Chapter 19
“Lord Proctor!” Sam’s deep, throaty laugh echoed down the deserted corridor as the chords of a waltz drifted through the large house until the sound reached the spot of privacy that she suspected the baron had planned to lead her to all evening. “You are highly improper.”
“My sweet, Sammy, you have no notion how improper a man can be!” His hand slid up her thigh as he spoke, sending a hum of warning through her.
The nickname he’d dubbed her with was almost as offensive as his skills on the dance floor—hence why she’d allowed him to lead her away from the ballroom.
“Just one tiny kiss, my sugar dumpling.”
Sugar dumpling? The man certainly knew nothing of her to think she was sweet in any sense of the endearment. Sam wondered if he’d think her saccharine if she twisted his ear until he gave her a bit of room to breathe.
Proctor—Eric as he demanded she call him—was said to be dashing, wealthy, and connected.
Every debutante’s dream with his jet-black hair…
a bit too dark for Sam’s liking. His piercing blue eyes…
a bit too intense for Sam’s comfort. His aggressive arrogance…
a bit too forthcoming and in conflict with Sam’s own forceful demeanor.
However, he was an eligible, unattached man with an estate in Devon, a house in Bath, and a grand townhouse befitting a prince.
Certainly, he wasn’t an earl like Jude’s husband—nor a marquis.
Why did Elijah spring to mind at that exact moment when she was in the arms of another man?
Sam had done all in her power to forget the blasted scoundrel.
She’d embraced town life as the sister of a newly minted countess.
London’s most fashionable homes were presently open to her, even before Jude and Simon had returned from their bridal tour.
Marce had been up in arms regarding whose invitations to accept, and which to reject.
Closing her eyes and tilting her head back, Sam concentrated on the baron’s hand, currently traveling up her side to cup her breast. As it settled, she noted the minuscule size of his pal. Surely a man’s hand was meant to be twice the size of a woman’s?
She pushed the wayward thought from her mind as his warm breath cascaded over her neck; the aromas of the evening’s goose pudding filling her nose, assaulting her senses.
This was not working. He was not working. Neither had Sam been able to feel desire—or anything resembling it—during her time at the opera, ensconced in Lord Harborborn’s private viewing box.
She pushed free from Proctor’s hold as his lips settled just below her ear.
The old Sam would have purred, maybe even issued a subtle moan of delight.
Now, she couldn’t think past the clammy nature of his hands and the man’s weak bottom lip when their mouths met.
It obviously spoke volumes of the man: sweaty, tiny hands…beady, shifty eyes…and lips that likely allowed drink to dribble down his chin. Young misses spoke of his dashing good looks; however, he only appeared a gaping-mouthed fish to her.
“I think it is time we return to the ballroom, my lord.” Sam took a step in that direction. “People will have certainly noticed our absence by now.”
Proctor grasped her hand before she could slip farther away. “Would that be so dreadful?”
“What are you implying?” Sam had a hunch, but she wanted to hear him say it.
“I think my meaning is clear, Miss Samantha.” He made the grave mistake of raking his gaze up and down her body before attempting to pull her close once more.
“You’ve accompanied me to the park, Abernasher’s garden party, and I’ve placed my name on your dance card a half-dozen times in the last fortnight.
I believe it is obvious, not only to you but society as a whole. ”
There was little reason to inform Proctor she’d also enjoyed similar outings with four other suitors since her return to London.
Her eyes narrowed. How had she ever thought him dashing? Or the least bit thrilling?
“Come now, Sammy,” he continued, disregarding the warning in her glare. “I cannot be the first man to propose such an arrangement to you.”
“An…arrangement…” Sam stuttered. “You—“
“I am willing to procure a lovely townhouse for your use in Mayfair or St. James…or, just a few days ago, I discovered a quaint cottage bordering Hyde Park. The morning breeze through the trees lining the grassy area would please you, I am certain.” Sparingly, he finally took note of her dumbfounded expression.
“Oh, I will also include an allowance for gowns, jewelry, and travel. And a carriage for your daily use. I am not an ungenerous man.”
Sam took a firm hold of her gown and lifted her skirt high enough for her foot to strike out and thump him soundly in the shin.
“Ouch.” He leapt back and out of her reach. “I certainly should have suspected a cottage would not do for the daughter of Madame Sasha. I will contact my man of business to secure you a grand residence. Does that soothe your temper, my sugar plum?”
The man clearly held no self-preservation. And, quite possibly, lacked a fair amount of sense.
“I shall like to return to the ballroom now,” she seethed, pivoting sharply and starting back toward the soirée.
“But, Sammy, we have yet to discuss the sizeable allowance I am willing to settle upon you while our arrangement continues,” he called at her fleeing back. “Come now, this is what you desired!”
Sam had half a mind to slip her foot from her slipper and throw the shoe at him; however, her soft footwear would not be able to satisfy her desire to maim him.
To make her point known, she stomped down the hallway, her feet making almost no sound, only serving to infuriate her all the more. How dare he suggest she’d agree to be his mistress—a common ladybird, kept caged, wings clipped—however well fed and guarded.
Is this what her sister’s advantageous marriage had gained her? The opportunity to be some lord’s trollop.
She rounded the final corner and stepped into the ballroom through a side door, inching her way along the wall, settling close to a potted fern. She needed a moment to compose herself, to allow her temper to cool and her fury to drain.
Proctor would rue the day he’d met her if he even so much as glanced in her direction again.
Crossing her arms, Sam set her stare on the dancers swirling about the floor. Gowns of every color, hats of every size and style, sparking adornments, and lords and ladies of every age twirled, swayed, and laughed.
Sam attempted each day to find the enjoyment she’d felt before departing for Derbyshire: the thrill of a turn in the park, the allure of a night dancing beneath hundreds of sparkling candles, and delicious meals spent in the company of refined men.
No more did an evening at the Theatre Royal partaking of a performance by Charles Mathews or John Liston make her giddy with excitement and anticipation.
It was difficult to find a companion that sought to discuss any topic more significant than the weather or the latest fashions.
Sam did not care a whit if a hat were adorned with small apples or pears, or whether the bird perched in the décor was a canary or a bluebird.
Whoever thought it sensible to stitch an imitation animal to a headpiece in the first place?
It was made all the more morbid when some of the ton’s matrons boasted that their hat ornamentations had once actually been alive.
Revolting.
A round of giggles drew Sam’s attention farther down the wall from her hiding spot slouched behind the potted fern.
The insipid titters inspired images of a flock of geese, the group of pastel-clad debutantes did nothing to deter her impression of them as they moved in a swarm toward the refreshment table, speaking in pairs and trios about their upcoming dance partners and plans for the remaining season.
Maybe these were her only two choices: join the group of simpering maidens fresh from the schoolroom, or accept a lord’s offer to be his courtesan.
Neither spoke to a particularly attractive future.
Her fiery auburn hair did not suit well with lavender, peach, or powder blue, but ran more to bold colors: midnight blue, Brunswick green, and carmine.
Sam preferred her hair swept high atop her head, her throat and earlobes decorated with rubies or sapphires, not pearls.
She had nothing in common with the latest crop of debutantes.
However, she did not see herself finding kinship with the many mistresses littering the room, either.
Did ladybirds flock together as simpering innocents did? The name certainly implied they did.
Again she wondered how she could have mistaken Proctor’s intentions so completely. He’d done all that a gentleman was supposed to: sent her flowers and gifts, paid social visits to Craven House, invited her for walks in Hyde Park, and placed his name first on her dance card.
Could courting a new mistress be the same as courting a future bride? It was unthinkable to consider the notion.
Appalling!
Sam scanned the ballroom once more, noting an elegantly clad woman hanging on the arm of a pretentious man, holding her fan high to hide her smile as she batted her lashes. A seductive game to be certain.
Another woman, a widow of indeterminable age, coyly pressed her body along the length of a portly, stout man old enough to be her father—and a dated periwig admirer. Sam need keep a close watch on the pairs and note if they departed the ballroom together or left in separate conveyances.
There was only one cause for it all: Lord Ridgefeld.
She’d been perfectly oblivious to the mundane nature of society before he’d stumbled across her in the wilds of Derbyshire. She’d been unaware of how a weak bottom lip could negatively affect a kiss. She’d been unconcerned with how others perceived her. She’d been happy, fulfilled, and content.
Presently, her life held none of those feelings.