“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