Page 64 of Tempting the Marquess

“Well! That was a truly perfect governess tone. Wherever did you learnthat?”

She sighed. “After finishing school it wasn’t time for me to return to London, so I remained to teach the younger pupils. I could scold you all evening, sir.”

“While that sounds more interesting than off-putting, pet, I believe you had a question forme?”

She glanced left and right, then took a step closer. “Why did you doit?”

William froze. “Dowhat?”

“Whatever shocking thing you did to become the black sheep,” she whispered. “Are you so very unredeemable?”

“I’m sixty years old, pet. So thoroughly unredeemable,” he replied, relaxing. “If you are asking about my shockingly expensive indulgence in food and drink and fashion, because I like it. If you are asking about my shockingly wicked habit of spending countless hours at play in the bedchambers of ladies not my own, well, because I like thattoo.”

Samantha tilted her head. “I think you might be lonely since your wife died. When you have known something wonderful, it is horrible to have it snatched away. And when you are lonely, it is easy to walk down the wrongpath.”

Words—the wrong words—leaped to the tip of his tongue. He wanted to drag her out of Alexander’s theater box and ask her straight out if she was a traitor like her father. If she had deliberately betrayed him to the French. If she had bedded other men while he’d been gone. Yet there wasn’t a thing he could do except keep a slightly smug, partially drunk, and totally lecherous smile pinned to hisface.

Or at least what once was hisface.

It had been beyond disconcerting earlier in the evening, after Barclay had daubed and pinned and brushed and glued, to look at himself in the mirror and not recognize who he saw. Thanks to the makeup and shading, he now had wrinkles which faded his dark blue eyes and made them look smaller, almost beady. His hair had been powdered and coated in some fetid goo to plaster it to his head, and then a shabby wig had been attached. An old-fashioned, high-pointed collar two sizes too small had made his neck vanish while plumping skin over the top so he appeared to have the weakest of jaws. All in all, he looked quite revolting. How David Underwood had ever been considered a ladies’ man, he would neverknow.

Yanking himself back to the present, William tsked. “So serious, Sam darling! Usually one has to be deep in their cups to be so philosophical. Have you been drinking? Sneaking swigs of your papa’s brandy? Must say, he puts my supplies to shame.”

She gazed at him with such acute disappointment for his flippant answer, he almost apologized. Except that was something his character would never do. As evidenced by the pistol, broom, and geese-inflicted injuries the real David Underwood was currently nursing somewhere.

“I know about being alone. And being lonely,” she blurted. “I’m sorry I said anything. Please excuseme.”

“Don’t go,” he replied, his hand jerking out to circle her wrist before he could even think about the wrongness of the gesture. For God’s sake. That was struggling William Hastings, not lecherous, devil-may-care Underwood. “If you stay, I’ll even attempt to behave—”

“Underwood,” cut in a deep, frigid voice. “I cannot think of a single adequate reason for you to be grasping Lady Samantha’s wrist. I suggest you let her go atonce.”

William glanced at Alexander. His best friend looked ready to do violence. Well, the feeling was mutual. “No need to get your drawers in a bunch there, dukie. Sam and I were just having a friendly littlechat.”

“No more chats. Lady Samantha, we’re leavingnow.”

“Oh. Are we?” Samantha replied uncertainly.

“Indeed. And the dowager wants to know if you wish to return to Sackville Street or stay the night at Forsyth House. It’s no trouble either way,” Alexander continued, resting his hand on the curve of her waist but staring directly athim.

William’s breath hissed between his teeth. Was his former best friend warning him away? Forget simple violence, only a headfirst plummet over the railing and into the pits would do for the bastard now. That arm at her waist was far, far, too proprietary.

“Well,” said Samantha quickly. “In that case, I’d prefer Forsyth House. Mother and Papa both had plans for the evening, and I feel like a pea in a barrel when I’m at home by myself!”

“Of course. Well, let’s be off then. Underwood,” Alexander finished icily, giving him the ducal stare of death.

“Southby,” he replied chirpily, bowing low. “And, Sam, my darling, it certainly has been a treat to see you again, all grownup.”

Alexander tucked her hand under his arm and near-dragged her away, but she glanced back and gave him a small smile. “Goodnight, Uncle David. Perhaps we’ll meet again.”

“Goodnight, pet,” he called.

Meet again? Oh, you can count onit.