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She'd looked so beautiful in her forest-green gown, the elegant satin lending the very air of sophistication she so desperately sought. Rem's only reminder of the fanciful young woman he'd met at Boydry's was the transparent play of emotions mirrored on her face: pleasure when she first saw him, nervousness when they spoke, humiliation at her aunt's bumbling remark.
When he'd witnessed her untainted spirit crushed, Rem's immediate reaction had been a rush of protectiveness much like the one he'd experienced when she scalded her throat gulping brandy. It was atypical of him, to say the least, but not alarming. Given the extent of Samantha's innocence and faith, he was convinced that the need to shelter her would be as natural to a man as breathing.
But that didn't explain the queer surge in his chest when they danced . . . nor the magnitude of his response when they kissed.
Prowling restlessly about the room, Rem attempted to examine the situation with his customary objectivity. Passion was something he'd discovered at a young age, closely followed by proficiency. Physical pleasure was a wondrous balm for the body, a needed escape for the mind. And, since he'd begun his covert activities with the Crown, an incomparable method of finding out what he needed to know.
His magnetism had served him well, as had his resulting reputation as a womanizer. The widespread knowledge that the Earl of Gresham never restricted himself to the same lady twice allowed Rem to come and go as he pleased, arousing no one's suspicions, jeopardizing no one's well-being. His missions and his peace of mind remained unthreatened.
Until now.
Tonight, when he'd held Samantha in his arms, tasted the sweetness of her mouth, something inside him had snapped, given way to a deluge of sensations to which he was immune.
Or so he'd thought.
Slowly, Rem unclenched his fists, gazing fixedly at them. Sometime during the past half hour, control had shifted from these expert, insusceptible hands into those of an enchanting, vibrant young woman with the heart of a dreamer and the sincerity of a child.
It wouldn't happen again.
Samantha Barrett was an obstacle that had been thrown in his path. He was accustomed to subverting obstacles. All he needed was a clear, methodical plan. Inhaling sharply, he formulated one.
Regardless of Samantha's unexpected affect on him, as well as her blatant infatuation, he could not simply dismiss her. Not when she could very well supply him with an important inside view of Barrett Shipping and its competitors. On the other hand, to fuel these disconcerting emotions would be unfair to Samantha and dangerous to him.
A week. He would give himself a week.
Seven days of concentrated time with Lady Samantha Barrett. More than enough to learn what she knew, far too brief to render any permanent damage.
Certainly fleeting enough for him to master any odd twinges of emotion he might experience.
A purposeful gleam in his eye, Rem left the anteroom and returned to the ball. . . and his evening's work.
* * *
"It only goes to show that reputation is often rumor," Aunt Gertrude proclaimed loudly.
Sammy winced.
"Why, the Dowager Duchess of Arvel was spouting all sorts of nonsense about Lord Gresham being a libertine of the worst order. According to her, the whole ton is buzzing with stories of his indiscretions. She had the sheer audacity to chastise me for allowing you to dance with him. Well!" Gertrude sniffed. "I told her in no uncertain terms that the earl was a total gentleman ... with me as well as with you."
Nodding woodenly, Sammy wondered how much more she could bear.
"Speaking of Lord Gresham, I haven't seen him in some time"—Gertrude craned her neck to survey the room— "since you danced with him, as a matter of fact. Did he take his leave?"
"I don't know, Aunt Gertrude."
"Lady Samantha, are you all right?" The Viscount Anders, his expression taut with concern, hastened up to them.
"Why ... yes, my lord. Why wouldn't I be?" Sammy fingered the satin folds of her gown.
"During our last dance, you looked pale and distressed. I wanted to assure myself that you'd recovered. I've been searching the entire ballroom for you. ... I was becoming alarmed."
"Oh." Sammy stared at the intricately stitched leaf pattern above her hem. "That was very kind of you, my lord. Actually, I left for a brief time ... to get some air. I feel much better now."
He looked relieved. "I'm glad. That being the case, may I have the honor of another dance with you?"
"There's the earl, dear!" Aunt Gertrude suddenly exclaimed, pointing. "In the entranceway. Why, he, too, must nave gone out for some air."
In response to Gertrude's announcement, Anders pivoted toward the doorway, when he saw the person to whom she referred, he glanced at Samantha, a question in his eyes.
