Page 7 of Tempting the Marquess

Familiarity tugged again. But this gentleman definitely wasn’t a Buchanan acquaintance. Actually, the thought of him knowing her parents had her wishing with all her heart to be someone else. A formal introduction and he’d be the one running, to avoid a link with scandal.

Softly, reluctantly, she said, “Lady Samantha Buchanan.”

Recognition lit his eyes, and regret flooded her. But instead of scorn or distaste, the oddest expression flashed across his face, almost...resignation? Then he smiled, turning breathtaking into perfection.

“Lady Samantha, of course! Apologies for my tardiness, I had to attend an urgent meeting before coming here. Standish, at your service. Do you rememberme?”

“William?” she gasped, her jaw dropping.

His eyebrows rose and her cheeks flamed at yet another gaffe. Of course after running into him and staring like a demented twit, naturally she would then call a senior peer by his first name without invitation.

Wanting to sink through the floorboards, she hastily curtsied. “I mean, Lord Standish. Of course I remember you. It’s lovely to make your acquaintance again.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lady Samantha,” he replied formally, although for a moment there might have been a tiny glint of humor in his eyes. Then they cooled and his jaw tightened. “Tell me about the comments. Was someone improper?”

Gulping at the change, summer to winter in a heartbeat, she nearly apologized again. Helpfully, her fan took on a life of its own, moving so fast it threatened to blow her back into the powder room. “Some girls were saying I shouldn’t be here because of Mother andPapa.”

“Nonsense. And may I add, no family in England can cast stones about colorful relatives. Now,” he said, offering his arm. “Perhaps I could escort you back to the others?”

Samantha nodded slowly as she rested her hand on his sleeve, only to be jolted by heat which somehow seeped through his jacket and her glove, and made her gown feel far too tight.

Alarmed, she tried to lift her hand away, but her fingers refused and curled even tighter around a solidly muscled arm. Oh God. Any minute now she would be stroking Lord Standish like a kitten, and banned from public appearances forever.

Mentally berating her foolishness, Samantha squared her shoulders and allowed the marquess to lead her back into the main ballroom.

* * *

The Fates were truly deplorable.

As if this assignment weren’t ridiculous enough already, naturally, the subject of his soon-to-be false affections would be exquisitely beautiful. No squint or bony limbs for this rosy-cheeked young lady, just wide brown eyes, pouty pink lips, and creamy skin so inviting he’d actually had to physically stop himself reaching over to explore her with the backs of his fingers. Not to mention the mishap with his cravat that had let him know, rather explicitly, her stays weren’t enhanced with padding. Those lush, lush breasts, and the full hips and rounded backside he couldn’t help but notice, were all natural. If he had a woman like this, wet and eager in his bed, he’d never leave the house. Whitehall be damned.

Grimacing, William slowed his steps so he walked just behind Lady Samantha and her thankfully generous skirts. Idiot could now be added to his list of faults, for pondering things best not pondered while wearing form-fitting breeches. Alongside degenerate. She was practically family, ten years younger and fresh from the country. But far worse than beautiful, Lady Samantha Buchanan could well be likeable. An intriguing mix of bashful and forthright, someone whose conversation topics might range beyond fashion and the weather. Then again, if she moved amongst traitors like her father allegedly did, playing any kind of role would come as easily as breathing.

At last he spotted Stephen and Aunt Jane in the crowd, and relieved, he turned her toward them. “Westleigh! Look who I found in my travels.”

Stephen grinned. “Glad you could finally make it, old man. You were able to repair the damage, Samantha?”

“Yes, fortunately the lemonade didn’t leave a stain. I, er, bumped into Lord Standish in the corridor and he very kindly escorted me back here. But why aren’t you all dancing?”

George Grenville, Earl of Trentham, stepped forward with Aunt Jane. “I’m about to take a turn about the floor with my favorite dowager. She took pity on me, as Louisa caught a slight chill thanks to a prolonged outdoor experiment, and is at home sneezing by thefire.”

“Dancing is a capital idea. Propriety can go to the devil, I choose my wife,” said Stephen, holding out his hand to Caroline.

The countess hesitated, shooting a concerned glance at Samantha. “Well…”

“If you are brave enough to chance your husband’s flailing limbs,” William cut in smoothly, “Perhaps, Lady Samantha, you’ll risk a dance with me? I must warn you I’m equally woeful.”

She paused, then her lips curved into a sunny grin, and without warning a long-buried memory flashed through his mind: a sparkling blue-eyed redhead who had smiled at him the sameway.

“There you are, Will!” she cried, laughing. “Your poor father has indulged me for an hour, but is getting hoarse from humming tunes and has that look which says he is desperate to escape. Come and dance a quadrille withme.”

“No, Mama. Last time I kicked the wrong way and nearly broke your ankle.”

“All the more reason to practice, my angel! The lady of your dreams will thank me forit!”

“Lord Standish? Is everything all right?”

Startled, he stared down at Lady Samantha’s concerned face and hastily nodded. What the hell was wrong with him? He never woolgathered, especially not in the company of others. Since he’d been recruited by White, he had been lauded as the man who watched and assessed and noticed the details that others missed. The man always ready to solve an unsolvable puzzle. Not some moonstruck dandy who sighed and penned odes to the majesty of raindrops or some other bloody nonsense.