Because of You (17 page)

Samantha reached out and touched his arm. His skin felt warm and smooth. “He was proud of you,” she whispered. “He deeply mourned your death and often came to the vicarage and talk to my father about you. I overheard them.”

Yale stared at the ceiling. For a second, she thought she saw tears well in his dark eyes. Then he said, “Go to sleep, Sam. Tomorrow we’ll drive until we reach London. It will be a long day.”

But Samantha didn’t want to go to sleep. She’d liked sharing confidences with him. She sighed.

“What is it, Sam?” came his low, irritated voice.

“How did you know I was still awake?”

“Your squirming is about ready to drive me to madness.” Again he yawned, only this time, she echoed it. “Why aren’t
you
sleeping?” he asked.

“I can’t stop thinking.”

He gave her a slow, knowing grin. “I know of one way to take your mind off your worries.”

She pulled the bed clothes up around her chin. “You can stay on the floor.”

He laughed. “Tell me what you were worrying about.”

She wasn’t about to tell him she just liked talking with him. He would think her silly.

“Is it London?” he asked.

His suggestion sounded plausible. “Yes,” she answered. “I’ve never even been as far as Morpeth. I can’t imagine what it is like.”

“Then let me tell you about it. Or at least as I remember it.”

He began speaking, his deep voice low and soft. He started off talking about the streets, especially the ones leading to Penhurst, the duke of Ayleborough’s city residence. He took her through the front door and showed her the marble foyer and the heavy chandelier that held a thousand candles. He talked of the last ball he’d attended there, one given in honor of his brother and Marion, shortly after they were married.

She smiled. “You make it sound lovely. I wonder that you ever left it all.”

“Ah, but then, you don’t know the wild beauty of Ceylon.”

“Tell me,” she said.

She was the first person since he’d set foot on British soil who had asked about his other life.

“It’s an enchanted place,” he started. “Older than Britain itself, and yet so backward it’s frustrating.” He described to her the rock fortress of Sigiriya with its great carved lion’s feet guarding the entrance.

“The lion’s feet are taller than two men, one standing on the shoulders of the other.”

“Who would build such a thing?”

“I don’t know the complete history,” he said. “But Ceylon is an ancient country full of mysteries.”

He contrasted the fortress with a story of his swimming in a pool surrounded by a tropical forest and fed by spectacular waterfalls. “There are three of them,” he said. “One larger than the other.”

“It sounds lovely,” she whispered.

“It is.”

“And it is warm enough to swim all the time?”

“Year round.”

Slowly, her lids grew heavy, lulled by the sound of his voice.

Yale watched her eyes close and knew when she’d fallen asleep.

Funny, but he’d never really spent time just talking to a woman before. Women had had only one place in his life, but now his vicar’s daughter was changing all that. Whether he liked it or not, he valued her opinion.

The first day of their travels, he had been almost insane with jealousy over her preference of Wayland’s company over his own. That was the reason he’d bought that damn horse, to show both of them that he did have wealth, that he was a man of substance—and to exert his independence.

The problem was, he had no use for a horse. Any more than he had use for a wife.

Unfortunately, he was growing attached to both.

He reached up and lightly touched her relaxed and curled fingers. They flexed at his touch and he wondered if she attracted him because she
challenged him. Or was she a challenge because of his attraction for her?

Yale lay back down, bunching the pillow under his head, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer.

S
amantha woke the next morning with her face snuggled in the feather pillow Yale had used the night before. She drew a deep breath. All too well she recognized his scent. Masculine. Distinct. Unmistakable.

He was already up and gone. It had been his closing of the door that had awakened her. The bedcover was also back on the bed.

She lay there, imagining him tucking the cover around her.

A sharp knock sounded at the door. Langston, the maid assigned to her the night before, entered without waiting for admittance.

“It’s time to be up and about, my lady,” Langston prodded with authority. “His Grace wishes to leave at first light. He is most anxious to arrive in London.”

Samantha nodded and put her feet over the side of the bed.
My lady.
She didn’t know if she’d ever become accustomed to the form of address.
She felt like a fraud. Not really a wife; not really a lady.

Or perhaps her husband’s stubborn pride on being a plain commoner was rubbing off on her.

Langston sniffed as she took Samantha’s black dress from its peg in the wardrobe. She didn’t say anything, but Samantha knew heavy black cotton wasn’t what a lady of means wore. Samantha had sewn it herself last year, right before her mother’s funeral. Even to her unsophisticated eye the dress was hopelessly dowdy.

She was tempted to wear her wedding dress, but common sense warned her she would freeze in it.

“When you arrive in London,” Langston said, as she brushed out the dress, “you will wish to petition the duchess for a new wardrobe. Her Grace travels in the best circles. Go to a seamstress on Oxford Street, Madame Meilleur. You may use my name.”

Samantha’s stomach tightened. If the servants were this haughty, what would a duchess be like? She wished she had the pleasant Jenny with her instead of Langston, who was so very aware of all of Samantha’s shortcomings.

“And there is another issue, my lady,” Langston said, while helping Samantha on with her dress. “You come from the north, and sometimes women have an unfortunate accent. It will make you a laughingstock of polite society, who do not admire the Scots or the northern accent.”

She smiled as Samantha shook her skirts down
around her ankles. “I say this only for your benefit. Do you wish me to style your hair in the latest fashion, my lady?”

“Um, yes, please,” Samantha mumbled, suddenly self-conscious of her speech. She sat down in front of the vanity.

Langston deftly divided Samantha’s hair with a comb and wound it into two big buns, one over each ear. She began pinning it in place.

Samantha stared at herself in the mirror, horrified by the style. “Wait, please, I don’t know what I think about this.”

“It’s the latest fashion, my lady,” Langston replied. She pushed the last pin in place. “You don’t want to be
out
of fashion, do you?”

Samantha met the maid’s challenging gaze in the mirror. “But doesn’t it look a bit silly?” she suggested timidly. She reminded herself of nothing less than a woolly ram.

“You do not like the latest fashion?” Langston asked with patent disbelief. “I think you look more sophisticated.”

Samantha didn’t know what to do. She stared at her reflection. “Well, perhaps once I become accustomed to it…and it is the fashion?” She looked to Langston for confirmation.

“I am certain the duchess of Ayleborough wears her hair in this style,” Langston said.

Samantha had met the duchess only one time, at the old duke’s funeral. The duchess had said a few words to her and her father. Unfortunately, she’d been swathed in a dark black veil
of mourning and Samantha didn’t have any idea what her face looked like, let alone her hair. But she was all the villagers had talked about for days.

Samantha wanted to make a good impression on her new sister-in-law in spite of her homemade clothes. She tilted her head. Actually, the style wasn’t
that
bad. “Thank you, Langston. I appreciate your guidance.”

“Perhaps, my lady, you will recommend me to the duke. I am presently in search of good position.”

Samantha stared at the proud lady’s maid and felt a touch of panic—until she noticed how Langston’s gaze didn’t quite meet her own, and the stiffness in Langston’s shoulders. Here was another woman alone. Samantha immediately recognized the fears. But the thought of Langston being assigned to her permanently was intimidating. Yet she couldn’t turn her back on a soul in need. “Ah, perhaps.”

Apparently that was all Langston had expected her to say. The tension in her shoulders eased and she bossily ordered Samantha to hurry to meet the duke.

Samantha gathered her cape and bonnet, thankful to escape the woman’s presence.

When Langston said, “I will escort my lady to the breakfast parlor,” Samantha assured her she could find her way, feeling a need to separate herself from the maid’s self-seeking service. She
slipped out the door before Langston could comment.

She had to walk carefully down the hall to the stairs because her hair was so heavy the pins felt as if they would fall out at any moment. Fortunately, the inn was quiet at this hour of the morning. In fact, it was so quiet that as she came down off the last step, she could hear arguing coming from the duke’s private room where they’d eaten a hasty dinner the night before.

Wayland was shouting, “You have responsibilities here in England! You have no right to even talk about dashing off and leaving it all to me!”

She paused outside the door, her hand on the handle.

“I was disinherited,” Yale answered. His voice lacked the heat of his brother’s. “I have no life here. My home, my work, everything is in Ceylon.”

“Perhaps at one time. But now you are back.”

“Wayland, I don’t
want
to stay in England.”

“Then why the bloody hell did you come back, if you didn’t plan to stay?”

“I returned to see Father. But I’m leaving, Wayland. I have my own money, my own life. I make no claim on the title for my living. My share was spent years ago getting me out of debt.”

“You are a damn stubborn fool!”

“Well, on that point, we may agree,” Yale said pleasantly. Samantha didn’t realize how close he
was to the door until he pulled it open. She still held the door handle and stumbled into the room, catching herself before she landed sprawled on the floor.

Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment to have been caught so ignobly eavesdropping.

“Good morning, Sam,” Yale said, as if he hadn’t just dragged her into the room. “Styled your hair differently. I don’t like it. You look ridiculous.”

Her earlier good humor with him vanished. She held her head high. “It is all the fashion in London.”

“Ah, yes.” He paused and slid a glance at his brother. “I was never one to follow fashion. I’m going to see to Beast. I’ll wait for the two of you outside.”

Without another word he left.

Standing in the middle of the room, Wayland stared after him, hands on hips, his mouth set in disgust. Samantha wanted to say she hadn’t really been eavesdropping…but that would have sounded stupid, so she remained quiet.

Fenley shut the door, taking her hat and cape from her. “Would you care for grilled sausages and eggs, my lady?”

“Yes, please,” she said quickly, and took a seat at the table.

Wayland didn’t speak, but threw himself down in the chair opposite hers. Lost in thought, he stared at the pattern in the carpet.

Fenley set the plate in front of her and Saman
tha busied herself with her breakfast. She sliced off a piece of sausage and was just about to put it in her mouth when Wayland blurted out, “He is being ridiculous, you know.”

Samantha shot a glance at Fenley, who told her with a raise of his eyebrows that he didn’t know what to expect, either.

“No matter what he thinks he has built for himself,” Wayland continued, “I’m offering him a great deal more. After all, we are his family.” He looked to Samantha for confirmation.

Realizing he expected an answer, she murmured, “Yes, that’s true.”

Wayland came to his feet and started pacing the perimeter of the room. “It’s not like I’m asking too much. He has an obligation to help carry the family responsibilities. But does he realize that? No! He insists on living his own life. Taking off whenever he wishes and leaving me with the majority of the burden.”

Samantha chewed the sausage slowly, uncomfortable with the topic.

Wayland looked at her. “Being a duke isn’t that much fun,” he said candidly. “I could use help, especially from someone who knows what he is doing, like my brother. Imagine, Yale is the owner of Rogue Shipping. He may have botched his boyhood Latin lessons, but he possesses the keen sort of business savvy we need in this family.”

She swallowed the sausage. “What of your sister? Isn’t she married? Can’t her husband help?”

“That twit!” He immediately regretted the words. “Don’t tell her I said that. She thinks the world of him, but I don’t trust him. His eyes are too small. Besides, Samantha, it has to do with blood. Yale can’t turn his back on me. We’re blood. Can you understand that?”

“It’s not a question of what I understand, Your Grace, but of what Yale believes.”

“Yes,” Wayland agreed. “But what I fear most is that once he leaves a second time, he will never return.” He lapsed into a glum silence, his hands behind his back.

Samantha’s appetite left her. She set the fork down on her plate.

It would have been easier to accept the inevitable if she and Yale had not talked last night. Part of her wanted still to think of him as a scoundrel.

The other part of her had carefully packed the hothouse rose in tissue paper.

The duke’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Samantha, you and my brother do get along reasonably well, don’t you?”

She looked up at him, suddenly wary. She was conscious that Fenley’s ears, too, had perked up. “Do you mean, in spite of his misrepresenting himself when we married and his planning on leaving me?”

“Oh, that,” Wayland said dismissively. “Yes, well, the two of you may not have gotten off to the best start, but things are
close
between you, aren’t they?”

Samantha sat back. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Wayland sat in the chair across from her. He leaned across the table, pressing the palms of his hands together. “Close. You’ve been close, haven’t you?”

Samantha felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She cleared her throat. “We get along.” She wasn’t going to confess more than that.

Wayland lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh, come, Samantha, you do a bit more than just ‘get along.’”

“I do not know what you mean,” she said, attempting to be obtuse.

“Squire Biggers said the two of you literally shook the floorboards.”

Samantha’s mouth dropped open. She was astounded the duke would say such a thing. She glanced over her shoulder at Fenley, who seemed inordinately interested in a speck on one of the silver dishes. “It wasn’t quite like that,” she hedged.

“They could hear the two of you.”

“Hear what?” she asked, almost frightened of the answer.

“Apparently, either you or Yale were quite loud in your enjoyment.” Wayland shrugged. “It happens.”

The walls of the room seemed to close in on Samantha. She moved her mouth, but no words came out.

Wayland reached across the table and took her
hands. “Here now, I’ve embarrassed you, and that was not my intent. I merely wish to speak frankly because I am going to approach a delicate subject.”

“I don’t know if I can take much more frankness, Your Grace,” Samantha replied honestly.

He looked over at Fenley and signaled with his eyes for the servant to leave the room. Once the door had closed behind him, Wayland asked, “Have you and my brother—” He paused as if considering his words, “made love on this trip? You
do
understand what I’m asking now, don’t you?”

The breath left Samantha with a soft
whoosh.
She should have pulled her hand away, but he held it fast.

“I—I don’t think I shall answer that.”

One corner of Wayland’s mouth turned down. “You haven’t.
Damn,
that’s what I suspected.”

“And why did you suspect that?” she asked with genuine surprise.

“There is an energy about my brother, a restlessness, that’s made me wonder if he was, ah, fulfilled or not.”

Samantha didn’t need an explanation of what “fulfilled” meant. Did all men have nothing but one thing on their minds?

Releasing her hand, Wayland sat back in his chair. “I was newly married once. I well remember the intense desire of new lovers. I offered Yale the privacy of the coach yesterday, but he turned it down.”

“The privacy of the coach?”

“Yes. You haven’t made love until you’ve done it in a well-sprung coach.” He smiled at the memory.

Samantha’s senses reeled at his bold words. She came up out of the chair. “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so frank.”