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"And keeps only unto her?" Cynthia returned sardonically.
"Yes."
"You're a fool."
"You're wrong."
Cynthia gave a shiver of distaste. "I can't imagine ever marrying. Why would any woman choose to condemn herself to a lifetime in her husband's bed, subjecting herself to his lust, night after night?"
"Alex says making love is wonderful."
"Making love?" Cynthia gave a bitter laugh. "Is that what you call it?"
"When you care for someone, yes." Sammy perched on the edge of her bed. "You're right about my being naive, Cynthia. I am. I don't profess to knowing firsthand what it's like to lie with a man. But I do know that when you're in love, you merge with your hearts as well as your bodies. You join in passion and tenderness, not lust. I see the wealth of feeling in Drake's eyes when he looks at Alex . . . and in hers when she looks back."
"Tenderness." Cynthia spoke the word as if it were foreign. She fell silent, her fingers knotting in the folds of her nightrail. "Samantha," she asked suddenly, "that man your earl was sitting with . . . who was he?"
"What?" Sammy blinked.
"The other person at the table with Lord Gresham, do you know him?"
"I don't think so. But then, all I saw was Remington." Sammy pursed her lips, trying to remember. "Now that you mention it, yes, I do recall another gentleman. He didn't look familiar ... at least not from the quick look I got. Why?"
"Oh, he and the earl seemed mismatched, that's all. I would never have suspected they'd be friends."
"Are you certain they were?"
"Yes. They were far too relaxed and informal with each other to be anything less." She paused. "His name was Boyd . . . Boyd Hayword."
"Boyd? Oh! He must be the tavern keeper of the establishment where I met Remington. It's called Boydry's. I seem to recall a stocky man serving drinks when I first dashed in out of the rain. It was probably he." Sammy studied Cynthia thoughtfully. "Did the two of you speak?"
"Only briefly." Again Cynthia averted her eyes. "What on earth am I going to wear to meet your guardian?"
"Don't worry, we'll find something." An inner voice told Sammy to drop the subject of Boyd, at least for now. Rising, she went to the wardrobe and began browsing through her morning dresses, determined to give Cynthia's battered trust some time to heal. But Sammy was wise enough—and perhaps objective enough—to understand that Cynthia needed far more than mere time in order to truly recover from her devastating scars; she needed love.
"This gown is perfect." Sammy flourished a modest, Devonshire brown morning dress.
"Oh, I couldn't!"
"Of course you could. It's far too muted for my coloring anyway—it makes me look drab and melancholy. On you— with your pale skin and light hair—it will look magnificent!"
"But I should wear a uniform or—"
"You will." Sammy grinned. "After we procure your new position. To that end, let's impress Smitty with your breeding and beauty—it makes every heroine that much more appealing." Wisely, Sammy indicated the row of Gothic romances lined up beside the window. "Now let's hurry and don our clothes before Millie returns. Who knows? If we manage to dress ourselves without her assistance, we might even see Smitty before nightfall."
"Good morning, Smitty."
Cheerfully, Sammy tugged Cynthia into the sitting room where Smitty was worriedly pacing.
"Lady Samantha—your maid said you wished to see me. Is anything amiss ... ?" His voice trailed off as he saw the woman standing beside his charge.
"To the contrary." Impatient to set things right, Sammy blasted into her story. "Smitty, this fine young lady"—she thrust Cynthia forward—"is the answer to all our problems."
Smitty's brows rose. "I wasn't aware we had any problems."
"That's because I've spared you—and Aunt Gertie—the distressful details."
"What details?"
