Samantha

  "Actually, Aunt Gertie was quite taken with Remington," Sammy replied, a twinkle in her eye.

  "Perhaps she hasn't heard of his reputation."

  That's very likely. Aunt Gertie hasn't heard anything for years now." Sammy laughed and leaned up to kiss Smitty's weathered cheek. "Stop fretting. I'll be fine." She gave him a warm hug. "I'm going to my bedchamber to continue reading Mansfield Park. I'll be down for dinner."

  Hearing her footsteps fade away, Smitty mopped his damp brow with a handkerchief. Facing an armed naval brigade was beginning to look infinitely more appealing to him than chaperoning Lady Samantha through her first London Season.

  And being taken prisoner would pale in comparison to facing the duke.

  Rem tore Boyd's message into shreds and tossed the remains into the fire. Good. The groundwork had been laid. Rumors were already circulating that Rem had just lost a sizable fortune on an ill-fated business venture, and that he was in grave financial straits. Icily, he wondered how long it would take the news to reach Knollwood. Goddfrey had implied that the bloodsucker acquired his information posthaste. That remained to be seen. But in the meantime, all Rem could do was wait.

  Goddfrey.

  The viscount's name triggered the same unanswered question that had nagged at Rem since yesterday's ride in Hyde Park. What did Samantha know of Goddfrey's predicament? How had she linked Goddfrey's name with the vanishing ships? Where the hell did she get her facts?

  The logical answer was from her brother. Drake Barrett must have a private source of information; Rem knew he had to learn what, or who, that was. Tonight. He'd gently pry the facts from Samantha tonight, without further encouraging her romantic fantasy.

  Which was turning into his sexual preoccupation.

  It had to stop. Now.

  Only hurt could result from fueling the passion that blazed between him and Drake Barrett's sister. Rem refused to succumb to it—not when the result would mean Samantha's ruin. There was no other plausible alternative. A lasting relationship was inconceivable in his type of life. His future consisted of but two things, both of which thoroughly conflicted with Samantha's dreams of marriage and family: freedom to satisfy his missions, and variety to satisfy his passions.

  Variety. An amusing concept, he reflected with a self-deprecating smile. In truth, he hadn't sought out one damned woman since the night he'd met Samantha ... nor had he any desire to do so.

  Well, he'd have to change all that. Immediately.

  Jaw set with purpose, Rem headed upstairs to dress for the opera.

  His final thought was that he'd kill Anders if the bastard so much as touched Samantha.

  "Millie, for heaven's sake, stop crying! I know you didn't mean to tear the gown—let's just choose another." Sammy was beginning to lose patience with her wailing maid.

  "It's no use, my lady." Millie wrung her hands, staring mournfully at the rended bodice of Samantha's evening gown. "I'm just no good at being a lady's maid."

  With an exasperated sigh, Sammy turned. "You're perfectly capable. It's only—"

  "I hate it."

  "Pardon me?" Samantha dropped her arms to her sides.

  "Forgive me, Lady Samantha, but I just hate doin' this!" A fresh wave of tears. "I'm not suited to it!"

  For the first time Sammy realized that Millie wasn't just inept, she was unhappy. "There, there, Millie, don't cry." Tossing the ruined dress to the bed, Sammy handed Millie a handkerchief and patted her shaking shoulders. "Every problem has a solution. Tell me, what do you do at my aunt's home in Hampshire?"

  "Oh, my lady, I never cry there!" Instantly, Millie brightened. "I help in the kitchen—the cook is my aunt, you see. I also tidy up the lower level, and sometimes I even gather fresh flowers for the morning room."

  "I see." Thoughtfully, Sammy tapped her chin.

  "Please don't be angry, my lady. 'Tisn't you, I swear it. You've been as kind and patient as a saint—"

  "You needn't explain, I understand. Tell me, Millie, would you be happy if I could arrange for you to return to Hampshire?" When the maid hesitated, Sammy pressed, "The truth now, Millie."

  "Yes, ma'am. I would."

  "Very well. Give me a day or two. I have to think of a way to bring this up to Aunt Gertie without upsetting her. I personally would have no objections to forfeiting a maid altogether, but I don't think my aunt would approve. So let me think of a worthy substitute for you, all right?"

  "Oh, thank you! Thank you, my lady! Thank you!" Impulsively, Millie flung her arms about Sammy's neck, then backed off, red-faced.

  "It's quite all right." Samantha grinned. "But until your replacement is found, do you think we might make the best of things and try to get me dressed for the opera so I don't have to greet Remington in a chemise?"

  "Yes, ma'am. Of course, ma'am." Millie scurried over to the wardrobe with new determination. "Which gown would you like, my lady?"

  "I thought perhaps the crimson velvet. What do you think?"

  "I think it would be perfect."

  "Wonderful! Then let's make an attempt to get it on without mishap."

  "Yes, ma'am." Clumsily, Millie helped Sammy into the rich layers of fabric, sighing with relief when, at last, she finished buttoning up the back. "The viscount is terribly handsome, my lady."

  "Hmm?" Sammy was already lost in thought, imagining what new ground she would break with Remington tonight.

  "The gentleman who called on you this afternoon. Viscount Anders, wasn't it?"

  "Oh, Stephen. Yes, he is handsome." Sammy gathered up her tresses. "I believe I'll wear my hair up tonight—it makes me look older, more experienced, wouldn't you say?"

  "I suppose so, my lady. Will the viscount be escorting you tonight, as well?"

  "Oh, no." In truth, Sammy could scarcely remember the quarter hour she'd spent in Stephen's company. He'd been delightful, respectful, and charming... and all she'd thought about was Remington. "The Earl of Gresham will be my escort this evening."

  "Oh! Isn't that the gentleman you consider ... special?"

  "It is indeed." Sammy sat down at the dressing table and proceeded to toy with her hair. "Let's do our best to make me as desirable as possible, shall we, Millie?"

  Millie blushed. "Yes, ma'am."

  Thirty minutes later Sammy whirled about before the looking glass, slipping her final hairpin into the coronet of roses upon her head. "Well, have we succeeded, Millie?" she demanded with a grin. "Do I look so enticing that no man could resist me?"

  "Oh, yes, my lady," Millie breathed, her eyes wide with admiration. "You look beautiful."

  "Thank you. I only hope that Remington agrees."

  Remington agreed.

  He, who, over the years, had beheld countless ravishing women in every possible state of dress and undress, required a full minute to recover himself when Samantha first made her appearance.

  "Will I do, my lord?"

  She was going to be the death of him yet. "You'll more than do, my lady." Rem swallowed, audibly. "I don't believe a single gentleman in Covent Garden Theater will be able to concentrate on tonight's opera."

  "Will you?" She tipped her head back, gazing up at him with innocent provocation.

  Again, that damned guileless candor. Rem clenched his fists against his sides. He wasn't going to yield to it again. He couldn't.

  His loins throbbed their disagreement.

  "I'll do my best," he replied carefully.

  "In that case, I hope the coach ride is endless."

  Rem's lips twitched as he guided her from the Town house. "It won't be. We're only a short distance from the theater. And tonight I did bring my phaeton."

  Sammy stopped short, crestfallen. "Oh."

  "I thought you were going to control that dangerous honesty of yours," Rem reminded her gently when they were on their way.

  "I tried. I cannot. It seems to be an unshakable part of me. "

  "I see. Was it conspicuous with Viscount Anders this afternoon?" Rem realized he sounded exactl
y the way he felt: possessive.

  "I don't know," Sammy replied in uncertain bewilderment.

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means, I don't recall much of Stephen's visit." She bit her tongue to keep from blurting out that all she'd been able to think about was Rem. "I was preoccupied."

  "With what we discussed yesterday?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "Barrett Shipping."

  "Oh ... that. I suppose so." It was better for Remington to believe she was pondering the family business than the truth: that she was trying to think of ways to make him fall in love with her. "I'm c-concerned about our ships." Oh, why did she have to be such a wretched liar?

  Rem was thinking much the same thing. He knew what he had to do, and felt guilty as hell for doing it. With substantial effort, he pushed his conscience aside. "You mentioned a man named Goddfrey. Is he a friend of your family's?"

  "A business associate." She prayed Rem would attribute the trembling in her voice to the swaying of the carriage. "Why?"

  "Just curious." Rem's tone was nonchalant, his gaze fixed on the road.

  "Are you acquainted with Viscount Goddfrey?" Sammy knew her own attempt at nonchalance was an abysmal failure.

  "Somewhat. We've run into each other at White's from time to time."

  "Was he gambling or abstaining?"

  "Now, that's a curious question." Rem feigned surprised. "Why would you inquire about something like that?"

  Sammy averted her eyes. "I'd heard he's endured recent business losses."

  Rem shrugged. "Idle gossip, most likely. You know how rumors pass from one wagging tongue to the next."

  "You sound just like Smitty," Sammy muttered, half to herself. "He mollified me with almost those exact words."

  So she'd been questioning Smithers about Goddfrey, Rem thought. Interesting. And evidently, Allonshire's trusted valet had told her nothing.

  Did he know more?

  The silence in the carriage stretched, as Rem cautiously chose his next approach.

  "Remington?" Sammy lay a gloved hand over his.

  "What?" Perhaps Samantha herself would provide him with the appropriate avenue.

  "Before we arrive . . ." She hesitated, chewing worriedly at her lower lip.

  "Go on."

  "Would you kiss me? Just once?"

  Whatever Rem had been expecting, it hadn't been this. "Would I... ?"

  "We shan't be alone all evening," she rushed on. "And I've never experienced sensations like the ones I feel when I'm in your arms. It's as if tiny bubbles are bursting inside my chest, growing larger, popping faster, while at the same time my stomach is sliding down a long hill to my feet. My head swims until I'm so dizzy, I can't think." Tentatively, Sammy stroked the fine material of Rem's sleeve. "The feelings are truly miraculous. At least for me. I simply hoped—"

  That did it.

  With a muffled curse, Rem veered the phaeton sharply to the roadside and brought it to an abrupt halt. Before Samantha could regain her balance, he took it away again, dragging her into his arms with shaking hands.

  "It's no use. Dammit, it's no use," he growled, burying his lips in hers. With the reckless intensity of a summer storm, he gave reign to the fierce emotions she spawned inside him. His tongue invaded her mouth, stroking hungrily, giving her what she wanted, taking for himself what he craved.

  For the endless moments they kissed, all else was forgotten. Resolutions were cast to the wind, unanswered questions were gladly relinquished, the past was laid to rest.

  And Samantha was his.

  "Christ, you intoxicate me," he muttered. "I can't let this happen ... yet I can't keep my hands off you."

  "You didn't initiate this, Remington," she whispered back, caressing his smooth-shaven jaw, reveling in the joy of being in his arms once more. "I did."

  "That doesn't excuse my lack of control." He circled his lips sensuously against hers, making no move to release her.

  "Must we go to the opera?"

  "Yes."

  "Why?"

  "Because if we don't, I'll take you to bed."

  "That doesn't frighten me." She kissed his chin.

  "It should." Instinctively, his arms tightened about her. "The problem is, you're just too damned innocent to know what it means."

  Sammy leaned back—only enough to meet his gaze. "I know that people make love in bed. I know they take off their clothes and join their bodies in some manner that is wonderful for both of them. I know that new lives are created this way."

  A warm, tender light flickered in Rem's eyes, kindled in his heart. "You're almost beautiful enough to make me believe again."

  "Believe what? What is it you don't believe?" Rem eased away from her. "That, imp, would take hours to discuss. And, as the opera begins in ten minutes—" "Was it a woman?"

  "No." Shutters descended over his eyes. "That would be far easier from which to recover."

  "Then..."

  "Now is not the time, Samantha." He lifted the reins.

  "Remington." Sammy stayed him with her hand. "It's never the time; not for us to talk, nor to be in each other's arms. You tell me I'm a dreamer. Perhaps I am. But, in truth, I think it is you who seeks to escape, not I."

  For a long moment Rem was silent, motionless. Then he brought Sammy's fingers to his lips. "Perhaps you're right, imp. Perhaps you're right." With a snap of his wrist, they were on their way.

  The opera had scarcely ended when a stout, purposeful messenger scurried down the aisle, halting beside Rem's seat.

  "Lord Gresham?"

  "Yes?"

  "I have an urgent message for you, my lord."

  "Thank you." Rem took the slip of paper, pressing several shillings into the grateful man's palm.

  "Thank you, sir." He waited while Rem scanned the contents of the note. "Will there be any reply, my lord?"

  "Hmm?" Rem looked up, his thoughts already far away. "No, no reply will be necessary."

  "Very good, sir. And thank you again, sir. Good night." The messenger bowed and took his leave.

  "Remington? What is it?" Sammy peered around to see what the note said.

  Hastily, Rem crumpled the message and jammed it into his pocket. "I have to meet someone. Immediately."

  "Oh. I see. Is anything amiss?"

  "No, only a business matter. But a crucial one." He raised his voice a bit. "One that could result in my recovering a great deal of money."

  Sammy looked startled. "Are you in need of funds?"

  "Unfortunately... yes, at the moment I am." He frowned. "Samantha, would you be terribly upset if I arranged for someone else to see you home?"

  "Disappointed, yes, but not upset—especially if it's a matter of such grave importance." Sammy scrutinized the room. "I see at least a dozen people I know, Remington. Any one of them can escort me home. Please don't be concerned."

  A smile touched his lips. "I fear I'm destined to be perpetually concerned over your well-being, imp. I don't seem to be able to help it."

  "That's because you're a—"

  "I know. A hero." He touched the tip of her nose. "We'll argue that point another time. In the interim—"

  "There's Aunt Gertie's dear friend, the Dowager Duchess of Arvel," Sammy interrupted. "I'll seek a ride with her."

  "Fine. Let's go speak with her."

  "You needn't—"

  "Samantha, I'm not leaving until I know you're provided for."

  ''Very well."

  The wistful note in her voice gave him pause. "I'm sorry our evening is ending like this, imp. I promise to make it up to you."

  "When?"

  He gave a rich chuckle. "Monday evening? Vauxhall will be admitting guests. We can stroll through the gardens."

  "It's still chilly. Very few people will be about." Sammy's lips curved upward. "It sounds heavenly."

  "Come." He seized her elbow. "I'll arrange for your safe transport home."

  The arrangements quickly and efficiently made, Rem expressed his gratitude
to the elderly dowager and, with a quick, discreet wink at Samantha, wove his way through the crowd and out the theater door.

  Where could he be going? Sammy wondered, staring after his retreating back. Who on earth could he be meeting at this hour of night? The circumstances must be dire, else it could certainly wait until day.

  The thought made Sammy's tender heart melt, and her active brain buzz. What could she do to help?

  Drake. Sammy's eyes lit up as the idea struck her. Her brother had more than enough money to offer Remington a loan. Oh, to be sure, Drake would require more details before he'd agree to do so—details that the indulgent Earl of Gresham was highly unlikely to divulge, at least to her. She'd obtain them herself.

  Impulsively, wholeheartedly, Sammy made her decision.

  How many times now had Remington proven himself to be her hero? Didn't she owe it to him to be his heroine as well?

  Indeed she did. Thus, she was going to rescue him ...with or without his permission.

  "Are you ready, Samantha?" The elderly dowager peered down her long nose at Sammy.

  "Actually . . . no." Sammy glanced quickly at the door. Remington couldn't have gotten far, yet, but she had no time to waste.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I mean ... thank you, Your Grace, but I won't be needing your kind assistance, after all. Smitty evidently sent a carriage for me—I recognize our driver gesturing to me from the doorway."

  Smoothing the ostrich plume in her turban, the dowager scowled over the milling crowd. "Where? I don't see him."

  "He's there—trust me." Sammy was already moving away. "I don't want to miss him. Thank you ever so much, Your Grace. I'll be sure to send your regards to Aunt Gertie."

  Sammy was still babbling when she exploded onto the sidewalk a half minute later. Inhaling sharply, she searched the street.

  Luck was with her. Remington's phaeton was just being brought around front.

  She tarried as long as she dared, then inched forward a fraction at a time, praying Remington wouldn't pivot about and spy her.

  An eternity passed in the space of a moment.

  At last. He was seated, his back turned toward her.