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The Heiress's Homecoming
Regina Scott
TERMS OF THE WILLTo keep her cherished childhood home, Samantha Everard must marry by her twenty-fifth birthday. Yet she refuses to marry on a whim, not even to save her fortune. When she returns to Dallsten Manor to say goodbye, the last person she expects to see is her handsome, disapproving neighbor William Wentworth, Earl of Kendrick.Will is certain the scandalous Everard family is nothing but trouble. He shouldn’t care about Samantha’s predicament, but her feistiness and kindheartedness intrigue him—as does her refusal to wed. He wants to help, especially when he perceives the threat that surrounds her. Soon his greatest wish is to persuade Samantha that her true home is with him.The Everard Legacy: These cousins set out to claim their inheritance—and find love is their greatest reward


Terms of the Will
To keep her cherished childhood home, Samantha Everard must marry by her twenty-fifth birthday. Yet she refuses to marry on a whim, not even to save her fortune. When she returns to Dallsten Manor to say goodbye, the last person she expects to see is her handsome, disapproving neighbor William Wentworth, Earl of Kendrick.
Will is certain the scandalous Everard family is nothing but trouble. He shouldn’t care about Samantha’s predicament, but her feistiness and kindheartedness intrigue him—as does her refusal to wed. He wants to help, especially when he perceives the threat that surrounds her. Soon his greatest wish is to persuade Samantha that her true home is with him.
“You did not favor me with a dance last night. I hope you’ll save one for me at the party,” Lord Kendrick said.
“I will certainly see if I can find time for a dance,” Samantha promised. “But I expect to be very busy, my lord.”
“I thought all young ladies wished to dance with eligible earls.”
Did he consider himself eligible? She thought every lady within miles must be setting her cap at him. Given his history, she’d somehow considered him immune.
“I suppose they do,” she acknowledged. “But I have no interest in attaching eligible gentlemen. Thank you for your company, my lord. I should return home.”
He looked ready to protest, eyes narrowed, head high. But he nodded a farewell, and she turned the horse. She tried to look calm, but she couldn’t keep herself from looking back. Once more he was watching her leave, but this time the determination on his face told her that he intended to learn her secrets, whether she wished it or not.
REGINA SCOTT
started writing novels in the third grade. Thankfully for literature as we know it, she didn’t actually sell her first novel until she had learned a bit more about writing. Since her first book was published in 1998, her stories have traveled the globe, with translations in many languages including Dutch, German, Italian and Portuguese.
She and her husband of more than twenty years reside in southeast Washington State with their overactive Irish terrier. Regina is a decent fencer, owns a historical costume collection that takes up over a third of her large closet and is an active member of the Church of the Nazarene. You can find her online blogging at www.nineteenteen.blogspot.com. Learn more about her at www.reginascott.com.
The Heiress’s Homecoming
Regina Scott


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways acknowledge Him,
and He will make your paths straight.
—Proverbs 3:5,6
To my mother, who carries her burdens with love, grace and determination; and to my
heavenly Father, who can carry all our burdens
in His capable hands, if only we remember to ask.
Contents
Chapter One (#udee0e1c6-e45a-533e-ad1f-27c74a20601b)
Chapter Two (#u7258d54f-cd78-5d0d-a761-a8f61fdb4a8a)
Chapter Three (#u45a42100-5d01-52ff-87f7-ac576abef793)
Chapter Four (#ue9b2c6b1-05d5-50d0-8fe5-1d3a3ffe3240)
Chapter Five (#u3b869190-7282-53ef-8898-306f70b51d48)
Chapter Six (#u067a0db0-f25a-5a81-ab55-bd1755db634b)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)
Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Cumberland, England
June 1813
Oh, but he needed a diversion.
William Wentworth, Earl of Kendrick, gazed about the crowded hall of his ancestral estate. Every member of the gentry for miles around had come to celebrate his son’s birthday with dinner and dancing. All but one member of the local aristocracy had also graced Kendrick Hall with their presence. Even though he had never met the missing Lady Everard, he was fairly certain she knew that any Everard was forever unwelcome in his home.
But his other guests did not seem distressed by her absence. They promenaded along the gilded walls, wandered out the three glass-paned doors to the terrace that ran along the back of the house and danced to the strains of a string quartet. The glow from the twin crystal chandeliers glinted off velvet, reflected off satin. Voices rose in conversation and good cheer. Yet Will kept remembering other balls, other dinners, some held far away, where jasmine scented the air. The memories made him long to pull off his dramatically tied cravat and dive into the pond behind the house to escape.
But tonight he must play host. After all, he had only a borrowed hostess. With a remarkable dearth of females in his family, he had had to prevail upon the kindness of his nearest respectable neighbor. He was merely glad that the elderly Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, who had known him since he was born, had been willing to help.
Still, he felt the breeze of fans plying as he gazed around the room, noted the speculative glances of a dozen ladies. They thought his long-awaited step into Society meant he was seeking to marry again. No chance of that. No reason. He had an heir, even if watching his seventeen-year-old son dance with Mrs. Dallsten Walcott made Will feel a great deal older than his thirty-five years.
Another reason he so badly needed a diversion.
Perhaps he should dance as well. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was looking in his direction, lips pursed in determination. As the highest-ranking gentleman present, he supposed dancing was expected of him. But he had never done things simply because they were expected. Promenading held as little interest, and he knew engaging his neighbors in conversation was dangerous. After nearly a decade on the diplomatic circuit beyond the safe confines of Cumberland, Will had too many opinions that didn’t align with theirs.
So he held up the wall, arms crossed over his green wool coat, and watched as his fifty-some guests thoroughly enjoyed themselves. The gold candle sconce beside him gave back a warped picture of his face—dark wavy hair, thick slash of brows, forest-green eyes. He thought the frown was the most accurate.
He shook it off, forced a smile. He ought to be proud of this evening. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had done a fine job. The music was elegant, the menu for the supper to come equally sophisticated. The parquet floor gave back a shine under the dancing slippers of his guests. Along each wall and the mantel of the marble fireplace, jade vases held gardenias from his conservatory, their perfume drifting through the hall.
But the fairest blossom was strolling down the opposite wall from him, her lithe figure reflected in the windows overlooking the terrace.
She had hair like the burnished gold of Egypt tumbling in curls behind her; skin like the palest ivory from Africa. In her cerulean satin gown, she reminded Will of sunlight on the Aegean Sea. She moved with the energy of sunlight, too, her steps sure and swift. The turn of her head told him she was looking for someone.
Will straightened off the wall. Who was she? He’d grown up knowing half the people in this room. The other half had either married into the Evendale valley or been born after Will had left at eighteen. Oh, how he hoped she wasn’t married. She was exactly the kind of diversion he needed.
He took a step forward, then stopped himself. What was he thinking? A lady should not be used as a diversion. How many times had he watched his brother make that mistake? A lady was meant to befriend, to serenade, to court. He never planned on courting again. He should allow her to find the person she was seeking and stop wishing it was him.
“Well, that’s done.” His son hurried off the dance floor and braced his back against the wall as if intending to defend the space from desert chieftains. To Will, his son still seemed too young to be the heir to the earldom. His face looked soft under his thatch of black hair, his frame too thin. He was just beginning to understand what life might hold for him. Will envied him that.
“Do you find dancing with a lady so onerous?” he asked his son, returning to his spot along the wall.
James, as he had insisted he be called now that he had finished schooling at Eton, shook his head, further disheveling his hair. “Mrs. Dallsten Walcott isn’t a lady, Father.”
Will raised his brows, mouth curling up in a smile. “I’m sure her family will be sorry to hear that.”
Jamie, as Will persisted in thinking of him, grimaced. “I didn’t mean to disparage her. She simply isn’t a lady of interest to me.” He shifted against the wall as if finding his blue wool coat too tight or the gilded paneling too hard. “She is old enough to be my grandmother, and I have specific ideas for my bride.”
Will felt as if the room was warming and adjusted his cravat. He truly wasn’t ready for his son to choose a wife, even if Will had been Jamie’s age when he’d first fancied himself in love. That had ended in tragedy. The only good to come of it was the young man standing beside him now.
“For tonight,” Will said, “perhaps you should focus on being a good host.”
Jamie’s brown eyes, inherited from his mother, crinkled around the corners. “I will if you will. I don’t think Mrs. Dallsten Walcott approves of you right now. You haven’t danced once.”
Will glanced across the room again and sighted his hostess. Though her hair was a silvery white, her carriage remained unbent, her steps firm. He didn’t think her pride would allow it otherwise. Tonight in a poppy-colored gown with an inordinate number of flounces, she dominated the hall. She was glaring at him down her long nose, foot tapping, and the jerk of her head toward a bevy of belles clustered by the doors to the veranda told him her intentions.
“Perhaps I’m as fussy as my son in the lady I choose,” Will said, clapping Jamie on the shoulder. He still had a couple inches on his son, and some of those broad shoulders on the lad were from the artful use of padding by their tailor.
Jamie, however, sobered. “I have been meaning to talk to you about that. I know it’s poor timing, but would you be willing to break away for a few minutes and meet me in the library?”
This was not the diversion Will had had in mind, and he knew where his duty lay tonight, even if he found playing host difficult. But the look in his son’s eyes was his undoing. He’d missed so many opportunities to be of use to the boy over the years, and he knew the days were swiftly approaching when Jamie would no longer bring his concerns to his father.
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll leave now to throw Mrs. Dallsten Walcott off the scent, and you follow when it’s safe.”
Jamie’s smile was relieved.
Will wandered through the room, pausing to chat with this gentleman, compliment that lady, all the while keeping a wary eye on his hostess. He was disappointed to find that the beauty who had caught his attention earlier had vanished, and he could only hope she’d found what she’d been seeking. He made his way out of the hall, across the center corridor of the house and into the west wing, where his library sat.
The faint music from the dance cut off as he shut the door behind him, and he felt the crowded shelves closing in. A shame he could not take more pleasure in the library at Kendrick Hall. The books were excellent, he knew, with everything from thick tomes on history to more recent novels of adventure. Unfortunately most of his time in this room was spent on estate business. He consoled himself with the thought that his ancestors must have felt a similar need to flee, for the rear wall was entirely made up of a bow window overlooking the grounds, with a center door that led out onto the terrace.
The shutters were closed over the view tonight, the estate ledgers put away in one of the glass-fronted bookcases. Either Jamie had alerted their butler or his staff had anticipated Will’s needs because a merry fire was burning in the grate of the white marble fireplace, and the lamp on his desk cast a golden glow over the room.
But in the absence of the noise from the party another sound caught his attention—a soft whimper and sniff. Will took a step deeper into the room. “Who’s in here?”
He heard the gasp, and then that golden head popped into sight over the back of the satin-striped sofa that faced the fire. Tears wet her fair cheeks, and her rosy lips were parted in surprise.
The look propelled him forward. Will strode around the sofa, went down on one knee before her. “Tell me who made you cry, and I promise he will regret it even more than I do.”
She smiled through her tears, such a brave upturn of those lovely lips. “You are too kind, sir, but I fear there’s nothing that can be done.”
He knew the feeling. There was nothing that could be done when his wife had died moments after bringing their son into the world. There was nothing that could be done when his older brother had been murdered, and Will had had to return home to comfort his father and take up his new role as heir. There was nothing that could be done when a bout of influenza had carried off his father two years ago.
I’m so sick of hearing that nothing can be done, Lord!
He took her gloved hands and held them in his own. Her fingers were long and slender, but he felt a supple strength in them. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “if you were to tell me the problem, we could find an amicable solution.”
She searched his gaze as if looking for hope. Those dark brown eyes reminded him of Saharan wells, giving restful relief from heat and travel. She had every right to pull back from his grip, order him to mind his own affairs. He only hoped she could tell that his intentions were honorable.
And yet his lips seemed to have other ideas. Before he even knew it, he was leaning closer. Like filings to a magnet, she drew closer as well, until he caught the scent of roses and their faces were mere inches apart.
The library door opened with a crack as loud as thunder, and Will jerked back. The lady stared at him, two roses blooming in her cheeks, and for an odd moment, Will had the insane notion that they were the source of the captivating scent.
Jamie strode into the room, gaze lighting on the sofa. “Oh, good. You’re here.”
Will stood, even as the lady rushed to her feet.
“Of course I’m here,” she said, turning to face his son as she smoothed the wrinkles from the blue of her gown. “Isn’t this where you said you’d meet me?”
Will felt as if he’d stepped under one of the icy waterfalls that plunged from the fells. So that was why she was at the party. She’d been searching the hall, for Jamie. She was waiting in the library, for Jamie.
Was she crying over his son as well?
“I suggest,” he said to Jamie, pulse pounding in his temple, “that you explain yourself. Immediately.”
Something of what he was feeling must have shown on his face, for his son hurried around the sofa to take up his place at the lady’s side. With Jamie standing so close, it was apparent the woman was older than he was, somewhere between twenty and thirty, Will would have guessed. What would a woman who had to have seen much more of Society want with his untried son? His unease ratcheted up another notch.
“It’s all right, Father,” Jamie said, raising his chin as if to defend himself and the lady next to him. “I asked her to join us.”
“Father?” The word came out in a squeak, and all color fled from the woman’s face. She turned on Jamie. “You never said anything about your father.”
What was all this? Was this woman less than a lady? Why was she here? What hold did she have on his son?
And what hold had she already gained on Will that he wished so desperately for her to be innocent?
* * *
Samantha, Lady Everard, wanted to dash across the colorful Oriental carpet at her feet and escape. Never in the eight years since she’d first made her come out in Society had she ever been so embarrassed. Given the antics of her three guardians and cousins, that was saying a very great deal. She glared at her longtime friend Jamie, who immediately quailed.
“Samantha, Lady Everard,” he mumbled, “may I present my father, William Wentworth, Earl of Kendrick?”
Samantha dipped a curtsey, lowering her gaze to the shine of the earl’s evening pumps. “An honor, my lord.”
When she straightened and looked up, she found he had taken a step back, and his face had stiffened. She wasn’t sure what had upset him, her presence in his home or her friendship with Jamie. But she could feel his disapproval radiating out of him with as much heat as she’d felt when he’d leaned toward her.
For a moment there she’d thought he might actually kiss her, this stranger who had stumbled upon her. That wasn’t altogether surprising. She never had the least trouble turning a gentleman up sweet. She simply hadn’t found one she was willing to marry.
And knowing who he was assured her that he’d never offer her marriage. If the stories were true, he’d already won and lost his true love. The local ladies must be in mourning at the thought of a handsome earl on the shelf. She’d certainly noticed him when she’d first entered the hall and had begun searching for Jamie. A head taller than most of the men in the room, he was difficult to miss.
But there was something else about him—that sable hair waving around his head as if it refused to be tamed, that lift of one corner of his mouth, the light in his green eyes that said he was game for adventure.
Not, unfortunately, at the moment. Unless she missed her guess, he was now thoroughly annoyed.
“I believe we agreed Lady Everard would not attend,” he said to Jamie.
What was this? Would he ban her from his home? Did he hold her in even greater contempt than she’d expected? Samantha glanced at her friend in time to see him frown.
“I thought she couldn’t attend,” Jamie protested. “I didn’t know she had returned to Evendale until I stopped by the manor to give Mrs. Dallsten Walcott my opinion on the silver we intended to borrow.”
Ah, that was it. She probably made them uneven at table. “So I arrived unexpectedly and late as well,” Samantha summarized, returning her gaze to her host and offering him her most charming smile. “Forgive me, my lord. If it’s any conciliation, I didn’t intend to stay long, just until I spoke to Jamie, I mean Lord Wentworth.”
Her honest speech should have earned her a pardon at least, but Lord Kendrick’s green gaze only darkened.
Beside her, Jamie grimaced. “James. You promised.”
She had promised, but she found it hard to call him that. Though his height had surpassed hers by a good six inches, he was still eight years her junior, and just as likely to remind her of the boy she’d left behind when she’d moved to London.
“James,” she said with a smile to appease him, but she felt his father stiffen. Whoever would have thought the famous world traveller William Wentworth would be so censorious, or so devastatingly handsome? Jamie—James—must take after his mother.
“James,” Lord Kendrick said, very likely through clenched teeth, “I believe you wished a moment of my time.”
Samantha touched her fingers to her lips. “Oh, dear, I must have misunderstood. I thought you said you wished to talk to me about a matter of great urgency, James.”
“I did,” Jamie promised her with a nod to his father as well. “I wished to speak to you both, in private. You see, I know why you’ve returned, Samantha, and I thought Father and I could help.”
He knew? The breath stopped in her chest. How could he know? Had she told him once, years ago, about her father’s will? Did anyone except her solicitor, her guardians and their wives know what this month meant to her, that she stood to lose everything she held dear?
Her gloved hand seemed to be moving toward her throat; she consciously lowered her arm. She would not let them see her pain. She’d slipped already, giving in to the dismals on the sofa, but she would not repeat her mistake, not with Lord Kendrick glowering at her as if she’d somehow stolen something from his precious home.
Lord, please help me to be strong!
“I’m here for the annual summer party at Dallsten Manor,” she told Jamie. “All my cousins and their families are coming. I have sufficient help, I assure you.”
He shook his head, then turned to his father. “That’s not why she’s here. She turns five and twenty the day after the party. That’s the problem.”
No! She would not discuss her life with them. Her family hounded her on a daily basis it seemed, concerned for her future, for her state of mind. It was no one’s business but hers how she chose to lead her life. When she turned five and twenty, her cousins’ guardianships would finally end, but her choices now were still her own.
Samantha pushed past him, and the rustle of her skirts fueled her agitation. “You should know better than to reveal a lady’s age, sir. This discussion is at an end. And I repeat—I need no help.”
“Then why,” Lord Kendrick said, the tone guaranteed to stop her at the door, “were you crying?”
Samantha felt the tears threatening again, pricking at the backs of her eyes. She straightened her spine and put her hand to the door latch.
“You were crying?” Jamie strode to her side to stare at her face so intently Samantha felt compelled to turn her head. But that only meant her gaze collided with Lord Kendrick’s and held. His look had softened, as if he knew the pain inside her. But he couldn’t help her. She knew what she must do.
“I’m fine, Jamie,” she said. “Leave off, and let me go.”
“How can I?” Jamie demanded. “I knew this business troubled you. You don’t have to lose the manor, you know. We can find someone to...”
“Stop!” Samantha ordered, heat washing over her. “Now.”
“But,” Jamie began.
Samantha held up her hand. “I have nothing further to say in the matter, to either of you.” She picked up her skirts and swept out the door. The life she’d known might be ending in a fortnight, but she was not going to beg for assistance, particularly from Lord Kendrick, who could never love her, no matter what she did.
Chapter Two
Will reacted first, the consequence, he feared, of too many years fending for himself. “Lady Everard, wait!”
What was he doing? What did he hope to gain? He should rejoice that she was leaving his home and his son untouched. Already in the corridor, she paused to glance back at him. Something called to him from those dark eyes, as if the ache inside her sought understanding. Perhaps he’d been holed up in Kendrick Hall for too long, but some part of him longed to help.
Why? He knew she was trouble. He’d heard the stories over the years about the wild and wily Everards. And he suspected they were connected with his brother’s death. He should let her walk away. Isn’t that what he wanted?
“Yes, Samantha, please wait,” Jamie said, reaching out a hand. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just wanted to help.”
Her gaze met his, and the anger melted. “There’s nothing to be done, Jamie. I’ve made up my mind. Please let the matter go.”
Will had seldom seen his son’s face so mulish. His brows were gathered, his lips tight and his head was every bit as high and proud as hers as he dropped his hand to the side of his coat. “How can I let it go when your choice will take you away from me...away from Evendale?”
If she noticed his lapse, she was wise enough not to comment on it. “I will come visit. I promise.”
“It won’t be the same.”
Will winced at the adolescent whine. With every movement, every word, his son proved how young he was. And Will didn’t want him any more attached to this woman.
“James,” he said, “the lady asked you to drop the subject. I suggest you comply.”
He regretted his suggestion immediately, for his son blanched. Jamie snapped Lady Everard a bow. “Never intended to hurt you. Sorry.”
Now she paled, and Will could not understand the reason. “There’s no need to apologize,” she replied. “I know you have my best interests at heart. Please tell Mrs. Dallsten Walcott I’m sorry I missed the party. I should go.” Her curtsey was a mere bob of her head before she fled.
“You didn’t need to berate me in front of her,” Jamie said in the silence that followed, his gaze on the floor. “She already considers me a child.”
Jamie’s actions spoke louder than Will’s chastisement, but Will didn’t think the boy would appreciate the fact. He kept his voice gentle. “Sometimes those who watch us grow up are the last to see us change.”
“I suppose so.” His deep sigh could have felled a forest.
Under other circumstances Will would have been hard-pressed not to smile at the dramatic performance, but now he could only wonder how far things had progressed between his son and their lovely neighbor. “I realize you’ve known her for years,” he ventured. “Your grandfather wrote me letters and told me about your antics as children.”
Jamie nodded, clearly avoiding Will’s gaze. “She was always there, as long as I can remember.”
When he hadn’t been. Will had run off with the diplomatic corps shortly after Jamie had been born, and only his brother’s death had brought Will home. He tried to ignore the guilt that tugged at him. “I suppose it’s natural that you’d come in contact with her. The Everards are our closest neighbors.”
Jamie shook his head, one corner of his mouth lifting. “She was more than a neighbor. She was my best friend. And she was always up for a lark. We used to ride together and play catch-me-who-can in the woods. Grandfather even had me take lessons from her governess when we were between tutors.” He sighed again, and another forest tumbled.
“But she’s been in London the past few years, hasn’t she?” Will asked, almost afraid to hear the answer. From what he knew of the Everard family, it would not have surprised him to learn that his son and the lady had been meeting in private.
“Eight years,” Jamie agreed so heavily he made the time sound like decades. He glanced up at his father, defiance shining in his eyes. “I wrote to her.”
Will leaned his hip against the sofa, trying not to overreact. Neither his son nor Will’s consequence would thank him for it. “And did she return your sentiments?”
Jamie gazed out the door. “She wrote back, but she never claimed anything more than friendship.”
Relief was palpable. He could only hope the lady would remain nothing more than a friend. “And may I ask your intentions now?”
Jamie shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I should have known better than to try, but I thought perhaps she might see me differently with her back against the wall.”
She felt trapped? Was that why she’d been crying? Despite his intentions, Will straightened and came around the sofa to join his son by the door. “What do you mean? What’s troubling her?”
Jamie flushed. “Apparently she doesn’t wish me to speak of it. I cannot abuse her trust, Father. I hope you understand.”
Will was afraid he understood all too well. Jamie was in love with Samantha Everard. He was tempted to put it down to calf-love—that tempestuous emotion that sometimes plagued the youth. But he had not forgotten the feelings he’d had for Jamie’s mother, and at an equally young age. He would never have claimed that was anything short of love.
“You need say no more,” Will promised him. Indeed, at the moment, he was less interested in hearing from his son and more interested in hearing from the lady herself. But he needed no audience save hers.
“Perhaps you should return to the party,” he suggested to Jamie. “You are the guest of honor, after all.”
Jamie nodded, but Will was certain his son would take little joy from the remainder of the evening.
He escorted Jamie back to the hall; introduced him to the wife of a local baronet, a lady who would in no way affect his emotions as they danced; ignored yet another imperious look from his hostess; and darted for the entryway. If Lady Everard was waiting for her carriage, he wanted to catch her before she departed.
He had never met any of the Everards personally, but what he suspected would be enough to give most men pause. He’d been in the process of marrying and mourning when Arthur, Lord Everard, had moved his wife and young daughter into Dallsten Manor, the estate to the south of the Kendrick seat.
While he was away trying to forget his lost love, Samantha Everard had grown into a beautiful woman, one who had gathered an offer of marriage from more than one gentleman, he’d heard. Yet despite her wealth, charm and beauty, she had accepted no man as husband. He wasn’t sure why and feared the reason would only hurt his son. He could understand Jamie’s infatuation, but he could not allow it to go any further.
As he had hoped, she was waiting in the entryway. One of his footmen must have retrieved her evening cloak, for the black velvet that draped her made her seem all too slender, almost ethereal, as if one of the fairies rumored to live in the forests nearby had come to visit.
She certainly had more energy than a mythical creature. Instead of standing regally as a lady normally would, she was striding back and forth in front of the white marble columns that separated the entry from the wood-paneled main corridor of the house. She moved so quickly, in fact, he wondered that her kid leather slippers didn’t wear out against the black-and-white marble tiles.
But at least her reflection in the gilt-framed mirror on the opposite wall proved she was the only guest waiting. With the late supper soon to be served, none of his other visitors were ready to depart. The only other people in the space were the footmen who stood at attention in their coats and breeches on either side of the wide-paneled door that fronted the drive, and Will knew he could count on their discretion.
“Lady Everard,” he said, approaching her, and she pulled herself up in obvious surprise, skirts swirling about her ankles like a gentle tide. The smile that brightened her face stopped his movement, his thoughts and very nearly his breath.
“Lord Kendrick,” she said. “You didn’t have to abandon your other guests for me. Your staff is wondrously efficient. I expect my carriage any moment.”
He thought the footmen stood a little taller at her praise. He wanted to stand a little taller as she gazed up at him. This was ridiculous! He wasn’t an eighteen-year-old lad on his first year in Society. And he feared something far darker lay beneath that pleasing smile.
“I wished a word with you before you left,” he said, lowering his voice. “I must ask your intentions concerning my son.”
Her golden brows shot up. “My intentions? Isn’t it generally the lady’s father who asks that question, of a suitor?”
She was right of course, and she could not know he’d just asked Jamie the same question.
“Generally,” he acknowledged. “But these are unusual circumstances. The gentleman is usually the elder and therefore more experienced.”
Now her brows came down, and he felt as if a thundercloud was gathering. “Are you implying I am too experienced for your son, my lord?”
In some matters, he very much feared that for the truth. Oh, he had no doubt she was still a lady; her three guardians would have horsewhipped any man who had tried to change that. But she had seen things Jamie had yet to discover, things Will hoped he never would.
And thank You, Lord, for that!
“I merely meant,” he said, “that you have had more time in Society than Lord Wentworth, and you must know he isn’t ready for a serious courtship.”
She cocked her head, curls falling against her creamy neck, and he had to pull his gaze away. “So you’d prefer he merely dally with me,” she mused, though her voice held an edge, “perhaps increase his reputation with the ladies while sullying mine. Heaven forbid that he actually marry me.”
This was getting worse by the minute! Will tugged down his waistcoat and raised his chin, trying to look every inch the Earl of Kendrick even while using his best diplomat’s voice. “Suggesting my son dally with you would be most ungentlemanly,” he assured her. “But if it’s a husband you’re seeking, I should point out that as a baroness in your own right you could do far better than Lord Wentworth.”
He thought that would appease her. It was the truth, after all. Jamie might be the heir to an earldom, but only Will and his steward knew how tight the purse strings had become. Unless Will was very careful, his son would inherit nothing but an empty title.
But Lady Everard did not appear appeased. “Your son,” she said, each word precise with tension, “is a paragon—clever, loyal and kind. I assure you, I could do far worse.”
Was she intent on capturing Jamie, then? He ought to feel protective of his son, annoyed by her presumption, aghast that she would parade her intentions before him like a challenge. But the emotion striding to the front of his mind was nothing short of jealousy.
He drew himself up, shoved his feelings down deep. “I must ask you to leave my son alone. I will not countenance a marriage between you.”
She blinked, then a laugh bubbled up, soft and lilting. Another time, he was certain he would have been enchanted.
“How funny,” she said, steepling her fingers in front of her lips. “I would have thought a gentleman who had seen so much of the world would have acquired more sense along the way.”
Will was prepared to take offense, but she leaned closer, and the scent of roses seemed far too soft for the hard feelings he was trying to muster.
“Ask yourself this,” she murmured, gaze on his. “If I truly wished to marry into your family, why would I pursue the cub instead of the lion?”
Will recoiled. Her gaze danced with laughter; her smile could only be called smug. She knew she’d shocked him. Even with his years of experience as a diplomat, he had no idea how to respond.
The clatter of horses’ hooves outside announced her carriage. She straightened. “Thank you for a most diverting evening, my lord,” she said, and she turned and followed one of his footmen toward the door as the other servant threw it wide for her.
Will could only stare after her. He should speak to Jamie, confess his concerns, forbid the boy to see anything more of the beautiful Lady Everard. But as he moved to return to his other guests, he passed the gilt-framed mirror, and he wasn’t entirely surprised by the smile lining his face.
* * *
Samantha cast a quick look over her shoulder before the door of Kendrick Hall shut behind her. Lord Kendrick was smiling, and she felt an answering warmth inside. She could imagine laughing over a game of chess, pacing him across the countryside on horseback, dancing with her hands on his, the admiration of his gaze filling her to overflowing.
Oh, no! This would never do. She simply could not entertain such thoughts about the Earl of Kendrick.
William Wentworth would never be in charity with her. At times she was amazed Jamie was still willing to speak to her. After all, she was the reason the previous Lord Wentworth, William’s brother, had been killed.
Surely he knew. Surely that was why he was so concerned that Jamie seemed to care for her. Lord Kendrick didn’t understand it was merely an abiding friendship she and his son shared. She’d watched young James grow up with only his grandfather to guide him, while his father was busy defending British interests in far off places like Constantinople and Alexandria. How Jamie had pined for a moment with his father, much as she had pined for more time with hers. Come to think of it, she had every right to be annoyed with Lord Kendrick!
How could he have abandoned his son on his wife’s death? Jamie had been an infant! William Wentworth had only returned after his brother’s death, she was sure, because tradition required him to take up his place as the new heir. Did he care nothing for family? Was he only concerned she was pursuing Jamie because of her own past?
She shook her head as she settled herself against the velvet-covered seat and the carriage headed down the drive for the road to Dallsten Manor. Her thoughts moved faster than the lacquered wheels. Jamie’s father, this new Lord Kendrick, was not what she had expected. He looked nothing like his son; he acted nothing like his father, who had always treated her with the utmost kindness, even after her connection to his older son’s death.
And as for any resemblance to his dead brother, she had refused to think about the former Lord Wentworth for a very long time. She’d only lost her composure tonight when Jamie had cut short his sentences, an annoying habit that had, alas, been his late uncle’s.
She needed no reminders of the mistakes she’d made, of the tragedies she’d inherited along with the Everard legacy. Those mistakes were the main reason she’d refused her suitors over the years. Each had had something to commend him: a pleasant disposition, a commanding presence, a devotion to duty. Her latest unintended conquest, Prentice Haygood, had followed her about so loyally she’d resorted to hiding in the ladies’ retiring room at balls to avoid hurting his feelings!
Some of her suitors had been handsome, and some had been wealthy and some had been both. Far too many, however, had been fortune hunters, and she’d come to the point where she could smell the breed at twenty paces. Those she had no trouble refusing.
But one other sort of follower had plagued her last days in London. Her home had been broken into, her rooms pawed through. Nothing had been taken, but she could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her. She’d made inquiries, even set a trap in her home to catch the villain, going so far as to leave a window open and waiting with her strongest footman in the dark, but to no avail. Only her impending birthday had forced her north to the one place she’d ever felt truly at home: Dallsten Manor.
Unfortunately she had found an entirely different problem awaiting her in Lord Kendrick. She wasn’t surprised to be attracted to him. Both Jamie and his grandfather had delighted to tell her about his adventures. The stories had circled the valley when she was a girl—his insistent courtship of Peggy Demesne, who was only the miller’s daughter; their eloping to Gretna Green to marry despite his father’s wishes; her death a year later birthing Jamie; and his journeys throughout the world to forget his heartbreak. William Wentworth was the stuff of legend in the Evendale valley.
Or had been, until her family’s scandals eclipsed his.
She hugged her velvet cloak closer as the carriage trundled through the night. Emotions fired too easily in her family, for good and ill. Emotions, she was convinced, lay at the heart of her family’s past problems. She would not trust her feelings with her future. Though it cost her everything, she would not marry on a whim, not even to save her fortune.
Chapter Three
Will would have preferred to have put the lovely Lady Everard from his mind. Unfortunately, Jamie’s attitude at breakfast the next morning prevented that. The lad’s cheeks and mouth sagged, his shoulders slumped over his coddled eggs and salmon. His responses to Will’s attempts at conversation consisted of grunts and questionable movements of his head.
“Oxford,” Will announced, keeping his gaze on the freshly baked bread he was slathering with butter. “Fine school. I think it will do very well for you.”
“Oxford?” The silver-rimmed china clattered as Jamie set down his cup.
Will glanced up to see that he had his son’s attention at last. “Oxford. Divinity school. With all these martyred sighs I thought perhaps you were planning on being a man of the cloth.”
Jamie’s mouth turned up as he shook his head. “I don’t think I’m cut out for Holy Orders, thank you, Father. And you said I didn’t have to return to school if I didn’t wish it. You never attended Oxford.”
He hadn’t, and now that the title had come to him, he wondered if his earlier choices had been wise. But at eighteen, he could not have imagined the road he would travel. “So you still plan to stay here with me, learn more about managing our estate, our holdings.”
Jamie nodded, hands braced on the damask tablecloth. “I’d like to understand my duty better, yes. But I intend to take a little holiday before jumping in.”
Will raised his brows. “Planning to go on a Grand Tour of Europe, are you?”
Jamie grinned, pulling back his hands. “Nothing so elaborate. I’d just like to fish, ride, visit neighbors. That sort of thing.”
Will set down his butter knife. “Neighbors like the Everards.”
Jamie colored as if he’d been caught with his fingers in the sugar bowl. “Lady Everard is our neighbor, so yes, I planned to visit her as well as the Gileses, Mr. Ramsey our old vicar and others who knew me before I went away to Eton.”
“Very...neighborly of you,” Will managed.
Jamie raised his chin. “I thought so.”
Will watched as the boy attacked his eggs. Jamie might protest all he liked, but Will was certain more than a friendly nature motivated him to pursue Lady Everard. He had to find a way to break through to his son.
“Perhaps I’ll come with you,” Will ventured. “I feel in an uncommonly neighborly mood as well.”
For some reason his son did not seem amused by the prospect. But he finished breakfast and excused himself, promising to rejoin his father after Will’s morning ride.
Will hoped that ride would at least clear his mind of his concerns. Nothing like pounding across the turf to remind him of the reason he was born. He was a Wentworth, and this estate had belonged to his family for ten generations. He glanced back at the hall as he wended his way through the boxed hedges for the stables behind the house.
A sturdy brick edifice four stories tall, with squat wings clinging to the center, Kendrick Hall had been built for his great-grandfather. The numerous high-arched windows capped in white, and white stone columns marking the center block, managed to give the place a look of elegance in keeping with the current age. But though the house was newer than its neighbors, Wentworth blood had defended the grounds from Scottish tribes over four hundred years ago.
And now it was Will’s turn to defend it from the rising debts. He nodded to his head groom as he mounted Arrow, his favorite horse. He knew others whose heritage had been stolen by a father who gambled, a brother who invested unwisely. That was not the case with the Kendrick estate. His father had been a good if unenlightened manager. But times were changing, and the Evendale valley, so close to the fells of Cumberland, was struggling to keep pace.
Will set Arrow to a canter and guided him out around the house for the front. There he could see snatches of the oak woods to the north and the lone line of oaks flanking the long drive to the road. He had only to move beyond them, and he could see all the way to Dallsten Manor.
So he could not fail to notice the other rider pelting across the green pastures between the two houses. Even if he had doubted the identity, the flash of sunlight on golden hair would have given her away.
The gelding beneath him tossed his head as if wishing to follow. Will felt a similar desire to give chase. He knew Arrow was swift enough to catch her. But he wasn’t sure he wanted the conversation that would follow. Neighbors or not, the less time he spent in Lady Everard’s company, the safer he’d feel.
But would Jamie be any safer if Will let her be? Jamie had no understanding of the female mind; Will had met enough ladies on his travels to have some familiarity. Lady Everard had implied last night that she would be more interested in him than in his son, a fact that had refused to leave his thoughts for much of the night.
Should I keep an eye on her, Father? Try to understand why she’s here, what she hopes to gain?
Something inside him jumped at the idea. Still, Will hesitated, watching her. She certainly had no concerns about her own safety. Though she had crossed onto his lands, she had forsaken a groom or lady to attend her. Her horse galloped across the field, sheep scattering before them, and approached a low hedge that separated the patches of grass so the flocks could be rotated among the pastures.
Surely she’d slow; surely she’d stop. He found himself rising in the stirrup irons as if he could hold her up by sheer force of character.
The horse sailed up and over the hedge, and Lady Everard flew up and out of the saddle to land on the ground.
Will felt as if his breath had been knocked from him as well. Arrow was moving before he realized he’d directed the dappled gelding. Down they went, through the trees, over a stream. Every length Will sent up a prayer that he would find her unharmed. He galloped to the hedge and leaped from the saddle.
She had managed to raise herself into a sitting position and was gazing about her as if dazed. Will crouched beside her. Her tall-crowned hat had fallen, her curls hung free about her shoulders, and her cheeks were bright. She blinked at him as if surprised to find him there.
“Lady Everard,” he murmured, tightening his fist on the reins to keep from touching her. “Are you all right?”
She wrinkled her nose and puffed out a sigh. “I am remarkably disappointed. I’ve taken that hedge any number of times. Why was today any different?”
He wasn’t sure whether to hug her to him in relief or shout at her for risking her life. He settled for rising and going to fetch her horse, which was waiting for her a few yards away. When he returned with the black-coated mare, Lady Everard had retrieved her hat and was struggling to take another step, the skirts of her blue riding habit heavy with the mud of the field.
“Easy!” He dropped both reins and reached for her, but she held out her free hand to prevent his touch.
“I’m fine,” she said, straightening to her full height, which still put her under his chin. She took a hesitant couple of steps and nodded. “Yes, quite fine.” She dimpled up at him. “But thank you for your concern.”
Will shook his head at her cavalier attitude. Didn’t she know she could have broken her neck? “You’re certain?”
“Reasonably. Though I could use your help to mount.”
That was it? He couldn’t think of a lady of his acquaintance who would take such a fall so calmly. His Peg had refused to ride, saying the great beasts frightened her, and he’d felt distinctly manly at the time that he was so comfortable in the saddle. In his travels he’d met any number of women who rode or drove wagons pulled by horses, donkeys or oxen, but those women had never been among the aristocracy.
“Your servant, Lady Everard,” he said, bemused. Knowing his horse was well trained enough not to wander off, he handed her her horse’s reins and bent to cup his fingers.
Hat back on her head, Samantha Everard put her foot in his hands. For all her bravado, it was a surprisingly small foot. Even encased in a sturdy brown leather half-boot, it fit easily in his grip, and she seemed to weigh next to nothing as he lifted her into the saddle.
She spread her sodden skirts as she settled into place. “Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your kindness.”
But not necessarily his presence. Already she was gathering the reins, preparing to ride off. He should let her go, hurry back to Kendrick Hall and all those tedious estate duties. But those duties would not help him understand her, or protect his son.
“Then perhaps you would grant me a favor,” he said.
She arched a brow. “A favor?”
He lay his hand on her stirrup, gazed up at her with his best smile and was surprised to hear his heart pounding louder than when he’d seen her fall. “Allow me to ride with you. I’d like to apologize for my behavior last night and become better acquainted.”
* * *
It should have been easy to urge Blackie to a run and dash away, but Lord Kendrick’s face, turned up to her, was bright with hope. Those green eyes positively twinkled in the summer sun, as if being with her was the most delightful thing he could imagine. Besides, her hip was beginning to protest its collision with the ground, and she didn’t relish galloping at the moment.
“Very well, my lord,” she said.
Returning to his horse, he swung himself up into the saddle as if from long practice and eased alongside her. His dapple gray was a fine animal, with dark intelligent eyes and a ready step. She was certain he’d give Blackie a good run, if she’d have dared to race today. But perhaps she should try to remember she was a lady for a change.
Together they set off across the pastures toward Kendrick Hall. The air was still cool so close to the mountains, scented with damp earth and growing things. London never smelled this good. No country estate she’d visited matched the crisp scent either. She found herself drawing it in. It smelled like home.
“You’re certain you’re fine,” he asked again, as if noticing her deep breaths.
Samantha felt herself coloring. “I’ve taken a fall or two in my time, sir. There’s no need to fuss over me.”
Immediately she regretted the tartness of her words, but he merely smiled. “Habit. It seems I’ve grown a bit too much into the fatherly role.”
Just as Jamie was outgrowing it, she realized. She remembered how she’d had to accustom herself to her three guardians when her cousins had first arrived at Dallsten Manor on her father’s death. Lord Everard had kept his nephews in the dark about his wife and daughter. Certainly Samantha had never dreamed she had a family until her father had died and his will demanded that she work with her cousins to save her inheritance and theirs.
The will had required her to be presented to the queen, to be welcomed in all the homes who had refused admittance to her scandalous father and to garner an offer of marriage from three eligible gentlemen. One had been from her old friend Toby Giles, one from her cousin Vaughn and one from the brother of the man who rode beside her. Only one requirement remained, and she knew she would never fulfill it now.
“Still, there’s no need to apologize,” she told him as they crossed the stream, the horses’ hooves splashing in the sparkling mountain waters. “You were only trying to protect Jamie. I used to do the same thing when we were younger.”
He held the reins lightly, but his gaze flickered over her. “Did you?”
Could he not see her in that role? “Certainly. He was so cute when he was little, so earnest.” She smiled, remembering. “He would do anything I suggested. I had to be very careful, I promise you.”
He seemed to sit taller in the saddle. “And now you’ve returned,” he said, and something simmered in his warm voice. “But not to stay, it seems.”
The light of day made this conversation no easier than it had been last night. She said the lines she’d rehearsed. “I thought it was time I took a more active role in the summer party. It’s a family tradition, and it’s been years since I even attended.”
“So I understand. Eight, isn’t it?”
Did he think to upbraid her? She offered him a smile and said sweetly, “Less than the nine or more years you were away.”
He grimaced, a quirk of his gentle mouth that reminded her of Jamie. “Your point. I should be the last one to question why someone would want to leave Evendale.”
Or return. She knew why he’d come back, and though she was glad Jamie had been reunited with his father, the knowledge of the part she’d played was a weight on her heart.
“And how go plans for the big event?” he asked as if realizing she was too quiet. Her—quiet! How her cousins would laugh if they knew. She certainly had no trouble talking to anyone else, and she very much feared it wasn’t her guilt that was keeping her tongue-tied.
She could see Kendrick Hall rising ahead of them and directed Blackie to stop.
“Well enough,” she answered him as he pulled his horse up beside hers. “There will be a puppet show, a whirligig and more pies than anyone should safely eat.”
“And dancing in the evening?”
She blushed at his tone and wasn’t sure why. “Certainly, my lord. That is tradition, too.”
“And woe betide us for changing tradition,” he said with a chuckle. “As you did not favor me with a dance last night, I hope you’ll save one for me at the party.”
A dance? With him? Ever since her father had instituted the annual summer party, she’d dreamed of dancing. When she’d left for London, she had been too young, in her governess’s eyes, to participate. The party had been held the past eight years without her as she’d attended one house party after another, from Cornwall in the south to Carlisle in the north, all to fulfill the last requirement of her father’s will. She’d had to delegate the party to her housekeeper and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott.
Now at last and possibly for the last, Samantha was the hostess.
“I will certainly see if I can find time for a dance,” she promised. “But I expect to be very busy, my lord.”
He barked a laugh. “Well, that’s a leveler. I thought all young ladies wished to dance with eligible earls.”
Did he consider himself eligible, then? She thought every lady within miles must be setting her cap at him. Funny. Given his history she’d somehow considered him immune.
“I suppose they do,” she acknowledged. “But I no longer need to attach eligible gentlemen.”
“Then you have an understanding,” he said, and once again she was all too aware of his green gaze as he studied her. She had an understanding all right, but not of the sort he meant. She had come to the realization that marriage was not for her.
“Suffice it to say that I will not be marrying anytime soon,” she replied. “Thank you for your company, my lord. I should return home.”
He looked ready to protest, eyes narrowed, head high. Still he nodded a farewell, and she turned the horse. She tried to look as calm, but she couldn’t keep herself from looking back. Once more he was watching her leave, yet this time the determination on his face told her that he intended to learn her secrets, whether she wished it or not.
Chapter Four
Unfortunately the Earl of Kendrick wasn’t the only person intent on discovering more about Samantha’s personal affairs. She had barely reached Dallsten Manor and was heading for her room to change out of her mud-encrusted riding habit when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott met her at the foot of the main stair.
The house was much improved since she’d left, thanks to the vision of her cousin Jerome and judicious use of funds from her inheritance. Jerome had a reason to want to preserve the manor. He had fallen in love here with Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s daughter, Samantha’s former governess, Adele. And Adele had been raised in the house, which had belonged to her family before hard times had forced them to sell to Samantha’s father. So it was no wonder Jerome and Adele shared Samantha’s fondness for the place.
In the past eight years the Everards had rebuilt the crumbling pele tower that stood at the north corner and added fine wood paneling to the lower half of many of the walls. They’d also augmented the formerly spartan staff with footmen, gardeners and maids of every variety.
Now their work was evident, for every wood surface gleamed, from the parquet floor to the banister on the elegant stair. Even the ancient wall tapestry of knights attacking a stag had been cleaned, the colors once more proud.
But never as proud as the lady standing sternly on the stair.
“Why am I not informed of your goings out?” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott demanded, face nearly as pink as her fashionable wool gown.
Samantha stifled a desire to stick out her tongue at the elderly woman who had known her most of her life. For one thing, the gesture was unkind—she knew how Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tended to cling to people and things as a way to stave off her fears of loneliness and poverty. For another, Samantha had entirely outgrown such childish displays, most days.
“It was only a ride,” she said, pausing below her chaperone and feeling a bit more like a schoolgirl every moment. “I didn’t think you’d wish to join me.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott put her formidable nose in the air and sniffed. “Certainly not. I never felt the need to pelt across the grounds willy-nilly like some hoyden.”
Like me, Samantha thought, but the appellation of hoyden merely made her smile. Truth be told, she liked the fact she felt free to race across the grounds. Lord Kendrick hadn’t minded either. He’d seemed genuinely concerned about her fall, of course, but he’d never scolded her for jumping hedges, even if the act was a challenging feat from a sidesaddle.
“If you have need of me, I’d be delighted to help,” she told Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, “as soon as I’ve changed.” She spread her skirts to emphasize the state of her disarray and a chunk of dried mud obligingly fell to the floor with a plop.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took a step back as if she feared the dirt would attack her. “I merely wish to congratulate you on your strategy and offer my guidance in achieving it.” She eyed Samantha’s riding habit. “You appear to need some assistance.”
Samantha dropped her skirts. “Strategy?”
“To marry young Lord Wentworth.” She wagged a finger at Samantha. “You may have the others fooled into thinking you’ll give away the manor, but I know better.”
Why would none of them leave her alone on the matter? It wasn’t their portions of the Everard legacy at risk if she failed to meet the last stipulation of her father’s will and marry before her upcoming birthday.
Her oldest cousin, Jerome, would keep the estate her father had left him, which had only grown more prosperous under his management. Her cousin Richard would keep his ship and the two he’d purchased with his inheritance. Cousin Vaughn had no doubt already spent the money her father had left him on the estate he’d been given when he’d been elevated to marquess. She was the only one who stood to lose—her childhood home and the bulk of the fortune. But better that than to risk her future or her very life.
Samantha pushed past her chaperone and started up the stairs.
“I am not marrying Jamie,” she flung over her shoulder. “And I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She said it loudly and with great conviction, but she might have been whistling down the wind for all the good it did. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott swept up beside her, keeping pace as Samantha stomped down the long corridor for her bedchamber, shedding more mud with each step.
“Certainly you need help,” the elderly lady scolded. “He’s a mere youth, true, but even young men can be clever about evading matrimony. And you only have a fortnight.”
Samantha paused beside the painting of Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s father, who had a similarly unforgiving look in his eyes. “Madam, I refuse to have this conversation with you.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott folded in on herself, and her lower lip began to tremble. “Very well. I know you have no use for me even though I was your mother’s dearest friend and only confidante when your father abandoned her here for his other life in London. You needn’t heed my advice, although I’m certain I’ve only ever had your best interests at heart.” She slipped a lace-edged handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and dabbed at her eyes.
Other women would have begged her pardon, rushed to assure her of her place in their affections. Samantha had known her too long. She put her hands on her hips.
“Crocodile tears will not move me, madam. I know where your loyalty lies—with this house and the name of Dallsten.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott raised her head, and as Samantha had suspected, no tears glistened on her soft cheeks. “And if that were true, would you blame me?” She flapped her handkerchief across the air. “How can you even consider giving all this away!”
The guilt threatened to overwhelm her. She was an Everard, and this was her home just as much as it was Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s. She’d learned to read and ride here, lost a father and found a family. How could she let this house be sold to another?
For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.
The guilt abated. She had to remember that Dallsten Manor was only a house. Its presence or loss only affected her and a few others. They would mourn, and it would be over. Marrying in desperation or out of any other emotion had the potential to hurt so many more people, and more than one generation. She knew that now.
She laid her hand on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott’s shoulder and was surprised how frail it had become. “I’m sorry. I know how much you love this house and how you’ve enjoyed living in it the past eight years while I’ve been gone. But I’m not marrying before my twenty-fifth birthday. Very likely, I’m not marrying at all.”
This time Samantha was fairly sure the water welling in her chaperone’s blue eyes was real. “But we’ll lose the house, all the furnishings, the paintings, the sculpture,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, sucking in a breath as if the idea was too much to bear.
“All but the dower house,” Samantha agreed, the words like acid on her tongue. “You have the use of that in your lifetime, along with any family mementos you care to claim.” She leaned closer. “We both know how many of those the dower house can hold.”
A slow smile lit her chaperone’s face as she blinked back her tears. Samantha knew she was also thinking about the time, eight years ago, when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had managed to cart most of the house’s valuables down to the dower house for “safekeeping.” Only Jerome’s diplomacy and Samantha’s offer to let the lady live in the main house again had made the woman feel comfortable in returning the items to their former places.
“Clever girl,” she told Samantha now. “I’ve always said so. I’ll need your help.”
Samantha straightened. “You’ll have it. Whatever you like, we’ll move it down to the dower house immediately, just as was agreed in the original deed from my father. I imagine you know exactly where to find all the important pieces.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott nodded as she tucked her handkerchief away. “I have the list in my head. I shall put it to paper, and we can start checking things off this very day. But you will need to forego our efforts tomorrow for tea.”
Hand on the latch to the door of her room, Samantha eyed her. “Tea? I don’t recall an appointment over tea.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott waved a hand. “The invitation came while you were out. Lord Wentworth has invited you to tea tomorrow at Kendrick Hall.” She beamed as if this was a tremendous honor.
Samantha raised her brows. “Reading my mail now, are you?”
Her chaperone drew herself up. “And how else am I to keep watch over you, young lady? There’s a reason Adele allowed you to come north alone ahead of the others.”
There was indeed, and it had little to do with the fact that Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was available to play chaperone for propriety’s sake. Adele was hoping the time alone at Dallsten Manor would make Samantha change her mind about marrying.
“I didn’t come ahead to play at tea,” she said. “We have work to do if we’re to have everything ready for the summer party in a fortnight.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott waved her hand again as if the effort amounted to nothing. “That is well in hand, thanks to all your work in the intervening months. You have done quite well in that regard, so you have no reason to avoid tea tomorrow. I have already accepted for you.”
Heat licked up her. It seemed no matter how old she was, her life was not her own. Well, perhaps it was time to make it her own.
“Since you accepted, you can explain why I don’t show up,” Samantha informed her chaperone, pushing open the door and marching into her room.
She thought the lady would wait to continue the argument until after Samantha had changed, but Mrs. Dallsten Walcott followed her into the bedchamber, ignoring the maid who came hurrying from the dressing room.
“But he’s the heir to an earldom,” her chaperone protested. “Surely you can see the benefits of such a match!”
The benefits were evident—the combination of their lands to provide a larger estate for both houses, the fulfillment of her father’s will. She could live among her beloved fells, surrounded by friends and family.
But she would have cheated Jamie out of finding a bride who could truly love him. Surely her way was better! Help me be strong, heavenly Father!
She pasted on a smile as she raised her arms to allow her maid to help her out of her soiled habit. “I’m sure Lord Wentworth will make a wonderful husband, for the right young lady. I am not that lady.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott went so far as to stamp her foot, and the maid cringed.
“Oh, how can you be so stubborn?” her chaperone cried. “Adele let this chance slip through her fingers. She was engaged to the former heir to Kendrick Hall, and she let him get away. Do not make the same mistake!”
Samantha had nearly been engaged to the former heir as well, something she could never forget. Lord Gregory Wentworth had been years older and a sophisticated gentleman who’d had years to master London Society. She’d been fascinated from the moment he had been introduced to her. He’d seemed so attentive, so sure of himself and her.
But she’d later learned that his pursuit of her had been dictated by his mentor, a villain intent on treason who had already hurt her family. The former Lord Wentworth’s role in his powerful mentor’s evil plan had been to keep her cousin Vaughn so busy worrying about Lord Wentworth’s courtship of Samantha that Vaughn forgot his quest to find the villain who had murdered her father, his beloved uncle.
The plan might have worked but for two things. Vaughn hadn’t been jealous; he’d already fallen in love with the villain’s daughter, of all people! And Lord Wentworth had fallen in love as well, with Samantha. The knowledge that he would put her before his mentor’s plans had driven the villain to kill him. Samantha could not help feeling that she should have done something, anything, to save Lord Wentworth. Perhaps, if she’d been more observant, if she hadn’t been ruled by her emotions, if she hadn’t been so fixated on gathering her third proposal, she might have discovered his connection to the treason plot and acted before he’d been killed.
Now she turned her back on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott as the maid pulled off her habit.
“The gravest mistake, madam, would be for me to marry,” she said, gaze on the far pink wall. “And nothing you or anyone else says will change that.”
Though she heard Mrs. Dallsten Walcott stalk from the room, Samantha was fairly sure the argument wasn’t over. But she knew she’d already won. And lost.
* * *
Will reacted with nearly as much determination when he was informed later that day about Jamie’s invitation to have Lady Everard join them for tea. He had returned from his ride sure that he could find a way to uncover the secrets he saw lurking in the lady’s deep brown eyes, if only to protect his family. That effort would require him to meet her again, gain her trust. But he had not expected his son to steal a march on him.
“And what exactly is the purpose of this event?” he asked Jamie as they sat in the library discussing estate business.
Jamie shrugged, lounging with great satisfaction in the leather-upholstered chair. “I told you—I want to reacquaint myself with our neighbors. Tea seemed a good way to start.”
“Will you pour or shall I?” Will quipped.
Jamie colored. “Mrs. Dallsten Walcott will be joining us. She can pour. And I would be delighted for you to attend, Father. Unless you have better things to do.”
Nothing more important than protecting his son from possibly predatory females. And attending would give him a chance to study Lady Everard more closely.
“Of course I’ll attend,” he told Jamie. “This is my home. I’d insult the ladies by not making an appearance.” He slapped his son on the knee. “Count on it. I’ll be there to support you.”
Jamie nodded, but somehow he did not look comforted.
He looked even less happy when he and Will gathered in the withdrawing room the next day to await their guests. Will’s mother had designed the formal room, from the elaborate pattern of the inlaid wood floor to the gilded chevrons on the white paneling of the lower walls and white marble fireplace. The creamy floral wreaths on the red silk wall hangings were mirrored in the sculpted wreaths edging the high ceiling.
Will hadn’t paid the decor all that much attention growing up. Peg had hated the room, particularly the snowy carpet in the center with its red silk fringe. She’d been afraid to walk on it lest she soil it. He had to agree it was rather impractical. He should have removed it years ago, but it reminded him of Peg.
Today Jamie refused to sit on any of the elegant white, curved-back chairs or sofa. He paced from the windows overlooking the fells to the doorway into the corridor, peering out each and pausing only long enough to tug at various articles of clothing. Already his cravat was wilting, his blue patterned waistcoat was rumpled, and his tasseled boots had lost their shine. Will felt for him.
“You’ll be fine,” he offered, stretching out his own tooled leather boots where he sat near the hearth. He hadn’t dressed the part of the earl today, choosing instead a tweed coat and chamois trousers. But the boots had been with him too many years to forego. Far more elaborate than the ones his contemporaries generally favored, they were as soft as butter and as comfortable as old slippers. He’d had them made his first week in Constantinople, and they’d been with him ever since.
When Jamie didn’t respond, Will glanced up. His son was frozen on the carpet, and their guests were at the door.
“Lady Everard and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott,” said their butler, a relict as formal as the room.
Will could understand why his son was gaping. He was hard-pressed not to gape himself. Samantha, Lady Everard, had been a vision in her cerulean ball gown. Now it seemed as if joy had entered the room. Her pale muslin gown was covered in a fitted blue jacket that brought out the gold of her hair. The collar was a frivolous affair with multiple points edged in lace; it was as whimsical as her smile.
He found himself smiling back and forced a more serious look. He’d met women from every part of the Ottoman Empire and places in between, from dusky-skinned princesses to platinum-haired grand duchesses. Why did this woman make them all fade in comparison?
“Samantha.” Jamie rushed forward to take her arm and lead her into the room. “Thank you for coming.”
“Well, it seems I promised,” she said with a sidelong glance at her companion.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, resplendent in royal purple as if she planned to take tea with the Regent, swept up to Will and curtseyed. “Lord Kendrick, how kind of you to invite us to your lovely home.”
Will bowed. “It is only lovely because you grace us with your presence, dear lady.”
She batted her lashes at him as she rose and tapped his arm with one finger. “I spoke with the Widow Trent yesterday. She was utterly charmed by your attentions at the party the other night.”
He could not think who she meant. The only woman he remembered meeting was gazing at him from across the room in obvious amusement. “She is kind to think of me,” he replied.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tittered. “It isn’t kindness that makes a lady remember a handsome gentleman, my lord.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Samantha put in. “Any lady would remember a kindness after a sudden mishap. Such an act is unlooked for and most welcome, like a breeze on a hot day.”
It was not the day but his face that felt hot at that reference to their ride the previous day. No, he couldn’t be blushing! He waved to the chair closest to the tea cart, and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took it while he made sure to sit the farthest from Lady Everard. He told himself it was his duty to keep an eye on things, but some part of him warned it was self-preservation.
Still, the tableau would have been amusing under other circumstances. Their staff had set up a cart with the dainty silver tea urn his mother had preferred and her favorite rose-covered china cups and saucers. A plate of delicate tea cakes, frosted in a creamy yellow, lay ready for the passing. Normally his son would have been the first to reach for them.
But Jamie was watching Samantha as if she was the tea cake and he was starving. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was studying the pair of them with narrowed eyes that seemed to hold more speculation than censorship. And Samantha was eying Will, mouth turned up at one corner, twinkle in her dark eyes as if she was in complete agreement with him that the situation was ridiculous.
Even as he fought the urge to adjust his cravat or waistcoat, she turned her smile on Jamie.
“Everything looks marvelous. Would you like me to pour?”
“Of course,” Jamie said as if waking from a dream.
She set about pouring the steaming brew into the cups, her movements sure and easy. She’d probably poured tea a hundred times since she’d made her debut in Society, yet the smiles she bestowed on Mrs. Dallsten Walcott and Jamie said they were the most important people she had ever served. Will was on his feet and moving toward her before she even held out his cup.
His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the china, and he heard the sharp intake of her breath. Her gaze met his. He could not seem to look away. As if from a long distance he heard the soft thud of a cup and saucer hitting the carpet.
“Oh, gracious!” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott cried. “Samantha, how could you!”
Samantha turned red and dropped her gaze, now empty hands falling into the lap of her pale gown. “I’m so sorry, my lord.”
“My fault entirely,” Will said, squatting to pick up the unbroken china. The stain of the spilled tea was spreading across the pristine carpet. He couldn’t help grimacing, but the act had more to do with his own behavior than hers.
What was he thinking, mooning about, gazing into her eyes like a lovesick schoolboy? He had thought he’d learned something in the nearly twenty years since he’d fallen in love the first time. At the moment he felt no wiser than his son.
He had to be wiser. He had to protect Jamie. And now it appeared he had to protect himself as well. For if he wasn’t careful, Samantha, Lady Everard, might wedge her way into his heart, and that would be a mistake.
Chapter Five
Samantha sat quietly, trying not to bite her lip, as Mrs. Dallsten Walcott poured another cup of tea for Lord Kendrick and chatted about commonplaces. Why had she dropped that cup? She’d served tea dozens of times, once to His Highness the Duke of York! Her hands had never so much as trembled. But one look in those deep green eyes and she’d lost all sense of place, aware only of the pounding of her heart.
Lord, please, not like this. You know the danger of trusting feelings that come so quickly. Help me!
“It’s nothing,” Jamie whispered beside her. “Please don’t concern yourself. My father says my mother hated that carpet. I don’t know why he kept it.”
She nodded, but she focused her gaze on the ugly brown stain. Likely William Wentworth, Lord Kendrick, kept the carpet for the same reason she kept the iron canopy over her mother’s bed—so he would never forget. She could not allow these fleeting feelings to overpower her resolve.
“Cake?” Lord Kendrick asked, holding out the silver-rimmed plate to her. “They used to be Lord Wentworth’s favorite.”
Lord Wentworth? The image of his brother, cleft chin, blue eyes, superior air, came to mind despite her best efforts. She hadn’t known the schemes that were about to endanger her family then. Certainly she hadn’t suspected Lord Wentworth had been anything but sincere in his courtship. Did Lord Kendrick understand she’d once hoped his brother might offer for her? That he had in fact offered the day before his murder?
She searched Lord Kendrick’s face for judgment, for blame. But he was merely smiling at her, all encouragement, as if trying to allay her concerns after the tea contretemps.
“They’re still my favorites,” Jamie proclaimed, reaching past her to take the tray from his father. He held it before her. “Try one, Samantha. They’re delicious.”
Oh, of course. She had to remember Jamie was Lord Wentworth now. The former Lord Wentworth was dead, and if she were wise she would not mention the reasons to his brother. She managed a smile for Jamie’s sake and selected one of the little iced cakes. The taste was a perfect blend of tart and sweet, much like her life of late.
“Delicious,” she assured Jamie, who was watching her. By his smile, she would have thought she’d offered him the moon.
As he returned the plate to the tea cart, she picked up her spoon to stir her tea and was surprised to find that the implement was made of rosewood. Something glimmered at the tip. Looking closer, she saw amber inlaid into the end.
“Something to remember my travels,” Lord Kendrick said, as if he’d been watching her.
“A gift from the sultan of the Ottoman Empire,” Jamie said with some pride. “You recall how Father served in Constantinople.”
“And Egypt,” Samantha replied, fingering the satiny wood of the spoon. She shot Jamie a grin. “You always hoped he’d bring back a mummy.”
“No mummies, alas,” Lord Kendrick said with a smile.
Jamie laughed, eyes bright. “But he has a whole room full of wonders. Would you like to see them?”
“I’m sure Lady Everard has better things to do than look at a moldery bunch of keepsakes,” his father said.
She doubted they could be moldery. “I’d love to see them,” she told Jamie, hopping to her feet. Jamie rose just as eagerly, with Lord Kendrick only a few seconds behind.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott heaved a martyred sigh as she set aside her tea and rose to follow them from the withdrawing room.
Samantha had visited Kendrick Hall many times growing up. It was much grander than Dallsten Manor, with easily twice as many rooms. Each room she’d seen was paneled in silk or fine woods, the hearths all varying types of marble, with liberal use of gilding on every conceivable surface. In short, it was elegant, imposing and far too formal for her tastes.
She could not say the same for the room Jamie showed her now, located just down the corridor from the withdrawing room. The moment she stepped past the paneled door, she felt as if she’d been transported to another land.
Crimson and azure tapestries woven with gold hung from the walls; carpets patterned in fanciful flowers and bright-plumed birds graced the parquet floor. Tall bronze vases with fluted mouths held feathers from peacocks and ostriches. Tables inlaid with ivory and ebony supported delicate statuary and finely wrought boxes of gold and silver. The very air was scented with sandalwood and incense. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott turned up her aristocratic nose.
But Samantha wandered deeper into the room, gaze darting from one piece to another. Here was the William Wentworth the valley legends proclaimed—the world traveler, the mysterious adventurer. This room she thought, unlike any other in Kendrick Hall, truly reflected its master. That he was well aware of it was evident by the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he too gazed about fondly. These were not just mementos; this was his life on display.
“Look here,” Jamie urged, taking her hand and pulling her to where several curved sheaths of beaten gold hung from mahogany arms on the wall. He lifted one down and drew on the jeweled hilt until the sword flashed in the light from the far window. “Father won this from a Janissary by defeating him in combat.”
“How interesting,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, but she gravitated to a set of jeweled pins shaped like butterflies.
Samantha was far more interested in the swords. It wasn’t hard to picture Lord Kendrick, blade raised like a knight of old, ready to protect England. “A Janissary?” she asked, rubbing a finger along the metal sheath.
Lord Kendrick’s hands passed over hers and took the sword from Jamie. “A soldier hired to protect the Ottoman Empire and those who serve her,” he explained. “Janissaries are assigned to the foreign embassies and envoys as guards. They can be your best source of help in trouble. And I didn’t defeat one. The swords were a gift, like much of what you see here.” He returned the sword to its place on the wall.
“A gift for valor,” Jamie assured Samantha even as she wondered why Lord Kendrick didn’t seem to like his son touching his things. “Father fought to keep the French out of Egypt. Here, I’ll show you.” He hurried off to the leather-bound trunk along the opposite wall.
“You are too humble, I think,” Samantha teased Lord Kendrick, her hand falling to rest on a carved chest.
His mouth turned up at one corner. He had a nice mouth—firm lips above a firmer chin. She could imagine him ordering a battalion to action as easily as he called for tea.
“It isn’t humility to know one’s place in history,” he countered. “That’s one thing I learned in the diplomatic corps. No matter how important the ruler, there’s always someone else who fancies himself more important. And sometimes he’s right.”
“And just as often he’s wrong,” Samantha replied, thinking back to her family’s struggles against the powerful nobleman who had thought to help Napoleon conquer England. That man had intended to rule England himself one day, even if he had to kill a few Englishmen like Lord Kendrick’s brother along the way. Of course she couldn’t tell Lord Kendrick or Jamie about that. Everyone involved had been sworn to secrecy.
“You needn’t worry, Lady Everard,” Lord Kendrick murmured, hand covering hers on the chest. “We will beat Napoleon. It’s only a matter of time.”
He thought she’d meant the current war. She should find a way to explain or agree, but everything in her seemed to be focused on his gentle touch. The warmth seeped into her skin, relaxed muscles she hadn’t realized she’d held tight. Would his embrace be just as warm?
“Here you are,” Jamie declared, and Samantha sprang away from Lord Kendrick, her face heating. There she went again! She had to master these emotions. She’d thought she’d become more skilled at it, but after spending her whole life acting on her feelings, shutting them off now wasn’t easy, even understanding their danger.
She was merely thankful that Jamie didn’t seem to notice her lapse. Neither did her chaperone. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, returning to join them, was obviously more interested in the scroll Jamie was unrolling. Samantha could only hope her host was as oblivious. She chanced a glance at him, but his gaze was on the scroll.
And what a sight it was, nearly two feet high and bound on golden rods. Gold and crimson figures ran along each margin and the top. Across the page danced fanciful writing in bold brown ink. She had never seen its like.
“What does it say?” she asked, peering closer.
“To Lord William,” Lord Kendrick read, long finger gliding along the words as he translated. “You have my everlasting gratitude for your help in settling the Egyptian question and my deepest affections for your friendship.”
“It’s from the ruler of the Ottoman Empire,” Jamie explained as Lord Kendrick’s hand fell to his side.
“The sultan, until he lost his place and life to a rebellion,” Lord Kendrick murmured, straightening. Samantha could hear the sorrow in his voice.
“Father was gone from there by then,” Jamie said as if the entire culture had ceased to be of interest once his father had departed. He carefully rolled up the scroll. “All the English left when the Turks started supporting the French. We even sent in the Navy.”
Lord Kendrick stepped back, jaw tightening. “The sultan was the most progressive ruler in that part of the world in the past hundred years. He would have seen reason without shoving a frigate down his throat. As it was, the Navy had to retreat in defeat from the Ottoman shore batteries after losing more than forty men. And the ambassador and his staff were forced to flee the country.”
He must have been one of those staff. Small wonder he hesitated to relive those days. His usual diplomacy had all but deserted him, and it was clear he was not a man willing to concede defeat.
It was a trait she unfortunately shared with him. She could only hope the two of them would never have cause to oppose each other, for the results could be devastating.
* * *
Will was glad to shut the door on his memories and chivvy his son and guests back to the more traditional surroundings of the withdrawing room. The way Samantha Everard’s eyes had brightened as she’d gazed around his room had made him want to stand straighter, point out his triumphs as proudly as Jamie.
And he knew he had reason to be pleased with his accomplishments. His work had built friendships between high-ranking members of the Ottoman Empire and Britain, safeguarded British citizens and protected antiquities from French conquest. His encouragement of the sultan’s reforms, however, had also resulted in rebellion and the deaths of friends and colleagues. He could never fully celebrate the good without being drawn into regret over the bad.
So he returned to the safety of his withdrawing room, which held far more benign memories. His efficient staff had refreshed the tea and replaced the stained carpet with one from a guest bedchamber. While the gold-and-brown pattern did not match the rest of the decor, it warmed the room, and he found he liked it better.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott seemed to think she should rise to the position of his hostess again, for she poured everyone another cup of tea the moment they had settled into seats and promptly began quizzing Jamie as if he were the visitor in her home and not the other way around.
“And what are your plans now, Lord Wentworth?” she asked, fingers curled around the handle of the flowered cup. “Do you plan to enter the diplomatic corps like your father?”
Jamie smiled, but his gaze was on Lady Everard. “Oh no, ma’am. I’m here at Kendrick Hall to stay. This is my home.”
Samantha kept her gaze on her tea, and her look was not nearly as bright as it had been in the other room. By now, Will was certain she was not one to shrink away from conflict. Was she trying to discourage his son, or draw him out with her silence?
“I imagine you will make a very fine earl one day,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said with a nod to confirm her opinion. “Once you have set up your nursery, of course.” She tittered like a young girl.
Samantha shot her a narrow-eyed glance. “I’m sure James has other plans at the moment.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott took a sip of her tea and said nothing. She didn’t have to. Her arched brows spoke for her.
“Lord Wentworth is planning to help me manage our holdings,” Will felt compelled to put in. “He also intends to reacquaint himself with his neighbors. Isn’t that right, James?”
“Exactly right, Father,” Jamie agreed. “I have a lot of catching up to do, with friends, with family. And I think I’ve nearly forgotten how to fish. Remember how Grandfather used to take us up to the Evendale, Samantha?”
That brought her head up. “Oh, yes,” she said with a grin to Jamie. “And I remember how many times you fell in.”
Will nearly winced as his son colored. “I still caught my fish, didn’t I?” Jamie challenged.
“Always,” she assured him. “And they were delicious cooked for dinner. I remember that, too!”
He set down his cup and saucer on the little ornamental table beside him. “Count on it, then. I’ll catch you a dozen of the biggest fish in the Evendale so you can have them every night for a week.”
Samantha’s spine straightened so quickly the points of her collar stuck out. Jamie had clearly overstepped himself, and Will thought he knew why.
“Perhaps Lady Everard would prefer to catch her own fish,” he offered and hoped his son would take the hint.
Samantha beamed at him, obviously pleased he’d understood. He refused to preen.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott was less willing to agree. “Of course she doesn’t!” she all but scolded and threw in a shudder for good measure. “You catch those horrid smelly creatures, Lord Wentworth, as a gentleman should. Lady Everard and I will stay safely in the manor.”
Jamie, unfortunately, did not have the sense to hide his pride at her words. He visibly brightened, chin coming up.
Samantha scowled at him. “Do not look so pleased, sir. You should know I’m not one to let others have all the fun or make all the effort.”
His son must have realized his error, for he lowered his head. “Of course. Forgive me. I’d be delighted to take you fishing. And if you don’t care to fish, perhaps there’s something else we might do together.”
The yearning in the lad’s voice cut into Will. He thought he understood what had bonded his son and Lady Everard when they were younger, despite the differences in their ages and genders. Jamie had been an only child being raised by his grandfather; she had been an only child being raised by her governess, with only occasional visits from her father. With Kendrick Hall so close to Dallsten Manor, it was natural the two should band together.
But now their lives were different. Jamie had been away at school, and Will knew that Eton was a far cry from the rest of the world. Samantha Everard had seen more of that world, if only in England. The way Will had found her crying in the library said she’d seen heartache. Could Jamie appreciate the woman she’d become?
If she had a similar thought, she didn’t show it. Nor did she take the opportunity Jamie had offered to monopolize his attentions. “There’s always the summer party,” she offered with a gentle smile. “Everyone comes to that.”
Again, Will felt his son’s pain. “Yes, I suppose so,” Jamie said, looking away.
But in doing so, he missed the struggle Will could see in Samantha. Her golden brows lowered, and her hand twitched in her lap as if she longed to reach out to Jamie. What was going on inside her? Was she interested in capturing Jamie’s heart, or not?
As if making a decision, she put a hand on Jamie’s arm. “Tell you what—you always wanted to learn to fence. Why don’t I teach you?”
Will brought his cup to his mouth and took a sip to hide his groan. Lady Everard might have more experience in Society, but both of them needed lessons in diplomacy!
Jamie washed white and pulled away from her touch. “I learned to fence at Eton, thank you very much. What kind of man do you think me that I need a girl to teach me?”
“A girl?” There went her back up once more.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott tittered again. “How silly. I’m certain it was just a jest. Tell Lord Wentworth it was just a jest, Samantha.”
Samantha’s lips were so tight Will didn’t think a word could have escaped. Indeed, all her emotions were leaping in her dark eyes. This needed to end.
He set down his cup. “I’m sure you’d agree, madam,” he said to Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, “that there’s no need to apologize for an acquired skill. Nor would Lady Everard be the first woman to acquire it.”
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott gasped as if he’d suggested all men start wearing petticoats.
Samantha, however, relaxed in her seat. “It’s excellent exercise,” she said, but more as if she were stating a fact than justifying her pastime. “So is boxing.”
He thought Mrs. Dallsten Walcott might have apoplexy. Even Jamie was regarding his friend with something akin to shock.
“It certainly is,” Will temporized. “James is rather good at that as well.” He gave his son a nod of encouragement. “But he excels at the blade. I imagine he’d be delighted to show you, Lady Everard.”
Once more she beamed at him, and he felt as if he were the most clever fellow on the planet. When she turned that smile to Jamie, the room seemed to dim.
“What do you say, Jamie?” she asked. “Shall we fence?”
“Now, now,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott interrupted. “This has gone far enough. A match between a man and a woman is unseemly.”
Though Will knew many who would agree, hearing the sentiment expressed so vehemently made him question it. Why shouldn’t a lady fence with a gentleman, if both were willing and skilled? He’d never been one to confine a person, by age, class or gender. Why start now?
Samantha frowned at her chaperone. “I’ve fenced with men before. Cousin Vaughn taught me the basic moves years ago, and I’ve had bouts with my cousins Jerome and Richard as well.”
“And I’m certain you taught them a thing or two,” Will said before Mrs. Dallsten Walcott could protest further. “It sounds as if you quite enjoy the sport.”
“More than I should,” she admitted with a bubbly laugh, her composure restored. “You must fence as well, my lord.”
Will shrugged, but Jamie spoke up. “He’s an expert. You should join us Monday afternoon for our weekly bout.”
Will tensed and wasn’t sure why. He had no doubt he could hold his own with the blade. He was starting to fear he would have far less luck with his heart. He held his breath as she gazed at Jamie.
She had to see how much her answer meant to the lad. Emotion simmered in Jamie’s eyes, tension tightened the skin across his nose. He wanted her to fence with him, more than anything.
“Very well, then, James,” she said. “If it pleases you.”
Will let out his breath and thought Jamie was doing the same. But he was no longer sure which of them was anticipating the match more.
Chapter Six
The tea party over, Jamie insisted on accompanying their guests to the front door, so Will tagged along and watched while Jamie bent over Lady Everard’s hand and stammered his goodbyes. Will didn’t think it was his imagination that she uttered a sigh of relief as the door closed behind her and her chaperone.
Perhaps she found it difficult to be the focus of Jamie’s attempts at courting. It was becoming increasingly clear to Will that any hope for a love match between her and Jamie lay entirely with his son. Lady Everard saw the lad for what he was—an untried colt with the potential to win races, but not today, and certainly not in the fortnight she planned to be in Evendale.
He didn’t relish watching Jamie figure out as much.
He supposed he could tell his son. He’d have to call on every ounce of the diplomatic skill he’d acquired in his nearly ten years of service. Convincing the Pasha of Egypt to free British sailors kidnapped by the very pirates he funded was child’s play next to telling Jamie he had to let Samantha Everard go.
“An amazing woman,” Will said to Jamie’s back as his son rushed to the window to watch the ladies climb into their waiting coach. “Who would have thought she fenced?”
Jamie glanced back at him and made a face. “And why would she think I still didn’t? I don’t need her to tutor me.”
Will rubbed his hands together. “You’ll show her as much on Monday, I know.”
Jamie nodded, but he stood at the window long after Will heard the Everard carriage depart.
The matter of Samantha Everard remained on Will’s mind the rest of the day, but he could find no easy way to speak to his son about her. He could only hope Sunday might be a day of rest for him and Jamie. Sundays were generally reserved for worship and family in the Evendale valley.
Will had participated in cathedral services, where voices echoed off stone arches that seemed as massive as one of the fells. He’d prayed in a tiny cave while a desert sandstorm howled at the entrance and grit closed his throat. Until he had returned to Kendrick Hall, he had almost forgotten the peace to be had in the little stone chapel at the edge of their estate.
His great-great-great-great-grandfather had ordered the hewing of the reddish stones that made up the walls. His great-great-great-uncle had replaced the previous dark pews with ones of polished oak. His great-great-grandmother had endowed the stained-glass windows that cast jeweled reflections on the worshiping congregation. His contribution for the moment consisted of a stone monument in the churchyard, where Peg had been laid to rest seventeen years ago this week.
No, that was unfair of him. He’d been involved in the parish since the day he’d returned. One of his first duties on becoming earl had been to install a new vicar when the previous man had left for a well-earned retirement. Mr. Pratt was a small man with a bare pate and trembling hands. Unfortunately even after several years in leadership, he consulted Will before making any decision.
Today Will and Jamie had already taken their seats in the Kendrick pew near the front of the church when a murmur ran through the waiting congregation. Samantha, Lady Everard, was making her way up the center aisle, a green velvet spencer over her gray lustring gown, peacock feathers waving from her velvet cap. She smiled at everyone and took her place beside Mrs. Dallsten Walcott in the Dallsten pew directly in front of Will. The scent of roses drifted over him.
It seemed a little peace was too much to ask.
As services began, Will wasn’t surprised to find Jamie fidgeting. They had all heard the words many times before, though Will usually found something new to intrigue him.
But it didn’t appear to be familiarity that bored his son. Jamie kept leaning forward, tilting his head, and Will was sure it wasn’t to better hear the sermon that followed the readings. No, Jamie was trying to catch a glimpse of Samantha Everard’s face, perhaps meet her gaze. To his sorrow Will had done the same thing when he’d been Jamie’s age—using any excuse to turn and look at Peggy several rows back.
To Lady Everard’s credit, however, she did not look at Jamie. Her gaze was on the vicar or the Book of Common Prayer whenever Will glanced her way, and Jamie’s heavy sigh told Will that she hadn’t favored the lad with a look even when Will had been focused on the vicar. From what he could tell by her bowed head and sweet voice, she seemed to take her worship seriously.
Normally so did Will. His father had raised him with a healthy respect for the church, and what he’d seen on his travels had only underscored the need to honor his Savior. But lately he felt his prayers laden with more questions than answers.
Why couldn’t Peg have lived to see their son become a man?
Why were they in danger of losing Kendrick Hall when he had worked hard to manage well?
Why had his brother been killed eight years ago?
Why couldn’t he get his mind off Samantha Everard?
Forgive me, Lord. You’ve seen me through robbery and rebellion. I know You have a plan for me now. I just can’t see it at the moment.
As if on cue the final hymn started, the congregation rose and voices swelled. Sunlight glittered through the stained-glass windows, casting a rainbow over the front pew, and Samantha Everard.
Was she part of the Lord’s plan for Will’s future?
He dropped his gaze to the flagstones at his feet. Even if he could convince himself to open his heart again, his place was here in Evendale. She had made it plain she wasn’t staying beyond a fortnight. And he could not hurt his son by evincing interest in the woman Jamie loved. Will needed to let go of these feelings she was raising in him.
Unfortunately letting go was the hardest thing for him to do.
* * *
Samantha sighed contently as the service ended. She’d worshipped at St. George’s, Hanover Square, with most of the denizens of London’s wealthy West End. She’d even spent a few occasions at the grand Westminster Cathedral. But there was nothing quite so satisfying as this church where she’d been raised. The light from the stained-glass windows always made her feel as if God was sending a blessing just for her.
Around her, the congregation was filing out, the murmur of their voices lapping at her like warm waves. The people of the valley would gather for a moment in the churchyard, she knew, to exchange greetings, pass messages about friends and family. She clung to the peace of the sanctuary a moment, closing her eyes.
Lord, I’ve made so many mistakes the past few years. I’ve been impetuous, headstrong and obstinate. Each time, I’ve come to You, and You’ve forgiven me. Help me now to do what’s right, for all of us.
She opened her eyes to find Mrs. Dallsten Walcott regarding her quizzically. “Is something wrong, dear girl?”
Samantha smiled. “No. Just appreciating this place, our people.” She wrapped her arms around the lady and gave her a hug. She knew it was impetuous, but she was fairly sure God looked kindly on such acts of love.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott did so as well, it seemed, for she was smiling when Samantha released her.
“Come along now,” she said as if to hide the lapse in her normally composed demeanor. “I want to introduce you to the new vicar. He hasn’t Mr. Ramsey’s presence, but he’s very good about knowing his place.”
By that Samantha guessed the new vicar knew how to toady up to the lady. Though the Dallstens had once been one of the most prestigious families in the area, Samantha’s father, the former Lord Everard, had changed that when he’d purchased their impoverished estate and installed his wife and young daughter in the manor. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott had gone to live in the dower cottage at the foot of the drive, her provenance supplied by her daughter’s work as Samantha’s governess.
In other places the change in her status might have been enough to cost Mrs. Dallsten Walcott the respect of the community. But the local families still held the Dallstens in high esteem, which was evident by the number of people waiting to greet Samantha’s chaperone when she and Mrs. Dallsten Walcott exited the church.
But Jamie and his father were not among them. She’d known they’d been right behind her in church; Jamie and his grandfather had always sat in that pew when she’d been growing up. Then as now, his presence had brought comfort.
Jamie’s father was another matter. At times she’d found it difficult to concentrate on her worship, knowing Lord Kendrick might be looking at her back. Was her cap on straight? Was she standing reverently enough? Oh, but she shouldn’t worship to please anyone but her heavenly Father!
Yet the moment she spotted him and Jamie standing in the shade of an elm along the edge of the churchyard, she felt a similar wish to please Lord Kendrick. She wanted him to approve of the way she smiled and exclaimed over new babies, recent marriages and good fortune. She hoped he would join her in commiserating over deaths, illness and hard times. But though she felt his gaze on her as she followed Mrs. Dallsten Walcott from group to group, he remained on the edge of the yard.
What was he waiting for? Why didn’t he approach her? She could not have given him a disgust of her by admitting she fenced, or he was not the man she thought him. What kept him away?
She wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or dismayed when Mrs. Dallsten Walcott finally drew her up beside Jamie and Lord Kendrick. Jamie looked dapper in a navy coat and trousers, his cravat tied in some complicated knot she thought must have given his valet fits.
But Lord Kendrick outdid his son. He wore a dove-gray cutaway coat over black trousers, his cravat simply but elegantly tied, the buttons on his silver-shot waistcoat gleaming in the sunlight. And those boots! The scarlet leather was tooled with fanciful birds and sweeping palms. She was certain there wasn’t another pair like them in England.
Lord Kendrick and Jamie had been talking with another fellow dressed more humbly in brown coat and trousers, and it wasn’t until he pulled off his top hat to reveal carrot-colored hair that she recognized him, and every other thought flew from her mind.
“Toby!” Samantha enfolded her friend and former suitor in a hug, then stepped back to eye him. “Oh, it’s been ages. How are you?”

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