Page 102 of Tempting the Marquess

Epilogue

London,October1815

“Welcome,Lord and Lady Standish. His grace and the others are in the drawingroom.”

Samantha smiled at Wallace as she and William swept past and continued across the foyer of Langley House. The museum-feel of the place hadn’t improved a jot, but as they made their way down a portrait-lined hallway, she was stunned to see two neat piles of broken porcelain awaiting removal. “Ohdear.”

“Alexander is at his wit’s end,” said William grimly. “Robert is drinking heavily, his moods are unpredictable, and he doesn’t sleep. But he refuses to see a doctor, or anyone from the army, since they honorably discharged him for medical reasons.”

“They discharged him? But he was so brilliant. Couldn’t they have used him to train new recruits, or even help with planning? So many men were lost at Waterloo, I can’t believe they would just discard someone of Lord Robert’s ability.”

“To be fair, I’m not entirely sure they wanted to. The decision was deferred for some time. But with his drinking and unwillingness to leave the house, Wellington was forced to cut him loose.”

Samantha shook her head. The poor man. How awful, to be a younger son who had finally found his purpose, to succeed beyond anyone’s wildest dreams, only to have it cruelly snatched away in that skirmish in France. Lord Robert was only twenty-seven years old. Surely he couldn’t be thinking to give up entirely.

Pressing closer to William, she reached down and gave her swelling belly a pat. It was a new game between her and the baby, and it never failed to make her smile when her hand received an answering nudge. Little joys like that almost made up for the aching back, swollen ankles, and constant need for the chamber pot thanks to the baby using her insides as a personal playroom. Almost.

“A-ha! Finally the recently weds arrive,” said Lord Ardmore, as they entered Alexander’s drawing room. “We forgive you your tardiness, I understand the marital rule book allows a certain number of months for lateness due to bedchamber antics.”

William choked on a cough. “Samantha’s hair needed attending to. And that is an event in itself.”

Indeed. Especially when one’s husband tangled his fingers in it during a quick, erotic, intimate time in his copper bathingtub.

“My coiffure offers its deepest apologies,” added Samantha demurely.

Louisa gave her a sly wink. “So difficult to find an excellent lady’s maid. Some have such large, masculine hands.”

“Oh, stop it,” said Caroline from where she lounged on a chaise next to Stephen. “I can think of countless occasions when you used the hair excuse, Lulu.”

Lord Trentham turned and looked at his wife. “Really? Hair? I would have thought a mighty chemist brain like yours could have thought of a far better lie….ow. No pinching.”

Alexander clapped his hands together. “When you are all quite finished with your tawdry tales, supper is served.”

“Poor Southby. No need for envy just because you don’t have a tawdry tale of your own to share.”

Smothering a grin, Samantha and William followed the others to the formal dining room. If ducal glares actually turned a person to stone, Louisa would be carting home a statue rather than a husband.

The carved oak dining table seemed about a mile long, but fortunately all the place settings were at one end. Conversation was far easier this way, and all seven guests plus Alexander took their seats. Soon, footmen were pouring champagne and brandy, and setting gold-rimmed bowls of deliciously scented soup in front ofthem.

“Well, well. What a lovely looking party,” slurred a voice from the doorway, and the room fell silent as Lord Robert ambledin.

Alexander stood abruptly. “What are you doinghere?”

“I live here, do I not, brother? And once upon a time these men were my friends.”

Lord Ardmore lifted a hand. “Rogues down this end of the table, Robbie. Come and joinme.”

“No,” said Alexander coldly. “Robert, you’re drunk. Unshaven. And not even dressed properly.”

“Who cares about fucking cravats?” said Lord Robert.

“I care. Go and get changed if you wish to joinus.”

“Go to hell, your grace.”

“Then getout.”

The colonel reached over, took Alexander’s brandy from the table, and emptied the glass in one gulp. Then he bowed, an exaggerated movement that almost toppled him headfirst into a soup bowl. “God has spoken. I am banished. Fare thee well, former friends.”