Chapter 10
Sam gathered herself enough to move to the large four-post bed dominating most of her guest chamber, but her aching sobs did not cease, though her tears had vanished a few moments ago.
Normally, the peach-colored bed covering and draperies would have been light enough to brighten her mood, but now, the room had turned an offensive, bittersweet orange.
Her tongue swiped across her dry lips, tasting only the salted remains of her tears—evidence of her conflicted emotions regarding Lord Beauchamp’s appearance.
Father.
Her father.
The term was foreign to her and held no meaning beyond filling her with a sense of emptiness, bound to grow deeper with Jude’s impending marriage.
How could Marce think it wise to invite the man to Derbyshire?
Beauchamp couldn’t be bothered to journey across London to look in on his daughters, but he’d travel all the way to Hollybrooke? For what purpose?
She’d lived her entire eighteen years without a man in her life but Garrett, and she had done just fine.
If the viscount expected her to fall in line and pretend to be the daughter he’d always known, the loathsome man did not know Sam at all.
They had never met—in fact, he’d never taken so much as a passing interest in his offspring.
She could not be the good daughter, just as he hadn’t any notion how to be a father.
Of course, it seemed many people she’d thought she knew were doing things completely out of character. Marce’s actions stirred Sam’s sense of betrayal. Had it not occurred to her eldest sibling to at least ask her or Jude if they had any interest in meeting their father?
Jude possibly would have agreed to the invitation with a bit a coaxing, but Sam, no, she never would have approved. It was Jude’s wedding, but this affected Sam’s life as much as Jude’s.
From what she’d overheard behind closed doors growing up, Beauchamp had shown a slight interest in having a child with her mother—that was until she and Jude were born, and not only was Sam a girl, but a pair of girls. The man had run for the hills.
Once, many years ago, when her mother would not buy her a baby doll she so wanted from the mercantile, Sam had screamed that if her father were there, he would have bought her the pretty doll—an entire shelf of dolls…
because he loved her. It had been unfair, and she had yelled in a moment of childish indignation and fury.
Sam remembered the way her mother had smiled and calmly walked from the shop, leaving Sam on the floor, crying.
Jude had stood beside her, torn between following their mother and other siblings, or remaining with her twin.
In the end, Sam had brushed the dirt from her frock and departed the store, Jude walking steadfastly at her side.
She’d never apologized for her harsh words, but that evening, Sam and Jude had heard Sasha talking with another woman in her study, something about being blessed to have given birth to girls, or the horrid man would have returned to take her child—or children as the case may be—and raise it as his own with his barren, cold-hearted wife.
She hadn’t known whom they spoke of at the time.
And as Sam grew older and matured, she’d come to understand the neglect and heartache her mother had witnessed at Beauchamp’s hand. It was too much to dream he’d changed, that he was now capable of putting the needs of others before his—or his family’s—demands.
The bit of enjoyment she’d begun to take at Hollybrooke had been dispelled quickly, made all the worse knowing it would follow her back to London.
A light tap sounded at her door.
Sam attempted to swipe away any remaining tears from her face, but her palm only met dry skin.
Had Marce come to confront her about her rude behavior?
Maybe it was Jude come to cry on her shoulder—but Sam couldn’t be the strong one in this situation.
She was not the person anyone should lean on for support… she was falling apart, too.
The knock sounded again.
“Go away!” Her voice trembled, and she fell silent, but another, more insistence knock followed.
Sam stood and moved toward the door to send away whoever sought to disrupt her moment of weakness. She’d never been one to seek time alone. It gave way to many thoughts that were better left hidden, locked away deeply within her.
The knob was cold against the palm of her hand as she twisted and pulled the door open a crack.
If it were one of her sisters, they would have entered the room without warning or demanded entrance. It would embarrass not only her family but also her if a servant waited on the other side of the door.
“Yes?” Her eyes attempted to adjust to the bright light in the hall.
She blinked rapidly to focus—her room had been shrouded in shadows as Sam hadn’t bothered to pull the drapes or light a candle upon her return.
She’d dismissed her maid until after the noonday meal for Sam had expected to be downstairs with the other guests.
“I seek a few moments alone. You may return in an hour’s time to tidy the room. ”
“Miss Samantha?” Sam narrowed her eyes, taking in Lord Ridgefeld standing outside her door. “Is everything as it should be? I was on the terrace and heard sobbing.”
Spectacular.
A witness to her weakness.
It was not good enough Beauchamp had shown up and ruined her remaining days with her twin sister close, but now all the guests below had heard her wallowing in her own self-pity, bawling over the appearance of a man she hadn’t met until now, and who, in fact, meant less than nothing to her.
She glanced past the marquis, searching for the huddle of guests who likely waited within hearing distance to absorb all the sordid details.
“Did my brother send you to check on me?” Her brow rose as if she were challenging him to deny it. It was highly improper for a man to call on a woman in her chambers, but that did not register with Sam before her question had been voiced.
“Certainly not.”
“Is everyone speaking about me—and our unexpected guest?” Sam prodded. “You can let everyone know I am doing well. Your obligation is fulfilled.”
“Is everyone speaking of what?” His eyes narrowed in confusion.
Sam pulled the door wide and stepped around Lord Ridgefeld, glancing down the hall in both directions. If an audience waited, they were out of sight and suspiciously quiet. Likely afraid to breathe and miss any tidbits of conversation that floated their way.
Her upbringing screamed no one was about, and that Elijah was here of his own accord.
“I assure you, I am alone, Miss Samantha.” He’d taken a step back to allow her to pass, but without thinking, she grabbed his arm and hauled him into her chambers, shutting the door behind him. “I do not think this is proper—“
“Oh, do not be so felicitous, my lord.” Sam moved back to her bed and plopped down. “I do not wish for an audience to hear me bawling. And, need I remind you, if you were concerned with propriety, you would not have knocked on my door.”
“Very true. However, you were crying.” It was not meant to be a question, so Sam held her tongue. “Tell me, Miss Samantha, what has upset you? I will attempt to set things right.”
“Are you ever not the relentless gentleman?”
“I…well…no,” he stumbled over his words, his posture stiffening.
Which brought to mind another image—a drawing to be exact, of another thing, stiff and large. Sam felt the blush creep up her cheeks. In her dreams…in the hall…Sam could not avoid the images from the wicked book.
“Call me Sam,” she blurted. Why did the man make her feel so at ease and at the same time on edge with something very close to need? She’d never needed another—beyond her twin, of course. “I mean, my family calls me Sam, you are free to do the same.”
He gave her a weak smile as he strode across the room and lowered himself to sit in a straight-backed chair.
The mere sight of him pushed all thoughts of her father’s surprising appearance from her mind. She was alone, in a room with Elijah…and the last thing she wanted occupying her thoughts was Beauchamp.
Elijah shifted in the atrocious chair, attempting to find a more agreeable position; unfortunately, the seat did not afford one.
Finally, he settled for slouching ever so slightly, extending his legs and crossing them at his ankles.
Sam laughed when he folded his arms across his chest.
“Is something funny?” he inquired.
“You have the appearance of a petulant child.” She shouldn’t find even a hint of joy on a day such as this, but Sam noticed her wit flee whenever Elijah was near.
“Mayhap I feel like a petulant child at the moment,” he retorted in jest, though Sam saw the change in his expression, as if a bank of clouds had settled over him. “Now, what has you upset, Sam?”
She set her hands on either side of her on the bed and sat a bit straighter.
The man had the uncanny ability to push her troubles away.
He’d done that exact thing when his carriage had pulled up alongside her on the road, offering her transport back to Hollybrooke before the storm unleashed its fury on her.
Before his arrival, Sam had only thought of being gone from Derbyshire and back in London—surrounded by hordes of elegantly dressed people where she’d thought she belonged.
But in the last day, she hadn’t thought once of returning—and suspected the crowds of people only kept her inner turmoil at bay.
“I am feeling better, never fear.” The last subject Sam wanted to address with Elijah was why she’d been crying. It was silly, truly. A woman crying over her father and his rakehell ways. Certainly, there were far more sorrowful things in the world.
He eyed her suspiciously. “I do not believe that for a second. Your sobs were heartbreaking. I will know why.”
It was a command, yet his posture remained at ease.