Page 5 of Tempting the Marquess

Never.

* * *

When her aunt’sluxurious carriage pulled up outside the brightly lit but outwardly plain Almack’s building, Lady Samantha Buchanan’s heart plummeted.

Naturally there hadn’t been any overturned carts blocking the cobbled streets, or lunatic hackney drivers doing their best to cause an accident. No, tonight, when arriving here after eleven o’clock and being denied entry by the assembly hall’s formidable patronesses would have been the ultimate blessing, they’d had clear roads all theway.

This was all wrong. She didn’t want to be here. Shouldn’t be here. But her aunt was so happy…

“Well,” Samantha said, smiling through gritted teeth. “Almack’s.”

Jane Forsyth, dowager Countess of Westleigh, leaned over and squeezed her hand. “It will be fine, I promise. Keep your head held high, ignore the cretins, and enjoy the entertainment and chance to make some new friends. You look divine, darling. Ivory is a fabulous color for you, sets off those Buchanan brown eyes and blonde curls to perfection.”

“Please don’t remind me about my hair. At some stage tonight all ten thousand pins are going to escape, and some poor gentleman will be attacked by a bird’s nest. That is, if he isn’t already writhing on the floor, maimed by my clompingfeet.”

Aunt Jane’s lips twitched as she opened the carriage door and allowed a footman to assist her out. “Pfft. Your quadrilles and waltzes have progressed superbly over the last few weeks.”

“Oh, indeed,” Samantha replied wryly, as she stepped down onto the pavement. “Yesterday Stephen’s toes were only crushed hourly rather than every five minutes. I don’t know why he puts up withme.”

“Because you are his favorite cousin.”

“I’m his only cousin. But now I owe Stephen the largest of favors, because he is morally opposed to Almack’s. Something about recurring nightmares of dastardly chaperones, stale cake, and warm lemonade.”

“Just wait until I...ah...he was joking.”

“Really? I think you must have pleaded, cajoled, and bribed better than a politician to make all this happen.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” her aunt replied with a haughty sniff, as they strolled toward the building entrance. “Never would I employ such tactics.”

“Then how did I get my vouchers? I know Mother has many gentlemen friends, but ton ladies cross the street to avoidher!”

Aunt Jane shrugged. “I merely mentioned to Emily Castlereagh how terribly disappointed Stephen and I would be if you were denied your come out. And that William would be too, considering you’ve been dear friends since childhood.”

“What?” Samantha choked out incredulously. “It’s been so long I could walk past Lord Standish in the street and not realize! The only reason I know anything about him is because of your letters!”

“A tiny and insignificant detail. Besides, he isn’t so very different. Still far too clever for his own good, and scrupulously dutiful, if entirely too reserved. But I must say his appearance has improved a great deal, and he’s not nearly so awkward.”

A reluctant grin tugged at Samantha’s lips. “How very fortunate. Imagine the casualties if we’d partnered each other a few yearsago.”

“In that my hartshorn is miles away, thank you, but I’d rather not. Now, chin up. It’s time to face the grande dames.”

Samantha gulped. The Almack’s patronesses stood like sentries in a semi-circle inside the entrance, exquisitely gowned and even better connected, to welcome arrivals to the first assembly of the Season. But somehow her shaky curtsy and lackluster conversation passed muster, and in minutes they were wavedin.

“Well done, darling,” her aunt whispered. “They thawed enough to nod. Half the battle already.”

Almack’s was a different world. A supper room, another housing several card games, and the main ballroom where an absolute crush of people were gossiping, dancing, and listening to the cheerful tunes played by musicians sitting unobtrusively in one corner. Eagle-eyed chaperones were encouraging or scolding their charges while subtlety pinching cheeks and patting hair, but the sheer number of men fascinated her most, all ages, shapes, and sizes, and immaculately turned out in formal jackets and knee breeches.

“Aunt Jane,” she whispered, “Why do the men look so, er...”

“Like they would rather wrestle an ornery bull? Don’t worry, it’s all an act. They are privately thrilled to be here and cannot wait to surrender their dull bachelor lives…oh look, Stephen and Caroline. I told you they would behere.”

Samantha swallowed hard. Blood relative support was one thing, but to be publicly backed by the formidable Caroline Forsyth, Countess of Westleigh, was a blessing she hadn’t dared to hope for. Not for a young woman lacking in so many ways, and with enough secrets to make a hardened soldier swoon.

“Aunt Jane, I...ooof...” Samantha gasped as she was nearly mown down by a pack surge of determined feminine chins and elbows heading toward the eastwall.

“My word,” replied the dowager, hauling her out of the way. “Keep to the safety of the potted plants, darling. I’ll go and fetch us some lemonade.”

“Sam!”