“Ouch!”

Eyes watering, Samantha gripped the edge of her dressing table. A sleepless night tossing, turning, and analyzing everything from Almack’s meant her hair was now the bird’s nest she’d joked about. Her new maid Trudy had already broken two brushes attempting to tame it.

“Good grief, like brambles,” the older woman muttered as she tugged through knot number six hundred. “Try not to scream too loudly, my lady, or your mother might investigate and there’ll be the devil to pay.”

Samantha nodded. It was always sobering to be reminded of her status in Claremont House—a temporary guest with few allies, although Trudy was friendly and obliging.

At times like this, she missed the academy dreadfully.

Twelve years of excruciating loneliness, but her small, plain chamber had been a refuge, and the brisk headmistress a mother figure of sorts. It was she who had nodded approvingly when French verbs were mastered and tsked at torn hems. It was also she who had scolded when Samantha escaped choir practice to go to the nearby village. But if Miss Chadwick had known that one of the neat stone cottages housed a former circus troupe performer with a particular talent for knife throwing—and instructing—a lecture would have been the least of it. Fortunately the headmistress never learned about that, or the short, sharp dagger that rested at the bottom of Samantha’s reticule and accompanied her wherever she went.

Yet her parents were as indifferent as ever. Papa was forever at his club, a meeting or locked in his library. Her mother merely waved as she climbed into yet another unfamiliar carriage. It was obvious they had only taken her back under extreme duress from Aunt Jane and wished their unwanted daughter gone again as soon as possible.

Trudy sighed audibly. “There. All done. Now, which dress are you going to wear today? The yellow always looks fetching, or there is the pink-striped gown with the white sash. Perfect to receive callers in, that one.”

“You think I’ll have visitors?”

Her maid smiled as she gathered a fresh chemise, stays, and the pale pink gown. “Judging from the bouquets in the parlor, yes.”

“What?” Samantha gasped. “I have flowers? Why didn’t you say so!”

Forcing herself to remain still while Trudy finished dressing her, she eventually slid her feet into matching pink slippers and nearly sprinted from the room. Bouquets meant gentlemen declaring friendship, interest or even affection! Almost dizzy at the possibility that one of the accompanying cards might say Standish, Samantha hurried down the creaky staircase to the ground floor. Even before she could see them, her nose twitched at the heady scent of blooms in the air.

Once she reached the sunny front parlor, Samantha stared reverently at a side table covered in bouquets. Oh, but they were beautiful. Pinks and reds and purples and yellows, like a chunk of rainbow brought down from the sky.

“Planning to open your own flower stall?”

Startled, she lurched around to see her portly, dark-haired father standing behind her, his usual glass of brandy in hand. “Papa! I can’t believe they’re for me.”

“Well, unless there is another Lady Samantha Buchanan in residence. When did you become so popular?”

“I made my come out at Almack’s last night. You remember, Aunt Jane and Stephen escorted me.”

“Ah, yes,” John Buchanan, Earl of Claremont, replied, absently twisting a waistcoat button straining to hold in his swollen stomach. “That came around fast. You must have made a splash. Hopefully soon I’ll be inundated with gentlemen fighting to take you off my hands.”

Trying not to wince at the phrasing, Samantha walked over to the side table and began reading the gilt-edged cards attached to the bouquets.

“My goodness! So many flowers!” Eva Buchanan, the beautiful Countess of Claremont, trilled from the doorway, tossing her enviably perfect straight blonde hair and striking the pose which enthralled every man between eighteen and eighty—except her husband.

John chuckled. “Sorry, my dear, but they are all for your daughter. Apparently she made a favorable impression at her come out.”

“From family, mostly,” Samantha added, when her mother visibly drooped. “Aunt Jane, Stephen, and Caroline. Plus, er, Sir Eustace Quinn, Baron Vercoe, Lord Hannery...”

“Never mind,” Eva replied, all smiles again. “I’m sure if you attend lots more parties and try very hard to be charming, some eligible man who isn’t related to you will send a bouquet.”

“Thank you, Mother. Do you have time for tea? I could see what Cook is baking—”

“Goodness me, no, I have a modiste appointment. Uppity woman gets very cross if I’m even a little late, last time she threatened me with a plain gown. Imagine, not a single feather or bow! Perhaps another day,” she finished vaguely, and drifted out of the room, quickly followed by her husband.

Samantha slumped onto a chaise beside the arrangements. Maybe one day her parents would forgive whatever crime she’d committed as a child and start to like her. Another example of their aversion, on top of a crushing lack of flowers from Lord Standish, made her want to eat her weight in candied fruit. And her stays already struggled enough.

“How on earth do ladies survive a Season without losing their minds?” she groaned aloud.

“Hartshorn and shopping,” replied an amused voice from the doorway.

Samantha’s head shot up to see Caroline, and she flushed, embarrassed even a friend had heard such an outburst. “Don’t laugh. I now understand how ton daughters are driven to madness.”

Strolling into the room, Caroline then settled herself into an upholstered chair and absently smoothed her violet-sprigged day dress. “Comparing yourself to those of Polite Society is excessively harsh. They are mostly pea-brained henwits. Talking of odd people, what is wrong with your butler? Penn always tracks my movements like I’m eyeing up the silver or about to open his cupboard of body parts.”

“Papa says a good butler is dedicated to protecting household secrets,” Samantha said piously, trying not to grin.

“Wise words from a man who probably needs an entire floor for his skeletons.”

“Oh, please! Mother might, but Papa is an open book. Well, apart from drinking a little too much.”

“Dearest, everyone in England knows that. Going bottle for bottle with Claremont is considered the ultimate in impossible dreams, much like enjoying a hackney ride or painless childbirth. When the time comes, just say no.”

Samantha laughed. “Except your girls are scrumptious. When I see those cooing little cherubs, I think I’d like ten.”

“Well, the making of them is fun. The delivering of them not at all,” said Caroline, then she grimaced. “Hell and damnation, forget I said that. I’m supposed to be a responsible matron, not soiling your innocent ears.”

Guilt heated Samantha’s cheekbones. Innocent, she wasn’t. But much like her knife throwing, her indiscretion would remain a secret untold. “Do you, ah, like my bouquets?”

“Gorgeous. Who from? Anyone worthy of admiration?”

“Perhaps. I had to tell Mother a tiny lie about the senders to stop her feeling down.”

Caroline grinned. “Only a tiny lie, hmmm? Dare I ask who will be forever oblivious to the fact they sent you a bouquet?”

“Sir Eustace Quinn, Baron Vercoe, and Lord Hannery.”

“Really, Samantha. You couldn’t do better than a toothless ancient, a near monk, and a heeled slipper wearer to assuage your mother’s sensibilities? My, you are a dutiful daughter. I hope Lord and Lady C are equally thoughtful when it comes to approving your future husband.”

“I hope so, too. But I don’t hold out much hope. Papa doesn’t like me at all, and Mother generally avoids me like the plague.”

“Oh, dearest,” Caroline began, but Samantha held up a hand and forced a smile.

“Enough gloomy talk. How did you find Almack’s?”

“Tolerable enough. Even Stephen admitted it’s not so bad when married. But I didn’t come here to talk about last night, poppet, I’ve come to escort you to the Havenhursts. Go and fetch your bonnet and pelisse.”

“The infamous bruised drawing room? Hooray! Oh, wait. I’ll have to tell Papa.”

“Let’s go and find him then.”

A maid stood outside the parlor, dusting an urn. Samantha tapped her on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, have you seen my father?”

“Out the kitchen way, mum,” the maid replied, bobbing a curtsy. “One of them delivery carts arrived before.”

“Thank you.”

As they reached the kitchens, Caroline sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmmm. Nutmeg and apple. You know, I’m tempted to stay and cast judgement on your cook’s tarts, but the on-dits awaiting us at Mary Havenhurst’s will be far too diverting. I swear the baroness creeps from window to window with paper and pencil, or owns at least one of the scandal sheets. Actually, my brother is convinced she is responsible for the Glorious George poppycock.”

“Poor Lord Trentham. I can’t believe those poems still appear. He’s married now, and seems happy.”

“He is. Ridiculously so. Him and Louisa complement each other in all sorts of bizarre, sulphur-scented ways. I think some women just cannot stand the fact that not one, but two extremely eligible young earls are well and truly taken. I almost feel sorry for the other London Lords now. The husband hunters are becoming even more determined and ruthless.”

Samantha shuddered. “So I saw. Good grief. Remind me who the other London Lords are again? Stephen, Lord Trentham, Lord Standish…”

“Plus the Marquess of Ardmore, Colonel Lord Robert Langley, and the Duke of Southby. Remember the names, poppet. They’ll be the ones hovering, ready to both halt flirtations and crush your critics to powder. The protector role is taken very seriously.”

“Ummm…they sound terrifying.”

“They are. Also rather overbearing,” said Caroline archly. “There were many occasions when I wanted them all to go and bathe in the Thames, from a starting point of London Bridge…what on earth is that sound?”

Halting, Samantha cocked her head and listened, and a frisson of unease shot straight down her spine. “Papa and Penn shouting,” she said, lowering her voice. “And...someone crying. But not a child. Perhaps we should just go.”

Shaking her head, Caroline tugged her forward. Tip-toeing across the gravel, they then crouched on a patch of grass behind a flower-covered trellis.

Her father, arms folded, was glaring at a crying, simply-dressed man. “My butler tells me the delivery is missing some items. Would you explain how that came to be?”

“Sir! I s-swear, sir, everything is there. I went to the d-docks like your man said, put them things in the c-cart, and brung ’em straight here.”

“So you aren’t trying to cheat me?”

“No sir! N-never!”

“I am relieved to hear it. But should I discover you’ve lied to me...”

Even from a distance, the stranger turned visibly paler. Then, without warning, her father viciously backhanded him, and the man fell to the ground.

How awful! No one deserved such treatment! Samantha indignantly made to get up, until Caroline’s hand gripped her arm and yanked her back down. Heeding the warning, Samantha turned back and peered through the trellis. Penn was escorting the delivery man away while her father watched. When he was quite alone, she stood up, took a deep breath and began to clomp her heels on the gravel.

“Papa? Papa, are you out here?” she called, walking in a circle before continuing down the path, Caroline in tow.

Her father turned and gave her an annoyed look. “What do you want, Samantha? Oh, good afternoon, Lady Westleigh.”

“Good afternoon, Lord Claremont,” replied Caroline, uncharacteristically docile.

“Papa, I just wanted to see if it was all right to go to the Havenhursts with Caroline this afternoon.”

“I suppose so. I’m going to my club. Your mother probably won’t be home tonight, so order a tea tray.”

“Very well. Goodbye, Pa...”

But before she could finish, he brushed past them and strode away.

* * *

It had only been twenty minutes, but already this was looking to be one of the longest afternoons of his life.

Inwardly cursing, William forced himself to nod every so often as the petite, brown-haired Baroness Havenhurst clung to his arm and chirped like an intoxicated canary. It was hard to know what was more nauseating, the purple and orange decor of the drawing room, or the way she was parading him around like a thoroughbred at Tattersall’s. That was the reason he usually avoided gatherings like this—they were a favorite haunt of wealth-and-position-seeking mamas and daughters, and unfortunately he had one of the oldest titles and largest fortunes in the whole damned realm.

However, the opportunity to accidentally bump into Lady Samantha was too tempting to pass over. Stephen had mentioned that the Almack’s outing had garnered him enough credits to decline, but Caroline would be here today. Considering Caroline and Samantha had become good friends, the likelihood of both arriving seemed high enough to risk the unpleasantness. Yet at this stage neither the countess nor his assignment had appeared, and his nerves were edging closer to frayed.

“Standish!” boomed a voice behind him. “Can hardly believe my eyes, but good to see you!”

Turning, William smiled his first genuine smile of the afternoon, and offered his hand. Short, stocky, and a talented inventor, Lord Nigel Havenhurst had been a good friend of his father’s and a long-time widower until he’d inexplicably married the current baroness three years previously.

“Havenhurst. You’re looking well, sir.”

“Fit as a fiddle, m’boy, fit as a fiddle,” said the baron, beaming and stroking his impressive snow-white moustache. “Heard the latest from France? Can’t believe that damned bounder Napoleon escaped Elba and made it to Paris.”

“He made it look easy, although the Bourbons haven’t exactly inspired love among their people. I know Liverpool and Castlereagh are watching the situation very carefully.”

“As they should. But if that Frenchie so much as sniffs in this direction, I hope Wellington just shoots the bastard—”

“Nigel!” snapped Lady Havenhurst, scowling. “No war talk in my drawing room. Poor Lord Standish is quite bored already.”

“Beg pardon, Mary,” Lord Havenhurst replied, exchanging a glance with William over his wife’s head. “Quite forgot where I was.”

“Indeed. As I was saying to his lordship before you so rudely interrupted us, it is high time he found himself a bride. The very cream of the crop will be here today, so if he makes his choice I will be credited with the match of the Season. Perhaps the decade.”

“Oh, I see,” Havenhurst murmured, his faded blue eyes twinkling with unholy glee. “Well, far be it from me to stand in the path of true love. Best of luck with the quest, Standish, I’m off to sample the fruitcake.”

And with that the damned turncoat nearly sprinted for the refreshment table.

“So, my lord, tell me,” said the baroness, retaking his arm and fixing him with a gimlet stare. “What qualities do you seek in a wife? Apart from the obvious of beauty and breeding, of course.”

“Truth be told I haven’t really—”

“Haven’t really considered it? Gracious me.”

“Naturally I’ve considered it,” he countered, quelling his irritation. “But when one has obligations requiring frequent absences, it would be rather unfair on a wife, don’t you think?”

“Fustian. The future Marchioness of Standish will know her duty. Now, I must admit I’m rather shocked Jane Westleigh hasn’t taken the situation in hand. A man of your stature shouldn’t be running around a bachelor!”

“Lady Havenhurst—”

“Her son is settled, although it was such a shame that dear Caroline presented him with twin daughters instead of an heir. He no doubt hopes she’ll do better next time. An heir and a spare to secure the title and no dilly-dallying about, that’s what I always say. So, my lord. Attributes. Tall or short? Fair-haired or dark? Well read, musically accomplished? Unlike so many others, I daresay a less than impressive dowry won’t trouble you.”

Clasping his hands behind his back so he didn’t strangle the woman, William attempted a smile. From her startled recoil, he didn’t succeed. Hell. He was probably bestowing upon the baroness the look that George referred to as ‘the gentleman assassin’, all icy refined menace. “Your interest in my wellbeing and future happiness is humbling, my lady. I will share two rather important qualities I’d like my future wife to possess: sensitivity and discretion.”

“Of course, of course!” Lady Havenhurst said, relaxing. “My husband searched for exactly those traits also…well, I never. Would you look at who has just arrived! Caroline Westleigh and Samantha Buchanan.”

Oh thank God. “By your tone I take it they are not your favorites?” he enquired softly.

“Well, Lady Westleigh is the daughter of a duke. And we adore her husband, and brother Trentham, of course. But those good looks are wasted on someone so ridiculously tall. Not to mention her frightful temper.”

“Some might say,” he murmured noncommittally, trying not to grin at the thought of Caroline overhearing and launching the baroness headfirst out a window.

“As for Claremont’s chit...”

“What about Lady Samantha?” he answered, his voice chilling.

“Well, like so many others, I can only sympathize with poor Jane. She truly is a saint, taking on her niece’s come out for her shameful brother and his harlot wife when they are such terrible ton. The girl shouldn’t be allowed near decent people. Lowers the tone.”

“Really? When I danced with Lady Samantha last night, I found her to be charming.”

Lady Havenhurst’s face drained of color then turned pea-green. “You...you did?”

“Yes. Actually, she’s always been charming,” William continued frigidly. “Known her since she was an infant. The Westleighs are delighted to be sponsoring Lady Samantha’s first Season, and Trentham, Ardmore, Southby, and I have all pledged our full support to ensure it is pleasant experience. Anything else would be disappointing. Exceedingly disappointing.”

“Certainly, your lordship,” choked out the baroness. “Only silly people listen to silly gossip. If you’ll excuse me, I must go and welcome the newest arrivals then attend to my other guests.”

“The mark of a fine hostess, Lady Havenhurst. I’ll accompany you to greet them.”

As they strolled across the drawing room, he reminded himself that Lady Samantha was probably the daughter of a traitor, completely off limits, and not to be touched, admired or gazed at under any circumstances.

Indeed, his mind snickered. But look at the pink gown she’s nearly sewn into. One too-deep breath and it would be all over. And the color, doesn’t it make her mouth look even lusher, like she’s spent the last few hours being thoroughly kissed? Imagine how she would taste, how those plump lips would feel on your skin, on your c...

“Focus, man,” he muttered furiously.

“Excuse me, my lord, did you say something?”

“No, no...Lady Westleigh, Lady Samantha, good afternoon to you both.”

“Lord Standish,” replied Caroline, her usual unrepentant grin somewhat muted. “I wasn’t expecting to see you in this particular drawing room.”

Lady Havenhurst inhaled deeply, but she also managed a smile. “I’m so very glad you were able to come today, Caroline dear.”

“Are you, Mary dear?” Caroline replied, tilting her head. “Well then, we are glad to be here. Have you met Lady Samantha Buchanan?”

“Not officially. Welcome, my lady. I am acquainted with your aunt, she is a lovely woman.”

“Thank you, Lady Havenhurst,” said Lady Samantha, her eyes as round as saucers as she took in the décor.

“Divine, isn’t it?” the baroness preened, following her gaze. “Chose the colors myself.”

“I would never have thought to bring the two together. So very, ah, vibrant.”

“You have excellent taste. Well, unfortunately I must excuse myself, guests to attend to and all that. Do enjoy the afternoon, and help yourselves to tea. The berry tarts are quite delicious.”

Lady Havenhurst was barely out of earshot when Caroline folded her arms and looked at him intently.

“Did you say something to her, Lord Standish? She usually has no more than two hissed words for me.”

“Of course not,” William replied. “Perhaps the baroness is mellowing as she ages.”

“Pfft. Now I feel even more unsettled, like the end of the world is nigh. Of course, that could just be this room. I need cake, immediately. Excuse me.”

He turned and bowed to Lady Samantha. “Forgive me, it seems I am frightening everyone away today.”

“Oh, no,” she said, her lips twitching, “When Caroline needs cake, she needs it without delay. Otherwise lives could be lost. And we’ve had an...interesting morning.”

“Interesting? How so?”

A shadow crossed her expressive face, and he frowned.

“Lady Samantha? Was someone unkind?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly, “It’s nothing really.”

His neck prickled. “Tell me.”

“Well, um, before we came here, I went to ask Papa’s permission and he was being absolutely awful to a delivery man from the docks. So awful he made the man cry!”

“Why? Had the man stolen something and been caught?”

“According to Penn—that’s our butler—some things were missing, but the man swore it wasn’t him. He was so afraid! And I was a little afraid, too. I’ve never seen Papa look or speak so cruelly before, and he hit the man as well.”

And there it was, the perfect opening to start his campaign.

For God’s sake, man, say the words. The sooner it begins, the sooner it is done.

“That doesn’t sound good at all,” he said instead, attempting to harden himself against the confusion and unhappiness in her wide brown eyes.

“It wasn’t. Why would Papa be so awful?”

Say the words, you damned fool!

“I really don’t know. But…” he continued, even as distaste sanded his throat, “should something like that ever happen again, a strange visitor, or a situation where you feel uneasy, I hope you’ll tell me. Right away. I realize it has been a long while since we last spent time together, but I do feel a certain duty...”

“Duty,” she repeated, her eyes dulling, and he wanted to kick himself for the poor word choice. The master of courtly love, he was not.

“I mean friendship. I greatly enjoyed our dance and conversation last night, and would certainly like to spend some more time with you. If you agree, of course.”

“But the others sent me flowers,” she said slowly, her cheeks reddening as she glanced away. “You didn’t.”

Oh hell. Kicking himself wasn’t nearly enough punishment for such a ridiculous oversight. How could he have forgotten something so basic? A failure as a gentleman on top of being England’s worst interrogator.

First lie, coming up.

“Of course I did! You mean you didn’t receive them? Yellow rose spray with a blue bow? Well, I know one florist I shan’t be returning to.”

“Oh no, wait, perhaps I just didn’t see them. If you say you sent some, I believe you!” she finished, her face lighting up.

“How very reassuring. Trustworthy as the day is long, that’s me,” William replied in a tone so horribly “jolly old uncle” hearty it made him queasy. “Now, are you hungry? We should get to the cake before Lady Westleigh finishes it all.”

“I’d love some.”

Tucking Lady Samantha’s arm through his, desperately trying to ignore the inviting warmth of her skin and the light floral scent far more alluring than any perfume would ever be, he led her toward the refreshment table. All the time wishing he’d never re-met this beautiful, bashful, and rather interesting young woman, who might well be helping to spin a web of pure evil.

* * *

Lord Standish was so kind. Had bought her flowers. And yet he was very hard to understand.

Nibbling at a thin slice of fruitcake—because if she indulged in the other treats on the refreshment table, her gown would actually split down the front—Samantha pondered the physical perfection standing beside her.

He was so proper. Polite and attentive. Occasionally made comments that caused her to laugh out loud and the room to stop and stare. And yet an almost visible cloak of tension had settled around his shoulders, something that made her want to step forward and wrap her arms around him. But that would be another mistake, and twenty was far too young to have made as many as she had. Besides, if she got too close, the inferno that occasionally flashed in his eyes, that heat whenever she rested her hand on his sleeve, or danced with him, or brushed against him in any way, might burn her alive.

Especially now, when there were so many people around. And not elderly matrons with poor eyesight and worse hearing, or discreet secret-keepers. If she were to say something here, to ask him a personal question to try and get to know him a little better, all the gossips in London would fall on her like wolves on meat scraps.

Oh God. She was officially turning Bedlamite. Or perhaps it was just this ghastly drawing room, which would give her purple-and-orange-tinged nightmares for eternity. This assault on the eyes was not even something her mother dared; she at least restricted herself to gowns.

“It’s definitely an acquired taste, isn’t it?”

Startled, Samantha looked up at Lord Standish. Was she so very easy to read? “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, my lord.”

“Oh dear,” he said, his lips twitching. “You aren’t going to break my heart and admit to a fondness for the décor combination, are you?”

“In truth,” she said archly, resolutely ignoring the effect of that damned dimple when he smiled, “I don’t feel the room is vibrant enough. To really bring out the magnificence of the orange and purple, Lady Havenhurst should have added some splashes of jonquil or Pomona green. And there is a criminal lack of dyed feathers.”

“Good God,” said Caroline, coming to stand beside her. “Lord Standish, we must extract Sam from this place at once. She is actually crumbling as we watch. I am concerned she may commandeer the refreshment table and start pelting Lady Havenhurst and friends with raisin pastries, in which case, I would be forced to help her. The cake sacrifice would be worth it. ”

The marquess tilted his head. “The way I hear it, Lady Westleigh, you are far more lethal with a slipper heel than an object in hand. But Lady Samantha is an unknown quantity. What deadly talents might she possess?”

I throw knives with astounding accuracy, my lord. “I would have thought that was patently obvious after last night, Lord Standish.”

“Oh?” said Caroline, her green eyes gleaming with curiosity. “What happened last night?”

“After attempting to flatten him in a hallway, I then moved my regime of terror to a higher level and mauled his instep during the waltz.”

“Pfft. The mauling of insteps is a sanctioned weapon in a lady’s arsenal.”

“He hadn’t done anything wrong,” Samantha stage-whispered.

For one odd moment, Lord Standish’s smile seemed to freeze. Then he laughed. “There is no gentleman on earth entirely innocent, Lady Samantha. But, Lady Westleigh, back to your original point, I do believe we must escort your charge away from this place. And I should chide you on bringing her here so early in the Season. I thought ladies new to London saved this pleasure for last.”

“Well, usually Mary and her cronies have some light entertainment to share, but unfortunately, Esther Hartley twisted her ankle on a rogue step and was unable to sing or play the piano here this afternoon.”

“Who is Esther Hartley?” said Samantha, as the three of them moved toward the drawing room door and freedom. But the other two remained silent on the topic until they had made their farewells to a rather annoyed-looking Mary Havenhurst.

“I suspect she is a government operative,” said Caroline, when they were outside on the footpath waiting for the Westleigh carriage to be brought around. “When Mary isn’t holding court they gather suspected criminals, bring them here to the orange and purple dungeon, and have Esther play pianoforte and sing. Remarkably effective and bloodless way to gain confessions. I believe the record for longest resistance is five minutes. Hardy soul, that one. But even he broke down and wept, promising to reveal everything he knew if they would only make it stop and allow him the paradise of rats and moldy bread at Newgate.”

Lord Standish cleared his throat. “Esther is, ah, not that bad.”

The giggle Samantha had been suppressing at Caroline’s story died in her throat. Who was Esther Hartley to Lord Standish? Were they friends? Lovers? Damnation. The woman was probably beautiful. Well bred, delightful parents, and slender…

Caroline snorted. “Poppycock. We keep her and George apart, because together they would begin the musical apocalypse with their rendition of two barn cats getting their tails caught in a water wheel.”

“’Tis true, Lady Westleigh, your brother’s singing voice would make a statue weep…”

The two of them continued to banter back and forth, but Samantha couldn’t concentrate on a single word. So, this was jealousy. And a more pathetic example would be impossible to imagine. How on earth could she feel so proprietary toward the marquess? Good grief, she had no claim on Lord Standish whatsoever, and after nothing more than a few conversations and the worst waltz in history thanks to her two left feet, she wanted to scratch the eyes out of a young woman she’d never even met.

“Lady Samantha?”

She jumped. “Yes?”

That damned dimple appeared again. “The Westleigh carriage is here to take you home. If you’ll allow me…” he finished, assisting first Caroline, and then her into the luxurious conveyance.

Was it her fevered imagination, or did his fingers remain wrapped around hers for a fraction longer than necessary?

“Thank you, Lord Standish, for your attentive care,” said Caroline, her lips twitching. “We both hope to see you again soon.”

The marquess bowed. ‘I’ll make sure of it. Enjoy the rest of your afternoon, ladies.”

Then the carriage was moving away from him, and Samantha only just managed to stop herself from pressing her nose to the glass.

“Oh dear,” said Caroline. “Oh dear.”

“What?” she replied far too sharply.

“I know that look.”

“What look? There is no look.”

“Pfft. Don’t you dare lie to me, Samantha Buchanan. Not when we are family. As Stephen might ask, what percentage are you smitten with a certain dark and mysterious marquess?”

A lie sat on the tip of her tongue, but her wretched cheeks, as usual, gave her away completely, and she sighed. “Perhaps a little. Thirty percent?”

Caroline rolled her eyes. “Plus the other seventy. Well then. What are we going to do about it?”

“Nothing!” she said fiercely.

“Excuse me? But you just confessed your admiration. And I suspect that admiration is not at all one-sided. Oooh. Samantha Standish. Now there is a name that sounds just right.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped, all the while knowing she would be practicing the signature in her diary that evening. “In what universe would someone like William Hastings, model of good taste, decorum, and the most proper, honorable gentleman who ever lived, marry the daughter of the Earl and Countess of Claremont?”

Her friend shrugged. “In the same universe where I, a prickly, figurine-throwing hellion, won the rational and chart-loving Earl of Westleigh. Or where Louisa, who wears breeches and plays with gunpowder, caused George, style leader and king rake, to tumble head over heels. Nothing is inconceivable.”

Samantha looked away. Nothing, except this.