Page 11 of Tempting the Marquess

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 justgo.”

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 tobe?”

“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 straighthere.”

“So you aren’t trying to cheatme?”

“No sir! N-never!”

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

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 intow.

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 teatray.”

“Very well. Goodbye, Pa...”

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

* * *

It had only beentwenty minutes, but already this was looking to be one of the longest afternoons of hislife.

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 seeyou!”

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 verycarefully.”

“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 Iwas.”

“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.”