re both a disgrace.”

Mortified to the core, escape the only thought on her mind, Samantha began to run. Surely there was a discreet exit somewhere. If she could just take some air untainted with perfume and sweat and malice, she could re-don the invisible armor necessary for a ton encounter. And those girls didn’t even know half of the scandals. If they did, not even the Westleigh connection would save her reputation…

Rounding a corner at pace, Samantha collided with a wall. Or at least what felt like a wall. But as her hands flew up to steady herself, the pearl button on one of her gloves snagged and caught on something soft. Oh God. Surely not...a cravat? Tonight only needed this to finish it off: injuring a gentleman and getting tangled in his clothing. If she were particularly fortunate, it might be the Prince Regent she’d nearly flattened. Or some bad-tempered, scandal-mongering stickler. Not that she had promising marriage prospects to start with, but this would surely set a new standard for total demise.

As Samantha glanced up to calculate the extent of her fall from grace, her heart started pounding. She stepped back, although her glove refused to cooperate, staying resolutely attached to the most stunningly handsome man she’d ever seen in her life.

“If you’ll allow me...”

Hypnotized by the smooth richness of his voice, she could only watch as nimble fingers swiftly untangled her and smoothed the snowy white cravat. But the urge to study him further was overwhelming and her head tipped back, the only way to view such a tall and broad-shouldered frame, flawlessly attired in a black jacket, gray waistcoat, and breeches.

Heavens.

Square jaw. Deep blue eyes like a midsummer sky. The kind of glossy, closely cropped, chocolate-brown hair that urged the running of fingers through it.

“Ahem.”

The discreet cough made her jump, and flush with embarrassment at being caught ogling like an unsophisticated ninny. But why did he seem vaguely familiar? Surely she would remember meeting a man like this.

“I’m very sorry,” she mumbled.

“No harm done. Why were you distressed?”

“I, er…overheard some upsetting comments. But that’s no excuse for nearly flattening you. How dreadful of me.”

“As I said, no harm done,” he replied politely. Then his brow furrowed. “Forgive me, but have we met? I cannot help thinking I know you from somewhere, Miss...?”

Familiarity tugged again. But this gentleman definitely wasn’t a Buchanan acquaintance. Actually, the thought of him knowing her parents had her wishing with all her heart to be someone else. A formal introduction and he’d be the one running, to avoid a link with scandal.

Softly, reluctantly, she said, “Lady Samantha Buchanan.”

Recognition lit his eyes, and regret flooded her. But instead of scorn or distaste, the oddest expression flashed across his face, almost...resignation? Then he smiled, turning breathtaking into perfection.

“Lady Samantha, of course! Apologies for my tardiness, I had to attend an urgent meeting before coming here. Standish, at your service. Do you remember me?”

“William?” she gasped, her jaw dropping.

His eyebrows rose and her cheeks flamed at yet another gaffe. Of course after running into him and staring like a demented twit, naturally she would then call a senior peer by his first name without invitation.

Wanting to sink through the floorboards, she hastily curtsied. “I mean, Lord Standish. Of course I remember you. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Samantha,” he replied formally, although for a moment there might have been a tiny glint of humor in his eyes. Then they cooled and his jaw tightened. “Tell me about the comments. Was someone improper?”

Gulping at the change, summer to winter in a heartbeat, she nearly apologized again. Helpfully, her fan took on a life of its own, moving so fast it threatened to blow her back into the powder room. “Some girls were saying I shouldn’t be here because of Mother and Papa.”

“Nonsense. And may I add, no family in England can cast stones about colorful relatives. Now,” he said, offering his arm. “Perhaps I could escort you back to the others?”

Samantha nodded slowly as she rested her hand on his sleeve, only to be jolted by heat which somehow seeped through his jacket and her glove, and made her gown feel far too tight.

Alarmed, she tried to lift her hand away, but her fingers refused and curled even tighter around a solidly muscled arm. Oh God. Any minute now she would be stroking Lord Standish like a kitten, and banned from public appearances forever.

Mentally berating her foolishness, Samantha squared her shoulders and allowed the marquess to lead her back into the main ballroom.

* * *

The Fates were truly deplorable.

As if this assignment weren’t ridiculous enough already, naturally, the subject of his soon-to-be false affections would be exquisitely beautiful. No squint or bony limbs for this rosy-cheeked young lady, just wide brown eyes, pouty pink lips, and creamy skin so inviting he’d actually had to physically stop himself reaching over to explore her with the backs of his fingers. Not to mention the mishap with his cravat that had let him know, rather explicitly, her stays weren’t enhanced with padding. Those lush, lush breasts, and the full hips and rounded backside he couldn’t help but notice, were all natural. If he had a woman like this, wet and eager in his bed, he’d never leave the house. Whitehall be damned.

Grimacing, William slowed his steps so he walked just behind Lady Samantha and her thankfully generous skirts. Idiot could now be added to his list of faults, for pondering things best not pondered while wearing form-fitting breeches. Alongside degenerate. She was practically family, ten years younger and fresh from the country. But far worse than beautiful, Lady Samantha Buchanan could well be likeable. An intriguing mix of bashful and forthright, someone whose conversation topics might range beyond fashion and the weather. Then again, if she moved amongst traitors like her father allegedly did, playing any kind of role would come as easily as breathing.

At last he spotted Stephen and Aunt Jane in the crowd, and relieved, he turned her toward them. “Westleigh! Look who I found in my travels.”

Stephen grinned. “Glad you could finally make it, old man. You were able to repair the damage, Samantha?”

“Yes, fortunately the lemonade didn’t leave a stain. I, er, bumped into Lord Standish in the corridor and he very kindly escorted me back here. But why aren’t you all dancing?”

George Grenville, Earl of Trentham, stepped forward with Aunt Jane. “I’m about to take a turn about the floor with my favorite dowager. She took pity on me, as Louisa caught a slight chill thanks to a prolonged outdoor experiment, and is at home sneezing by the fire.”

“Dancing is a capital idea. Propriety can go to the devil, I choose my wife,” said Stephen, holding out his hand to Caroline.

The countess hesitated, shooting a concerned glance at Samantha. “Well…”

“If you are brave enough to chance your husband’s flailing limbs,” William cut in smoothly, “Perhaps, Lady Samantha, you’ll risk a dance with me? I must warn you I’m equally woeful.”

She paused, then her lips curved into a sunny grin, and without warning a long-buried memory flashed through his mind: a sparkling blue-eyed redhead who had smiled at him the same way.

“There you are, Will!” she cried, laughing. “Your poor father has indulged me for an hour, but is getting hoarse from humming tunes and has that look which says he is desperate to escape. Come and dance a quadrille with me.”

“No, Mama. Last time I kicked the wrong way and nearly broke your ankle.”

“All the more reason to practice, my angel! The lady of your dreams will thank me for it!”

“Lord Standish? Is everything all right?”

Startled, he stared down at Lady Samantha’s concerned face and hastily nodded. What the hell was wrong with him? He never woolgathered, especially not in the company of others. Since he’d been recruited by White, he had been lauded as the man who watched and assessed and noticed the details that others missed. The man always ready to solve an unsolvable puzzle. Not some moonstruck dandy who sighed and penned odes to the majesty of raindrops or some other bloody nonsense.

Taking a deep breath, William took her hand, encircled her waist, and moved to begin this newfangled dance, the waltz. Except instead of stepping backward, she went forward and slammed hard into his chest.

Oh hell.

For an excruciatingly long moment her breasts pressed and rubbed against him, and several of the soft, floral-scented curls piled high on her head teased his cheek. Just as they would if she were naked under him. She’d be flushed and panting, hoarse from crying out with pleasure as he sucked and pinched her jutting nipples. But he wouldn’t oblige her with his cock, not right away. No, he’d tease her. Take her to the edge and back until she begged for it. Only then would he spread her thighs wide and take her, feel the tight, scalding grip of her quim, the sting of her nails leaving crescent moons on his back as she arched and screamed in ecstasy…

Even faster than in the hallway, his cock hardened painfully. Yet seconds later, in her gasping haste to disengage herself for a second time, Lady Samantha managed to grind her heel into his instep.

“Terribly sorry,” he said, welcoming the eye-watering punishment for such obscene thoughts, and salvation from another potentially humiliating breeches situation. “Obviously it’s been far too long between ballroom outings for me.”

And too long between women.

It was a very sad state of affairs when a man of details couldn’t quite recall the last time he’d ventured into a feminine boudoir.

“You are kind to tell such a large fib,” Lady Samantha replied, her cheeks crimson and her eyes huge with dismay. “But I know it’s entirely my fault. Two months is not nearly long enough to learn how to dance.”

Intrigued, he tilted his head. “Two months?”

“Yes. I’ve only recently returned to London from Miss Chadwick’s Academy for Young Ladies. That was the school I attended, and taught at, up in Yorkshire. Unfortunately they didn’t have a dancing master, so since I came back to stand as godmother to the twins, Aunt Jane and Caroline and Stephen have been trying to teach me some basic steps. As poor Stephen knows, and you have now experienced, I’m a lackluster student.”

William frowned. “Not at all. I doubt anyone could learn these dances in such a short time. But what did you do between terms when the school closed? Travel? Stay at the Claremont country estate?”

Hurt flashed across Lady Samantha’s face, and her feet faltered again. Christ. Too soon. His first foray into interrogation, and he’d bungled it completely. At this rate she wouldn’t be running into him ever again, but sprinting in the other direction if she so much as glimpsed him in her vicinity.

Swiftly, he guided her away from the other dancers and toward the edge of the ballroom so she might relax and hopefully forget that he’d even asked a question. But then she rallied and half-smiled.

“No. Mother and Papa preferred me to stay at Miss Chadwick’s year round, London being so dirty and unsafe and all. And there was nobody at the country seat, so I couldn’t go there. That is why I stayed in Yorkshire even after my schooling was completed, as an assistant teacher. It wouldn’t have been so wonderful in London anyway, with everyone so busy…although seeing Stephen and Caroline get married might have been nice,” she finished wistfully.

Anger rose on her behalf, until he remembered this could all be an elaborate lie. “Not well done by your parents.”

Lady Samantha’s lips tightened momentarily. “It wasn’t…it wasn’t so very bad.”

“I’m sure. But twelve years is a long time to remain in exile.”

“Sometimes it felt like forever. Making friends, only to wave goodbye when they went home or graduated. I shouldn’t complain, though. There were some lovely teachers and students, and I quite enjoyed the church fetes and village afternoon teas. Plus, Aunt Jane sent me money and gifts and weekly letters with all the news. Occasionally she wrote about you!”

“I’m sure I can guess the topics,” William replied, almost smiling at her clumsy attempt to move the conversation topic away from herself. “I work too hard, am away too much and it is past time I found a nice lady to marry?”

Her eyes shifted guiltily, but she remained silent as the closing notes of the waltz sounded, and her loyalty had him fighting the urge to pull her close. Instead, he bowed and then guided her back to where Stephen and the others were standing.

When, exactly, had he lost his mind? Dancing and a little conversation shouldn’t inspire much of a reaction, yet for the first time in months he actually felt...alive.

Damnation.

White might have neglected to pass on a “Beginners Guide to Interrogating Possible Lady Traitors” manual, but if one did exist, no doubt the first rule outlined why an operative did not think about bedding the person they were supposed to be investigating. Rule two probably covered the ban on liking or admiring them.

Thank God the actual assignment appeared straightforward. A few more conversations, some dancing, perhaps a picnic or two, or brisk trot along Rotten Row, and he’d surely have all the information he needed. A month at most and he could provide several reports to White and move on, leaving her unscathed and his conscience clear.

An outstanding, remarkably well thought-out plan, said conscience applauded. By the way, you remember the hand that was platonically and appropriately at Lady Samantha’s back while you were walking? Well, let’s just say it has travelled significantly south.

William glanced down and closed his eyes.

Oh hell.