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"Lord Hartley," she muttered under her breath. Now what was she going to do? There wasn't a doubt that, if the marquis saw her face, he'd recognize her. As one of her father's oldest friends, he'd known her since birth.
Sammy cursed her timing. Lord Hartley owned a shipbuilding company, yes, but why did he have to pick this morning to visit the docks? And how on earth could she explain her ridiculous garb?
Desperately, Sammy tugged the brim of her cap lower, ducking into the receding shadows of dawn. The other gentleman glanced up, and for a fleeting instant before the shadows concealed her, Sammy felt his quizzical gaze on her. Poised against the warehouse wall, she held her breath, aware that Lord Hartley had stopped speaking.
"Summerson?" she heard him ask questioningly. "What is it?"
"Nothing. Just an odd-looking lad. Probably prowling about looking for food. Now, what were you saying?"
The rest of the conversation was lost to Sammy. Weak with relief, she sagged against the brick wall. The marquis hadn't spied her. As for the man called Summerson, she'd never seen him before in her life, so it mattered not that he'd spotted her nor that he thought her odd-looking.
Gratefully, she inched her way around the warehouse and headed away from the dock.
The ton was still deep in slumber when Sammy trudged down Abingdon Street an hour later. In truth, she envied them their repose. Her feet ached, her head throbbed, and her breeches were sliding down her hips. The thought of sleep sounded distinctly appealing.
Smitty was nowhere to be found—a further incentive for her to take to her bed. Even Millie hadn't ventured into her room, evidently having been told that her mistress would be sleeping late after her first Almack's ball.
Sammy placed her pilfered clothing in the hallway. A chambermaid was bound to come by and assume the clothes had been erroneously delivered to Lady Samantha's chambers, at which point she would promptly return them to the servants' quarters.
The bed felt wonderful—better than wonderful, Sammy thought, snuggling into the pillows. There would be plenty of time for heroism later. . . .
Rem closed the file he'd been reading and leaned back in his chair. He'd memorized the damned thing anyway. And, thus far, it had provided him with no new insights.
He came to his feet in a rush. Who was he kidding? He'd stayed up all night, but it wasn't the lost ships that had dominated his thoughts. It was Samantha.
Why the hell did she affect him the way she did? It was bad enough she elicited protective urges he'd never known he possessed—urges to shelter her, not only from physical harm, but from emotional harm, as well. But the rush of passion she invoked in him, the downright trembling need to absorb her into himself—it was unthinkable, unacceptable, untenable. Undeniable.
If he doubted it the first time they kissed, his doubts were put to rest the second time she was in his arms. Not to mention the overwhelming desire to beat Anders senseless when the viscount turned his skillfully polished charm on Samantha. That bloody bastard would only use her, then cast her aside.
Rem inhaled sharply. And what was he doing? Wasn't he also using Samantha, planning to discard her when he'd acquired the information he sought? Damn. Damn. Damn.
He'd never before had trouble concentrating on his work, never felt guilty for the means he'd used to gather his information.
He could still see the crestfallen pain and accusation on Samantha's face when she'd spotted him with Clarissa, making him feel like a reprehensible bastard. The irony of the situation was comical. For the first time in aeons, his motives for charming a beautiful woman had nothing to do with the thrill of conquest. Oh, he'd been delighted to see the lovely marchioness. But not for the reasons Samantha suspected.
Who better to probe for tidbits of confidential data than a woman who spent most of her time in various noblemen's beds; the place where men's defenses were at their lowest, and secrets, normally hoarded, were often divulged? The marchioness's paramours consisted of at least four major shipping magnates, making her a potential wealth of information.
But from Samantha's perspective, he'd been cavorting with a married woman.
And what if he was?
Lord knew, it wouldn't be the first time. Why the hell did he care what Samantha Barrett thought of his behavior? She was a romantic, innocent child.
A child who so thoroughly ravaged his control that he'd almost made love to her on the floor of the bloody anteroom at Almack's.
She'd tasted her first kiss in his arms. He wanted more ... her first touch, her first sigh ... her first time.
Rem raked his fingers through his hair, more off balance than he could remember being since he left the navy.
Was he mad?
Emotions had no place in his life. They were dangerous to his missions, a threat to his sanity.
Yet, he'd gone to Almack's for a purpose, accomplishe
d absolutely nothing of value, and come home mentally besieged by thoughts of an unquestionably unattainable young woman.
Seven days was far too long.
