Regina Scott (19 page)

He managed to chivvy Jamie into a better frame of mind with a game of skittles his son won handily, and they spent the day in relative peace. But Samantha Everard was still on Will’s mind when he woke the next morning. He could not like the tension between them. Their lands marched side by side. Surely it was in the best interest of the community for them to be civil to each other. He owed it to his neighbors to try to apologize once more.

Accordingly, after breakfast and a talk with his estate manager, he rode Arrow over to Dallsten Manor and asked after Samantha. The footman Chevers was so used to Will’s presence that he directed him behind the house to the kitchen gardens as if Will were a member of the family.

The garden behind the house held graveled paths marching through beds of fragrant herbs and vegetables in raised boxes. He spotted the tops of carrots waving in the breeze and the thick leaves of rhubarb. He grimaced at the gaping holes here and there, evidence of where his son and the Everard twins had gone digging for worms.

Samantha was standing at the crossroads of several paths, surrounded by lavender and chives, the purple blossoms bringing out the blue in her striped cambric gown. Her wide-brimmed straw hat shadowed her eyes, so it was hard to tell her expression. But she was gazing down at Prentice Haygood, who knelt in the gravel at her feet, greatcoat puddled about him, and held her hand, face upturned.

“And thus it would give me the greatest honor if you would consent to be my bride,” he finished as Will pulled up beside a trellis of sweet peas.

Not again.

Something inside him leaped like a lion. He wanted to stride forward, push between the two, haul Prentice Haygood to his feet by his wilted cravat and order him from the grounds for his presumption. But Will sincerely doubted Samantha would appreciate such a barbaric response. He held himself perfectly still, unwilling to interrupt, unable to leave. Still he felt his body protest.

Why must he stand silent while other men kept proposing to the woman he loved?

The sentiment struck him squarely in the face. He was in love with Samantha Everard. He hadn’t asked for it, had fought any suggestion of it. But he could no longer deny it. He didn’t want her to leave Evendale after the summer party. He wasn’t content to wait for her to return for an occasional visit. Friendship felt puny, insignificant, totally unsatisfactory.

Lord, is this what You want? Is this what You’ve been trying to tell me?

The rightness of it settled in his soul, as comfortable as a padded chair by the fire on a rainy day. Jamie had been right. Will needed to let Peg go, once and for all, and open his heart to the chance of love again.

But loving Samantha Everard came at a price, particularly to his consequence. He could not be certain she returned his feelings. She could easily fend him off as she had Jamie. Yet if she agreed, what a reward—spending his days alongside her, showing her the worlds he’d come to know, learning the secrets of her heart.

He didn’t want her marrying anyone but him, which meant that he’d have to propose to her himself.

Chapter Nineteen

N
ot again!
Samantha stared down into Prentice Haygood’s earnest face and forced herself not to cringe. Surely he deserved better than that.

The problem was, she was not feeling at all the thing. Like a Paisley shawl that had come unbound, the edges of her life seemed to be unraveling, the vibrant pattern disappearing into nothing. It didn’t help that she had had a difficult night.

She’d dreamed her mother was crying, sitting in the armchair across from Samantha by the fire and sobbing disconsolately as she used to do when Samantha’s father would leave for London. Samantha had tried to cheer her, but her mother had only sobbed the harder, face buried in her fingers.

“I’m alone! So alone!”

“You’re not alone, Mama,” Samantha had protested, kneeling at her feet and trying to take her mother’s cold hands away from her face. “You have me!”

The hands had fallen, revealing her mother’s face, eyes blazing brighter than the fire. “And who do you have?” her mother had challenged. “You’re throwing away your chance at love!”

Even in the morning the dream still shook Samantha. She’d been so sure she was making the right decision. What if she was wrong? What if marriage, a good, solid marriage, was possible for her? What if she was throwing away the Everard legacy, everything her grandfather, father and cousins had worked to build, for nothing?

The house had felt too confining, so she’d repaired to the garden. Mrs. Linton was baking meat pies today, and a few sprigs of fresh basil would be just the thing. Basket hooked over one arm, she’d wandered through the herbs, inhaling their dusky scents. And then Prentice Haygood had found her.

She’d dreaded his purpose even before he’d knelt in front of her. His heartfelt speech only raised her pity. He was so meek, so self-effacing. He’d never be happy in her family. Even if she had been willing to contemplate marriage, she could not agree to his proposal merely to save the legacy.

“I’m so very sorry, Mr. Haygood,” she said. “But I don’t return your affections. You deserve better in a wife.”

The smile disappeared from his chubby face as if she’d wiped his joy away with a washcloth. He climbed heavily to his feet. “And you deserve better than to lose everything you hold dear because of pride. I found your father’s will.”

Of course. She should have realized there’d be a copy in the muniment room. Seeking information about the Everard family, he’d probably found the will all too easily.

“Then you know what happens the day after the summer party,” she replied.

He took her hand, but she pulled back before he could cradle it close. He drew himself up as if she’d wounded him.

“I know,” he said, voice turned cautious. “But if you run away with me today to Gretna Green, you won’t have to deal with any of it.”

His answer was easy and completely wrong. “So it would seem,” she acknowledged. “But the answer is still no, Mr. Haygood.”

She thought he would protest, perhaps lament her hard heart. Instead he took a step closer and narrowed his eyes, his gaze drilling into her. “Do you know who I am?”

What was wrong with him? Did he honestly think the fact that he’d soon come into his uncle’s title meant anything to her? That the influence he might wield was any danger to her family’s legacy?

She held her ground. “You are a guest in my home who is dangerously close to wearing out his welcome.”

He grabbed her arms, fingers digging into her flesh, eyes manic. “I won’t let you do this. Marriage would be preferable, but if you insist on refusing...”

“She’ll simply be proving how wise she is,” Will said, striding out from behind the colorful sweet peas. “Take your hands off her. Now.”

She staggered as Haygood released her, but she caught her balance. With a nod to Will as he came to a stop beside her, she said, “Thank you, Lord Kendrick, for your kindness. I’m certain Mr. Haygood was about to apologize.” She couldn’t manage a smile as she glanced at her suitor.

Haygood’s jaw was equally tight as he snapped a bow. “Of course. Please ascribe my behavior to my vast disappointment. I am your servant as always, Lady Everard.” He pushed past Will for the house.

Samantha blew out a breath. “I must be losing my touch. They usually take my refusal so much better.”

“No one could take a refusal from you with any grace,” Will countered. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

Samantha nodded, drawing in another deep breath of the scented air and vowing to put the incident behind her. “Fine. Did you have need of me?”

“I begin to think so,” he replied, removing the top hat from his head. “I know this is poor timing considering what just happened, but as I’m never sure when I’m going to find you in the middle of a proposal, I thought I’d better put in my bid before it’s too late.”

She could not have understood him. “I beg your pardon?”

His smile turned up at one corner. “I very much fear I’m about to offer you marriage, my dear.”

Samantha stared at him. The breeze was threading through his dark wavy hair like tender fingers, and he leaned toward her as if with every intention of making his case. Oh, she couldn’t go through this now, not when she was so unsure of her way!

“Lord Kendrick,” she started, “Will, I...”

“Please,” he said, holding up one hand, “hear me out. I realize we were only formally introduced a little more than a week ago, but I feel as if I’ve known you much of my life.”

Perhaps she could fend him off. She didn’t want to hurt him. Already the pain was building inside her at the thought of refusing him.

“I feel the same way,” she replied. “Jamie and your father told me so many stories about you and read me your letters. I feel as if you’re an old friend.”

If he heard her emphasis on the word
friend,
he didn’t show it. “And I heard stories—from my father, Mrs. Dallsten Walcott and Jamie, stories that could not prepare me for your beauty and charm.”

“Well, they couldn’t have been very good stories then,” she teased over the thundering of her heart. “Truly, Will, there’s no need for this.”

He cocked his head. “Can you tell me that honestly, especially considering our kiss?”

Her face was heating, and she ducked her head and fiddled with the handle on the basket to keep him from seeing her reddening cheeks. “You won the race. I kissed you. That’s all there is to it.”

“You felt nothing?”

She swallowed. It was wrong to lie, but how could she tell him the truth? A lady simply did not admit to a gentleman that his kiss had sent her over the moon and back.

“What I felt has no bearing on this discussion,” she said with a sufficiently prim tone that Mrs. Dallsten Walcott would have been proud of her.

“Then you find me objectionable,” he persisted.

Her head came up. He was standing there, hat in one hand, waiting patiently. For once she wished he was not such a diplomat and would simply let things go!

“Of course I don’t find you objectionable,” she said. “But I don’t intend to marry. I wish everyone would accept that.”

“I suppose I must believe you, as I’ve seen you turn down two candidates in the past fortnight.” He ran his free hand back through his hair. “But I find it harder to accept when it’s me you’re refusing. Will you at least tell me why?”

How could she admit her concerns? In the light of his devotion, they seemed petty. Yet her father had been just as devoted, the stories said, and he had been unable to withstand the ebb and flow of her mother’s emotions.

“I have my reasons,” she said. “And I’m afraid they are sufficient to prevent me from changing my mind. Forgive me.” Tears were starting, and she brushed past him, intent on escaping. But he caught her shoulder and held her gently.

“Forgive me,” he murmured. “I never meant to hurt you.”

“Oh, Will.” For a moment she allowed herself to rest against him, head on his chest, arms warming her. She was squashing her hat and his, and very likely her basket was poking his ribs, but she couldn’t care. This was what a true marriage was intended to be—two people, sheltering each other from life’s blows, rejoicing in the good times.

In sickness and in health, forsaking all others.

She’d heard that statement so many times as friends and family had married over the years. Could those words really be meant for her?

She raised her head. His face was still, sorrowful, as if he realized he would not hold her like this again. He bent and pressed a kiss against her forehead, and she knew it was farewell. The pain inside her pushed its way up, blocked her breath, spilled her tears. Each step she took away from him felt like a thousand miles.

She couldn’t return to the house, answer the questions her cousins would raise at the sight of her tears. She had to get away from her past, give herself a moment to mourn the loss of her future.

“Excuse me,” she managed. “I think I’d like to be alone. Please tell the others I’ll return by luncheon.”

She hurried for the riding path that led into the woods—anything to erase the memory of his tender touch.

* * *

Will stood alone in the garden, hat in his hand. Why was it always his lot to watch Samantha walk away? She cared about him—the look on her face, the gentleness of her touch, the warmth of her wit all testified as much. He had fought the attraction because of his past. Having lost so many, he’d refused to take the chance of loving another. But Samantha Everard had pried open his locked heart, letting in the light. What kept her own heart guarded?

He wanted to go after her, beg her to see reason, threaten to carry her off to Gretna Green, but he thought he might be the last person she wanted to see at the moment. He wasn’t surprised, however, to notice another movement along the riding path. Prentice Haygood was following Samantha. Perhaps he too sought to press his case, comfort her. But Will didn’t like it.

He took a step forward and heard his name called.

“Kendrick—a word with you.”

He turned to find Vaughn Everard striding from the house, tailored cerulean coat hugging his lean body. From the set of his jaw, Will didn’t think he’d be easily avoided. He inclined his head and slipped his top hat back into place.

“Lord Widmore,” he greeted him. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to offer my help,” Vaughn said, stopping before him. He wore no hat; Will could easily believe that platinum hair gave back the light it took in from the sun. His dark eyes were half lidded, as if he didn’t wish Will to have a glimpse of his thoughts. “You seemed determined to talk to me yesterday,” he said. “I assume it was about your brother’s death.”

Here it was, the opportunity to learn the truth at last. Will could not believe it would be that easy. “And will you grant me answers now, after all these years?”

Vaughn bowed, arm outstretched like a courtier of old. “Perhaps if you’d walk with me, I could explain.” He straightened and motioned toward the path that edged the woods. As the direction would parallel the one Samantha and Haygood had taken, Will accepted the offer and fell into step beside him.

“I believe you know your brother dueled with me the day he was killed,” Vaughn said, long legs eating up the graveled track so swiftly the tassels on his polished boots were swinging.

“So the authorities told my father,” Will replied, pacing him. “They said you were exonerated. But no one has ever named the murderer, nor, as far as I know, brought him to justice.”

“Allow me to set your mind at rest. Your brother’s murderer was accused of treason and spent the rest of his life incarcerated. He died a few years ago.”

Will jerked to a stop. “Why were we never told? What has treason to do with murder?”

Vaughn stopped as well, his tassels stilling their swing. “Do you remember when we all thought Napoleon meant to invade?”

Will shook his head. “I wasn’t in England then. I was fighting the French on the diplomatic front, in Constantinople.”

Vaughn nodded in acceptance. “It was a frantic time in government,” he replied, gaze going out toward the wood. “Move, countermove, all our lives hanging precariously in the balance. Decisions were made that satisfied no one. A group of Englishmen led by a high-ranking member of Parliament decided a revolution was in order, in England.”

Will took a step back. “In England? Were they mad?”

Vaughn’s eyes glittered as if he were a little mad himself. “Some thought so. But they cast a compelling vision—an England where privilege and power were available to all men, a place of peace and prosperity again. They very nearly handed the country over to Napoleon, but their plans were discovered and ultimately foiled.”

“I don’t understand,” Will insisted, spreading his feet on the path. “But what has this to do with my brother?”

“Hear me out,” Vaughn replied, adjusting his own stance. Will suddenly realized anyone watching them would think they meant to come to blows any moment. Where were his diplomacy skills? He forced his fists to relax.

“Your brother knew the leader,” Vaughn continued, “and the leader deemed him a danger. He is the one who struck the fatal blows after my duel with your brother.”

Will eyed him. “You have proof, I assume.”

Vaughn spread his hands. “Alas, we have only the leader’s testimony to prove he killed your brother. No one saw him, and he left no evidence behind that would incriminate him.”

“In point of fact,” Will said, “he did a good job of incriminating you.”

Vaughn inclined his head. “So the magistrates originally thought. But they were willing to change their minds. I hope you are as well.”

It was a wild tale, treason and treachery and crowns at risk. Another man might have questioned it further, demanded redress. But Will had seen too much of such skullduggery in foreign circles. What was to say that it couldn’t happen in England? And the story certainly explained why the authorities had been unable to share the truth with his father at the time.

“Why tell me now?” Will asked. “Why not a few years ago when we knew the fear of invasion was over?”

Vaughn brushed a stray leaf from his trousers. “All those involved were sworn to secrecy, on penalty of treason. We didn’t want the group to know the location of their leader for fear his men would reassemble and attempt a rescue. As I mentioned, the leader has now passed on and is no longer a threat to the crown.”