AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"Clarissa, may I present Lady Samantha Barrett. Samantha ... the Marchioness of Sheltane."
"Lady Sheltane." Samantha wanted to slap her mocking face.
"Samantha, of course. I'd heard you were coming out this Season." The marchioness patted Sammy's hand in a patronizing gesture. "And what a coincidence. We were just discussing your brother."
"You were?" Sammy's tears vanished. "Why?"
"Because my dear husband has commissioned Barrett Shipping to build a personal yacht for my use. It will be called the Clarissa."
"How lovely. Your husband must be thoroughly devoted to you." Was it her imagination, Sammy wondered, or did Rem's lips twitch?
"He is. Actually, he considered several companies before selecting your brother's. He was determined to attain the finest quality for the Clarissa, considering the number of English ships that have been lost these past months. Henry says poor workmanship is the reason they vanished, no doubt to the bottom of the sea."
"The quality at Barrett Shipping is impeccable, I assure you, Lady Sheltane. The marquis will not be disappointed. Now, if you'll excuse me, I really must find my aunt." She didn't wait to see if Lady Sheltane excused her or not.
She bolted.
Sprinting down the hall, Sammy found the anteroom she'd frequented earlier and slipped inside. Burying her face in her hands, she gave in to the weeping she'd suppressed.
"Samantha?"
She froze.
"Why are you crying?"
"For no reason you would understand, Lord Gresham. Now please . . . leave me alone."
He came up behind her. "Did Anders make any improper—"
"No. The only one who was improper tonight was me."
Gently, he turned her to face him. "It's your first ball, imp. Don't cry."
She gazed up at him from beneath wet, spiky lashes, her eyes emanating confusion, hurt and pain, "It's just that I ... when we ... I don't understand, why did you—"
With a rough sound, Rem dragged her into his arms, burying his face in her bright hair. "Samantha . . ." He tipped her chin up, brushing his lips through the tracks of tears on her cheeks. "I want to see you smile."
"Then kiss me," she heard herself say. "But this time don't pull away, and don't apologize." She stood on tiptoe, twining her arms about his neck.
"Sweetheart, you don't know what you're asking. . . ."
"Yes, I do." She tugged him down to her. "Please . . ."
Capitulation was inevitable.
Rem bent to capture her mouth with his, relenting before either of them could think. Their lips met, fused, parted . . . then melded in a searing, blazing, devouring kiss that burned with a life of its own.
Pressing closer, Sammy's last coherent thought was that heaven itself would bow before these sensations. She felt Rem's hands rove restlessly over her back and shoulders, pulling her harder against him. She arched her neck as his lips scorched a searing path down her throat to her collarbone, then back to her mouth again.
"Samantha . . ." This time her name was an endearment, and Sammy reveled in the sound. She met the rhythmic strokes of his tongue, felt the hammering of his heart against hers. But when she slid her hands inside his coat, eager to feel the warmth of his skin through only the thin barrier of his shirt, he stayed her, catching her fingers in his. "Stop, sweetheart. Stop now."
"Why?"
"Why?" He jerked his head up. "Dammit, Samantha, you can't be that naive." Live embers smoldered in his eyes. "Surely you have some idea where this can lead."
"Where it was leading with Lady Sheltane?"
"Is that what this is all about—Clarissa?"
