At this rate he would make it through Hyde Park in approximately six days.

Gritting his teeth, William inclined his head at an elderly couple as he inched past them on his thankfully patient stallion, Storm. The park was chaos at this time of day, and despite the charm and greenery of the area, no one was here for fresh air and exercise. Hundreds of people were strolling, others were on horseback, curricles were jostling each other for prime space, and everyone wanted to stop and talk.

It was times like these he wished he were anyone but the young, unmarried, highly connected, and excessively wealthy Marquess of Standish. Far better to be an elderly gentleman without a feather to fly with, no interest whatsoever in politics, and who only spoke truth rather than platitudes. Then people would offer little more than a polite greeting before moving on quickly, and no perfectly healthy young ladies would be abruptly overcome by the mild heat right in front of him as their chaperones mysteriously vanished. Did anyone actually fall for that trick nowadays? Or well-shod horses losing shoes left, right, and center? Bloody hell. London apothecaries and blacksmiths must make an absolute fortune during the Season.

“Standish! What a treat to see you here.”

He smiled politely at a dark-haired matron and her two daughters in a yellow curricle as it blocked his path. “Lady Baker-Field, Miss Baker-Field, Miss Ivy. Lovely afternoon to take the air, is it not?”

“I like your horse. He’s so shiny,” blurted Ivy, who if he remembered correctly, still had several years to go in the schoolroom.

“Be quiet, his lordship doesn’t care,” hissed Ivy’s older sister, patting her hair and sending him a look from under her lashes that she’d probably practiced a thousand times in the looking glass.

“Wasn’t Almack’s delightfully entertaining the other night?” said the matron, with a sultry smile. “If I didn’t know better, Standish, I might think you were searching for a bride. Or even…a companion.”

Ugh.

“One must always have an eye on the future, Lady Baker-Field,” he said blandly. Then he turned to Ivy again and smiled. “I also like my horse, young lady. His name is Storm. Would you like to say hello?”

Her face lit up, giving him the perfect excuse to maneuver around to her side of the curricle. Storm would permit perhaps half a minute of patting from a stranger before getting irritated, which also worked perfectly. Unlike her mother and sister, Ivy was rather sweet, and he answered several eager questions on Storm’s favorite treats and how fast he could canter before bidding one delighted little girl and two silently seething women a cheery farewell.

To hopefully find Lady Samantha. A mere needle in haystack exercise.

He’d casually called on the Westleighs this morning, only to be told by Innes, their butler, that his lordship and her ladyship were accompanying Lady Samantha on a ride along Rotten Row. So here he was, praying not to be trampled by a shoeless horse, smothered by a small mountain of swooning women, or lose a limb to a badly driven curricle. The debt White now owed him for all this bloody nonsense could never be repaid, not in a thousand years.

“Standish! Over here!”

At the familiar and incredibly welcome sound of Stephen’s voice, he turned Storm and trotted over to the group of three. Caroline wore a striking sapphire blue riding habit, but his gaze skipped past her and refused to budge from Lady Samantha. She looked beautiful. Tentative smile. Pink cheeks. Blonde curls clearly no match for pins or the jaunty felt hat perched on her head as they lifted in the breeze in charming disarray, like fevered fingers had run through them. And that riding habit. Christ. Bright sunshine yellow, and like her ball gown and day dress at the Havenhursts, very snug in the bodice area.

Yes, she has perfect breasts. Stop bloody staring at them.

William shifted uncomfortably on his saddle. This was getting beyond ridiculous. He clearly needed to spend an evening with a discreet high-end courtesan or widow as soon as possible. If that urge was sated, he wouldn’t be thinking about Lady Samantha naked every damned minute he was in her vicinity, and could concentrate on his assignment.

“Hello,” he greeted them, touching his riding crop to his head in a salute. “Westleigh, Lady Westleigh, Lady Samantha. How do you fare?”

Stephen grinned. “We are well. I must say, I’m glad to see you alive and unscathed. Thought that passel of females in the curricle had you trapped for sure, but a move of sheer genius to let the youngest pat Storm. You definitely learned that from me.”

“I owe little Ivy and her love of horses a great debt. Much like Almack’s, today’s ride has been an experience. Never knew blacksmith standards were so low in the greater London area.”

“Or that there were so many delicate young women able to be felled by the mildest heat?” said Caroline, a glint in her eye.

“Precisely.”

“Well, my lord, there is a very simple fix. Get married. Then you’ll be spoiled cabbage, like Stephen.”

His foster brother made a wheezing sound. Lady Samantha’s shoulders shook and she pressed a fist to her lips. Those plump, pink lips…

“Lady Samantha,” he said feigning grave indignation. “Please don’t say you are imagining me as cabbage? Surely, unlike your cousin, I warrant a better class of vegetable.”

She laughed, tilting her head so the brim of her hat lifted and he could see those lovely eyes shining with merriment. Christ, she was beautiful. And so refreshing in her genuine joy.

“Of course, Lord Standish. A prize-winning pumpkin at the very least.”

“Speaking of food,” said Stephen, when their amusement had died down, “care to join us for ices? My wife has threatened me with serious slipper heel violence should we not make it to Gunther’s.”

The urge to say yes was startlingly strong. To just spend one sunny afternoon in ordinary pursuits with friends and a very attractive woman, instead of nefarious governmental ones.

Pull yourself together, Standish. Duty, remember?

Straightening his shoulders, William smiled apologetically. “Alas, I cannot today. But I did want to hand deliver this invitation to my birthday dinner. I’d quite happily ignore it, except Mrs. Kingsley has already begun preparations for six courses or some such thing. I’ve sent one to the Trenthams, plus Southby and Ardmore are coming.”

Then, oh-so-casually, he added, “Lady Samantha, you would be most welcome if you wished to accompany the Westleighs.”

Her cheeks went pinker, and she sucked in a deep breath. Hell. Her bodice.

Do not look at her damned bodice. It is not going to tear and reveal stays struggling to contain their succulent bounty. You will not get a glimpse of sweet raspberry nipples, begging to be licked and sucked…

“Your dinner party sounds lovely, Lord Standish. I would be delighted to come.”

And I would be delighted to make you come. Several times.

William almost groaned out loud. He needed to get out of here before anyone saw the huge erection straining against his trousers. Stephen might think it was Caroline he lusted after, or correctly suspect Lady Samantha. Either way, he wouldn’t survive to this birthday, let alone any others. He’d be lying somewhere with a bullet through the heart.

“Excellent,” he said quickly. “Well then, I’d best continue on my way. Meeting to attend. See you all in a few days.”

With another riding crop salute, he turned Storm in a perfect arc and ruthlessly weaved between the other riders and curricles like a highwayman evading capture, and galloped away.

He was in so much trouble. And only sinking deeper into the mire.

* * *

After another sleepless night thinking about the afternoon at Rotten Row, and ransacking her armoire and jewelry box in preparation for the dinner invitation, Samantha sat engrossed in one of her guilty pleasures—a Mrs. Radcliffe gothic novel—when a maid came to inform her that her parents were having breakfast and required her to join them.

Stunned but pleased, Samantha smoothed the wrinkles from her pale blue gown and hurried downstairs to the dining room.

“Good morning, Papa. Mother,” she said, smiling as a footman held her chair out.

“Ah. Samantha,” her father replied, awkwardly clearing his throat. “Good to see you. Your mother and I thought breakfast together would be just the thing. Decent bite of bacon we’re having. You like bacon? Not one of those girls who picks like a sparrow, I hope.”

“No, no, bacon is one of my favorites,” she said quickly. “And it smells delicious. Did you have a good day yesterday, Papa?”

“Indeed, indeed. Had a meeting which went very well. And you? What did you get up to?”

“I went riding with Stephen and Caroline in Hyde Park. It was so crowded we could hardly move!”

From the other end of the long rectangular table, her mother looked up from her plate, actual interest on her face. “Oh? Anyone of note? Did you hear any good gossip?”

“It seemed like half of London was there, Mother. But you wouldn’t believe what happened,” Samantha continued, unable to keep the excitement from her tone. “Lord Standish stopped to talk, and he invited me to his birthday dinner! Stephen, Caroline, Lord and Lady Trentham, the Marquess of Ardmore, and the Duke of Southby are going too!”

Eva shrieked. “Standish’s birthday dinner? Every woman in the country would give her right arm and left leg to attend that! And Ardmore and Southby there as well! Oh my word, you are a lucky girl. You’ll need a chaperone. I would be—”

“Not necessary, my dear,” interrupted John, stabbing a kipper with his fork. “Stephen’s presence will suffice. But no doubt, daughter, for such an occasion something pretty is called for? A new gown, perhaps? And matching slippers?”

“Papa! You mean it?” Samantha said, almost squirming in her chair at this entirely unexpected treat. She hadn’t received anything new in years, and a dress that didn’t feel like it was strangling her now curvier figure would be marvelous.

“Of course I do.”

“Well. A new gown,” said Eva peevishly. “Remember this moment, Samantha, he never offers to fund me any extra clothing.”

“Probably because you already spend a king’s ransom on nonsense,” her father snapped, then he paused and took a deep breath. “Stop by my library, m’dear, and I’ll give you some money. Amazing how helpful and swift a modiste can be when you clink the coins rather than tell them to send an account. Your mother will take you shopping.”

Samantha beamed at him. “How very kind! Thank you.”

The earl coughed and rubbed his neck. “It has crossed my mind that I may have been a bit...neglectful...since you came back to town. And sometimes a little abrupt. No excuse, but I’ve been in the middle of a rather difficult business deal. You might have seen the effect the other day, when the delivery man was here.”

“You...you looked quite angry,” Samantha replied, very, very tentatively.

“Indeed. A grumpy old bear. Even though it was his fault, I sent some extra coins to the man for his trouble. He forgave me. But can you? I would like for us to spend some proper time together, before an eligible young buck like, ah, say Standish steals you away...”

Her cheeks flamed and he chuckled.

“Oh ho! No wonder you’re so excited about this Season. Well, in that case I shall want to hear all the details about your outings, especially if you see the marquess. We’ll have a meal or tea each day, hmmm?”

Blinking damp eyes, Samantha nodded eagerly. “Of course, Papa. But you’ll be near deaf after I’ve repeated every word said!” she joked.

“Not a good story unless it’s the full story, Samantha. Enjoy your shopping.”

A few hours later, they descended on Piccadilly to visit her mother’s favorite seamstress. In her element, Eva fluttered around the shop perusing fashion plates and swatches of lace before dancing from one bolt of silk to the next. At last, smiling triumphantly, she picked up one of mint green shot with silver.

“This one,” she said happily. “With lots of ruffles.”

Samantha froze, and stole a quick glance at the attendant following them around. Fortunately the woman looked equally appalled as she stepped forward with another bolt of fabric.

“Are you sure, Lady Claremont? I have a charming cream and gold here. We could add a brown silk sash to match your daughter’s lovely eyes.”

“Oh, Mother, look,” breathed Samantha, in love with the simple but elegant design.

“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s far too plain,” replied her mother impatiently. “My choice is much better. Now, let us pin.”

The seamstress pursed her lips, but began to drape the soft material with an expert touch.

Eva frowned again. “Lower.”

“Oh, of course, ma’am. Brussels lace would be perfect for the top of this bodice.”

“No. No lace.”

The seamstress’s jaw dropped. “But Lady Claremont! She is...er...her figure...ah...the young lady will be a trifle...chilly.”

“Better to be a trifle chilly than a spinster. My daughter must learn to dress in a way that shows rather than hides. Now get pinning.”

“Yes ma’am,” the woman muttered, obviously unwilling to upset a customer and lose business, even if she hated what she was doing. “I will personally ensure the gown is delivered in time for the party.”

Unfortunately, the seamstress was as good as her word.

Now, just an hour before the dinner at Hastings House, Samantha could only stare at her looking glass and will herself not to cry. Her mother’s choice of gown was downright awful. This green was pure frog underbelly, and the fussy ruffles circling from waist to hem, and on each sleeve, made her look the size of a barrel. Worst of all, her stays were pulled extra tight, pushing her breasts together and lifting them so high they almost spilled out of the scandalously low cut bodice.

She looked like a courtesan. An ill, overweight courtesan. But how could she have said anything when her mother actually patted her hand and smiled as she wished her a wonderful evening?

Closing her eyes, she whimpered.

Trudy tapped her foot, clearly racking her brain to think of some encouraging words, but Samantha held up a hand in a plea for silence. “Don’t. There is nothing you can say to make this better, although I suppose it helps that some of the other guests are my friends. I might still be invited out from time to time.”

“What if you wore your pelisse all evening?”

“If only I could,” she said miserably, before plastering a large, fake smile on her face. “But it’s just for one night. In future I’ll remember to go shopping without Mother.”

Yet even as she walked down the stairs and out to where the Claremont carriage waited, she mocked her own words. Just for one night? With the most eligible bachelors in England? An event even the most stunning and assured ladies of the ton would exchange anything and everything for an invitation to dine?

Samantha paused on the bottom step, took a few deep breaths and lifted her chin. This silliness had to stop. If Lord Standish was the kind of man who would give someone the cut direct just because of their clothing, then he could go wallow in a pig pen.

Straightening her shoulders, she grasped the footman’s hand and hoisted herself into the carriage, settling herself on the comfortable leather squabs. And immediately wanted to turn around and flee to her bedchamber. But the door was shut, and the carriage was moving down the cobbled street with great pace. Much like the night of her come out, the way was annoyingly clear. It seemed whenever she didn’t want to arrive somewhere, this would forever be the case.

All too soon, the carriage pulled up in front of Lord Standish’s townhouse in Grosvenor Square. A footman assisted her out, and she trudged up the front steps like a prisoner approaching Newgate.

The front door swung open, and a silver-haired man bowed. “Ah, good evening, Lady Samantha.”

“Good evening, Jensen,” she replied, attempting to smile as though she didn’t have a care in the world.

“Do come in, you are most welcome. Lord Ardmore, Lord and Lady Westleigh, and Lord and Lady Trentham are enjoying a pre-dinner drink in the formal dining room. May I take your pelisse?”

“No!” she blurted.

The butler blinked. “Ah…of course, my lady. It is a little, ah, chilly this evening…”

“Lady Samantha! Welcome to my home.”

Her heart sank. Of course, the marquess looked utterly perfect in black jacket, gray trousers, and a muted gold waistcoat. And there was that dimple again. Why did he have to be so blasted handsome? “Lord Standish.”

He tilted his head. “I have all the fireplaces lit. No need for the extra layer, I promise.”

“Yes. There is.”

“Is something wrong?” he murmured. “You seem on edge.”

Samantha sighed. How did she even reply to that? In the end, she threw caution to the wind, and settled on the truth. “My lord, I went shopping with my mother, and am presently wearing the worst gown in history.”

His dimple deepened. “I see. A few extra ruffles, perhaps? Please do not worry. We are all aware of Lady Claremont’s fashion preferences. Now, your pelisse?”

She shook her head, her cheeks burning. “The problem isn’t just ruffles.”

“Feathers?”

“Worse.”

Lord Standish’s brow furrowed. “My dear Lady Samantha, I am starting to worry your gown has a set of dueling pistols or perhaps an assortment of dead insects attached. It cannot be that bad.”

Sighing again, Samantha unclipped her pelisse and shrugged it off. “Here.”

“Christ,” he choked out, taking a step away.

Confusion swirled. Was the marquess having a heart episode? Except…he wasn’t looking at her ruffled gown, but directly at her bodice. And his expression could only be described as hungry.

He liked her too-full breasts? The charged silence stretched, and as though drawn to his molten sapphire gaze, her nipples hardened painfully and rubbed against the fabric. She wanted to touch them. No, she wanted him to touch them. Even more alarming, an odd pulsing had begun in that forbidden place between her legs. “Um…”

Lord Standish snapped to attention. “Forgive me. Perhaps…would you object if I, er, fetched one of my mother’s shawls to wear over your gown?”

“That would be wonderful. I’ll wait here…” she replied, but she was already talking to his back.

The marquess had practically run from her.

Oh God.

* * *

He’d made two significant mistakes.

The first, inviting Lady Samantha to dinner. The second, prolonging the pelisse conversation.

Leaning against the wall outside his mother’s old dressing room, William breathed deeply and willed his pulse—and his cock—to calm the hell down.

Damn the Countess of Claremont. Yes, the gown color and style was atrocious, but the inappropriate bodice couldn’t have accentuated her daughter’s curves more. To see their plump perfection so utterly on display had made him hard in an instant. But when Lady Samantha had blushed with the awkwardness of fledgling desire, and her nipples had visibly peaked against the fabric, straining to be free, to be pinched and sucked to ease the ache…

He’d wanted to oblige. More than anything in the world. Right there in the foyer.

Rubbing a hand across his jaw, he turned and entered the dressing room. In one corner was a heavy rosewood trunk, and he knelt in front of it and opened the lid.

Faint lemon scent hit him with the force of a cannonball, and his fingers clenched the carved wood as his eyes burned. Trinkets. Her favorite hair combs. Handkerchiefs. Reticules. And evening shawls.

“Will! Look what your father brought me back from his trip. Isn’t it beautiful? I am very spoiled.”

“Not spoiled enough, Sophia,” said Richard gruffly, adjusting the silver shawl over his wife’s shoulders.

William could only stare in wonder. Made of lace as fine as cobweb, it looked like Mama wore a thousand sparkling, shifting diamonds. “Where did you get it, Father? Which town were you in?”

“Oh, some market somewhere,” said Richard, shrugging in that maddening way. He never said where he went.

Reaching into the trunk, William selected the silver shawl. Then he slammed the lid back down on memories he didn’t want to think about, and returned downstairs to the foyer.

“Here,” he said, almost shoving the shawl at Lady Samantha in his eagerness to not be holding something of his mother’s.

She blinked. “My lord. That…that is…exquisite. I can’t wear it, it’s too precious.”

“Please put it on,” he said curtly, about ready to beg. “The others are waiting.”

“Oh. Of course. I’m so sorry for the trouble,” she replied, draping the shawl around her neck and shoulders, and thankfully covering her breasts entirely. “This is the loveliest thing I’ve ever worn.”

William offered his arm. “To the dining room.”

Here he recalled his third mistake, Lady Samantha seated immediately to his right. Thank God there were other people present. George and Louisa sat to his left, Stephen sat next to Samantha, and next to him was Caroline. Thomas Reid MacLeod, Marquess of Ardmore, sat next to Louisa.

“At last! Here’s to you, Standish,” Thomas announced, raising his brandy glass. “Many happy returns, old man.”

“Less of the old, if you please,” William shot back. His father would have had palpitations at his friendship with possibly the most disreputable peer in England, but behind Thomas’s overlong red hair and devil-may-care manners sat a razor sharp mind, and he ruled his trade empire with an iron fist.

“Face the facts, my friend, you’re on a slippery slope. Starts out with a few birthdays, next thing you’re bald and walking with a cane.”

“Really?” he replied, eyebrows raised. “I’ll have to take your word for it, older man.”

“Humblest apologies for my lateness,” said Alexander Langley, Duke of Southby, as he marched into the room and paused beside William’s chair. “His Majesty wished to discuss a matter of great import.”

William gave his closest friend a sardonic look. “Indeed? What troubled the king today?”

“Invasion by chickens,” Alexander muttered, running an impatient hand through his jet-black hair. Then he stopped and fixed his icy pale green gaze directly on Lady Samantha, and William felt every hackle rise. If Alexander switched into his “I am the premier duke of the realm, offend me and you’ll be unwelcome everywhere, forever” persona with her, there would be serious trouble.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” Alexander intoned, his huge frame looming over her. “Southby, at your service.”

She appeared frozen in place, her eyes wide. William cleared his throat to speak when Stephen stood. “Your grace, may I present my cousin, Lady Samantha Buchanan. She very recently made her come out, and now thanks to your walking, talking glacier routine, has forgotten how to breathe. Please plant your esteemed ducal backside in a bloody chair so we can eat and she can drink until her face regains some color.”

“Hear, hear,” said Thomas.

“At once, before we all perish of hunger,” added George.

Alexander bowed mockingly, continued on, and sat at the other end of the table.

William leaned toward Lady Samantha. “Don’t be alarmed, he’s the same with everyone.”

“Really?” she replied hoarsely, her tongue darting out to wet her pink lips in a way that had him shifting in his chair.

“Indeed. Actually, you held up remarkably well to the Southby stare. I’ve witnessed swooning, crying, and teeth chattering, which is rather disconcerting. Especially in the House of Lords.”

Finally she smiled. As the evening continued with a first course of fragrant herb and tomato soup, she appeared to relax further, even occasionally laughing at the lightning-fast banter flying back and forth across the table. Always the way with this group, but he, Alexander, and Thomas had been friends since Eton. Stephen was four years younger, George another year still, but they’d been part of the circle for as long as he could remember.

“I say, Lady Samantha, that is a stunning shawl,” George said, raising his glass.

“Coming from the best dressed man of the ton, I am well complimented!” she replied with a warm smile.

“Sam! The fur would fly if Mr. Brummell heard you. But George is absolutely right,” agreed Caroline, grinning, “You do look very pretty, glowing almost. Must be the company. What do you think, Lord Standish?”

Before he could answer, Stephen interjected with, “Well of course it’s the company. Documented fact that dining with splendid gentlemen has numerous health benefits.”

“Splendid gentlemen like Lord Standish, yes,” Caroline retorted, shooting her husband a glance that silenced him.

Abruptly Lady Samantha stood, her expression an odd mix of irritation and desperation. The men dropped their soup spoons and stood also, giving her quizzical looks.

William frowned. “Is something wrong, Lady Samantha?”

“No. Yes. Excuse me,” she said, her cheeks scarlet. “Lord Standish, would you point me in the direction of the powder room?”

“Of course. Right this way,” he replied, indicating she should follow him.

“You don’t have to show me. I’ll find it.”

He shook his head and took her elbow, leading her away down several long hallways lined with paintings. “It’s a labyrinth, for years I took string and a sack of provisions with me whenever I explored. Far too risky to let a first-time visitor wander unaccompanied. Aunt Jane would have my head if you went missing. The powder room is just up here somewhere. Ah, there we—”

“Thank you!” she said, yanking open the door and disappearing inside. His frown deepened. What was going on?

Then again, this just might be the perfect opportunity to ask some questions.

Folding his arms, William rested his hip against a side table and waited. A few minutes later, the door flew open and she bolted out, just about mowing him down. Again.

“Oh God. Of course you stayed,” she mumbled, then coughed in embarrassment.

“Having to send out search parties for guests is bad form,” he replied, trying not to grin. “And I wanted to ask...how is the Season going so far?”

Lady Samantha tilted her head. “Oh. Well, thanks to you all, instead of being ignored I’m being toasted as a diamond of the first water. Quite amusing.”

“But true.”

“I don’t think so. People will say anything to gain favor with Stephen and Aunt Jane. Yet I can see how ladies get caught up in it all, promenading around ballrooms while gentlemen recite odes to their eyes and lips—”

“Their eyes and lips?” he interrupted without thinking. “Hell.”

“Some ladies like it,” she replied, a little stiffly.

Christ. He was a complete failure as an interrogator, and a romantic swain. “Naturally. But such odes are so common. A real challenge to the aspiring poet would be the honoring of something else like, hmmm, an ear for example. Or big toe.”

Samantha’s lips twitched, then she laughed. “How right you are. A verse about my toes would definitely transform a stuffy ballroom, desperate thirst, and aching feet into a wonderful evening. How did no one think of it earlier?”

“If only they’d consulted me. And, er, how are things at home now?”

“Actually,” she said thoughtfully, “Much improved. Especially between Papa and me.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve started having a meal together. Although sometimes he has meetings, so we drink tea instead.”

“Ugh, meetings. I have far too many of those. Always sit next to Southby because he promises to elbow me if I fall asleep. Does your father enjoy his business dealings?”

“Mostly, I think,” she said, biting her lower lip as she considered. “Except for the time I told you about, with the delivery man. He explained about that, though—it was just a deal not going well.”

“I see. That must have been a relief.”

“Yes! But he’s been a lot happier recently, he actually apologized for being ill-tempered and gave me money to go shopping. But gracious, Lord Standish, you sound just like him.”

William stilled, a warning tingle shooting up his spine. Trying to keep the situation as casual as possible, he attempted a light laugh. “Oh? Your father is also blessed with razor-sharp wit and devastating charm?”

Fortunately Samantha giggled at his weak joke and twirled a blonde curl around her finger, both making him smile even though he half-dreaded her response.

“No, silly. He asks me where we go, what we talk about, just like you do. I always hoped if we spent some time together, if he got to know me, that we could have a warm relationship. And now it is finally happening.”

She paused, and sighed. “Although he doesn’t tell me much about his day, even when I ask. Always says town, or visiting acquaintances. Poor Papa, it cannot be easy to hurry from place to place when...ah...anyway, I wish the men sending him brandy would stop, too. Cases are forever being delivered, and he already drinks far too much...my goodness I’ve been talking on and on, we really should get back to the dining room.”

Blinking, he shook his head at his own foolishness. They had been gone awhile, any longer with his incompetent interrogating and everyone in the dining room would be visiting him with a pistol, not just Stephen. “You’re quite right. My apologies. I hope Stephen and George haven’t eaten everything...wait, don’t move!”

She froze and he gestured behind her to where a corner of the silver shawl was trapped in the powder room door. Carefully freeing it, he settled the shawl back in place, his fingertips brushing her skin.

Mistake number four.

Unable to stop himself, he smoothed the lace against her collarbone, dangerously close to the tops of her breasts. As in the foyer her nipples peaked, and she shuddered, sinking two white teeth into her bottom lip.

At least he wasn’t the only one suffering here.

“Don’t do that...” William murmured, reaching up and tracing her lips with his thumb.

Lady Samantha moaned softly and tilted her head back. Waiting. Offering.

Would one taste really be so bad?

“Yes,” she breathed.

Shocked, he pulled back with a swift, hard shake of his head. Bloody hell. He’d been a moment away from ruining everything.

“Now the others really will be wondering where we are,” he bit out, furious with himself. “Can’t have them all attempting to find us and getting lost, London would grind to a shuddering halt.”

And turning, so out of sorts he didn’t even offer his arm, William marched back toward the dining room.