Page 32 of Tempting the Marquess

Absently drumminghis fingers on his thigh, William stared out the Forsyth House morning room window while he waited for Aunt Jane to appear. She had expressed a desire for some tasteful culture, so he was escorting her to the British Museum.

The sound of the door opening had him twisting around, ready to joke about the years it took a woman to get ready, but instead Stephen marched into the room with a face like thunder. It was almost comical, yet William got the feeling amusement would result in a forced and rapid exit via the window he’d just been gazing outof.

“Something the matter?” he asked mildly.

His foster brother stalked toward him, huge fists clenched. “I wondered when you might dare show yourface.”

Hell. “Calm down, Stephen.”

“Don’t bloody say that. Not when you and Samantha were allegedly seen leaving an antechamber within ten minutes of each other at the Hartley soiree. You better have an excellent explanation, or you’ll be visiting an infirmary rather than the Museum.”

William sighed and surreptitiously flexed his own still-tender knuckles. This wasn’t the time or place, but if Stephen wanted a brawl in his own house, he would get one. “Really? This bear woken from hibernation act is because of some damned musicale gossip?”

“So you deny you were withher?”

“No. I talked to her. Same as the other guests.”

Stephen’s gaze narrowed. “Sam is technically my cousin, but you know she has always been more like a little sister to me. If you have done anything…anything atall…”

“Back off. I know exactly who she is, but you don’t know half the situation.”

“Then enlightenme.”

“I can’t,” William bit out, as anger and frustration threatened to boil over yet again. God, if his foster brother knew about the assignment, or what he’d done in that antechamber...

With a low growl, Stephen grabbed him by the cravat, twisting the fabric around his fingers and yanking hard. “Can’t? Or won’t?”

Reaching up, William encircled the offending wrist and bent it back. “Can’t.”

They glared at each other, him nearly choking, Stephen on the verge of a broken arm. Both unwilling to concede.

“Stephen! William! What on earth?”

Aunt Jane’s horrified voice broke the deadlock. They released their grips, and Stephen walked back to where his mother and—bloody hell—Samantha stood, disbelief etched on their faces.

“It’s nothing, Mama,” said Stephen. “Enjoy your outing. Excuseme.”

“William?” said Jane, staring perplexedly at her son’s retreatingback.

“A difference of opinion, nothing more. Shall wego?”

“Yes…I invited Samantha. I hope you don’tmind.”

“Not at all,” he lied. Naturally his assignment looked especially beautiful today, in a close-fitting brown-striped gown that matched hereyes.

The carriage ride to Bloomsbury seemed to take forever, and he sighed in relief when they pulled up at Montagu House. The enormous but now shabby building housed a treasure trove of artefacts from Britain and the continent.

An hour into strolling the exhibits, Aunt Jane stopped and gasped. “Why, it’s Millie Montgomery. I haven’t seen her in years! Why don’t you two view the, er, leaf etchings while I say hello.”

His lips twitching as she near-sprinted away, William turned to Samantha. “So. We’ve been not-so-subtly abandoned in an appropriately public place. Aunt Jane wishes us to talk. Doyou?”

She hesitated, biting that sweet and plump lower lip. “Perhaps.”

Christ. So sweet.

“Perhaps? Shall I make observations about the weather while you decide? Or I could find a leaf expert. Imagine the enthralling conversations you could start.”

“Lord Standish—”