Chapter 31
Sam allowed the tears to fall as her carriage hurried toward home, her weeping masked from Mr. Curtis by the sound of the wheels.
Every part of her threatened to fragment into tiny pieces and scatter in the wind, but she’d made it to safety, and in the privacy of her darkened coach, did not have to worry about hiding her suffering.
Her weeping turned to gut-wrenching sobs as she pulled her legs up against her chest on the bench and did her best to disappear into the oblivion of her wrap.
The heavy black garment was certain to be the only thing remaining when the carriage arrived at Craven House.
She snuffled into her cloak.
The mask, handmade that afternoon to perfectly match her gown, lay forgotten on the seat next to her. How had she ever thought attaching herself to Elijah would be wise?
Sam grasped the loose fabric of the seat and wrenched until her fingers ached from the pressure.
Their outings—the boxing club, the phaeton race outside of Hyde Park, and tonight, gambling—were all things no proper lady would do. They were exactly the activities a man did with his mistress. So why did it hurt her so when another accused her of being nothing better than a courtesan?
Had that not been the game she’d planned all along? There was no one to blame but herself—and her inability to keep her affection for Elijah a secret. Truly, she’d never meant to care for him, only punish him.
Why had she treated Elijah so horribly for protecting her honor—her reputation—from being sullied? He was kind, he was loyal, and he had a tender for her.
Sam had never expected to see the man again. Worse yet, to learn he traveled to London for her and her alone. He’d left Hollybrooke without a single thought about her feelings or the injury his dismissal of their new association might cause.
Sam wiped a tear from her cheek as it blazed a path down her face. A tousled curl hung across her forehead, and Sam hastily reset her hairpin to return it to its place.
In truth, Elijah had been far more to her than a mere distraction from the moment he happened upon her in the gathering storm. She didn’t want him to be anymore. She wanted his attention…but any mention of affection would only serve to hurt her more when he removed himself from her life.
Elijah had admitted he cared for her and that he intended courtship.
Had he only said those things because of Viggo’s insistent flirtation at the card table?
Viggo…something about the man’s voice, his looks, and his persistence reminded her of someone. His indecent comments had indeed alarmed her, making her all the more grateful for Elijah’s presence.
She’d been the one to act excessively. Why push Elijah away when she longed for him: his tender touch, his caressing words, and his passionate kiss.
Worse still, she’d said the most horrid things, utterances sure to guarantee he never wanted to see her again.
The lump in her throat blocked her sob of remorse.
Salted tears streamed down her face, falling to the delicate silk of her gown. The material was ruined, but Sam continued to let her anguish out, unconcerned with the state of her expensive frock.
All too soon, her carriage slowed, and Mr. Curtis climbed down to open the door.
She brushed the tears from her cheeks, though there was no helping her disheveled appearance.
Her face was certainly splotchy with upset, and her eyes surely must be a red to match her hair hidden under her cap.
But the hour was late, and with any luck—not that her luck had been stellar of late—she could slip into the house and up to her room without anyone the wiser.
The darkness would hide her appearance from Mr. Curtis well enough, the elderly manservant’s sight having been compromised by age years ago.
“Will you be need’n anything else, miss?” he asked when she accepted his offered hand.
“No, thank you.”
“Ye have a good slumber, Miss Samantha.” He kept his gaze on the ground as she fled toward the door.
Mr. Curtis had been with Craven House long before Sam and Jude were born, having fled with their mother—Madame Sasha—when she, Marce, and Garrett were thrown from their home after Marce and Garrett’s father, Lord Buckston, had passed away.
Curtis was a kind and compassionate man, never overstepping his role among the houseful of women, but keeping a close eye on her and her siblings.
“And you, as well,” she called over her shoulder when she paused before opening the front door. “Thank you.”
She didn’t wait to see the man’s questioning look regarding what she was offering him thanks for, but pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth and security of her home.
A place Marce did all in her power to keep for their family.
A place Garrett hadn’t resided in years.
A place Jude had sought to escape. A place where Payton was free to hone her skills at cards.
And a place where Sam would likely remain all her days.
Her father had abandoned her, as had her mother to death, and Jude to marriage.
Those who should love her above all else.
She did not deserve Elijah’s kindness after the horrible things she’d said to him, especially knowing he’d lived a similar life to her own. His mother abandoning him, and his father and grandfather succumbing to death.
His isolation was far more startling than hers.
Her lip quivered, and she sensed another sob rising from her chest.
She pushed herself toward the stairs, knowing she could not keep her cries at bay for long.
“Where have you been?” Marce asked, her candle held high to illuminate her face as she traveled down the staircase, Garrett only a few steps behind her. “We have been worried half to death.”
“You should not be concerned with me,” Sam retorted, her tone harsher than she’d intended. Her siblings fretted over her—two of the few still around to care anyway. “I am home…and unscathed.”
Partly unscathed, she longed to add. Though they could not see her wound, for it resided inside, certain to fester with no possibility of healing.
Garrett pushed past Marce to stand on the landing above Sam. “Bloody hell!” He threw his hands wide. “You think you are unscathed?”
“What is your interest in my whereabouts, Garrett? You have never bothered with much more than a simple greeting or hurtful tease.” It was another thing she resented, though she hadn’t fully understood that until now.
Her only brother was close to Jude, and, of course, Marce, but he rarely paid any mind to Sam or Payton.
“I do not answer to you. You are neither my father nor my guardian.”
His eyes narrowed with the insult, and a jolt of remorse at her cruel words coursed through her.
“Let us take this to my office before we wake the household.” Marce’s petite frame floated past both her siblings to the foyer and then toward the room she used as their household office.
Sam and Garrett followed obediently in her wake.
“Now, where were you all evening?” Marce asked once more when Garrett closed the door behind the trio.
Marce walked to her desk before setting down her light and turning to face Sam.
Her expression was serene, as usual, but her lips were compressed, the only sign she was upset—possibly even furious.
Opposite of her eldest sibling’s settled nature, Garrett strode purposefully across the room to the far bank of windows and back again, his agitation obvious.
Sam’s unease grew at their reversed roles. Garrett was normally the blasé brother who took no interest in her, while Marce’s disciplinary standards matched that of a taskmaster.
“I attended a private card game.”
“A gambling party?”
“I wore a disguise, so it is doubtful anyone recognized me.” She held up her gold and silver mask. “I was not careless.”
“If you are worried about someone recognizing you, then it was obviously a place a proper lady should not be.” Marce raised a brow in question. “Who hosted this party?”
Sam thought about lying but knew Marce would see through her deceit. “I am unsure. No names were given, but the house is on Saint George Street in Hanover Square.”
“Saint George, you say?” Garrett stopped pacing and spun to face her.
“Oh, bloody hell, it was Damon, Lord Ashford’s card party.
How did you hear of the gathering? Whom did you attend with?
” He didn’t slow his questions long enough for Sam to answer, not that she wanted to answer his questions at all.
“A woman can only gain entrance if they are escorted by a man of good standing.”
She could not admit she’d heard of the party from Payton. Could she?
They had never been close, Payton being younger than she and Jude and therefore an outsider. Did she owe the girl any loyalty?
Certainly, their blood tie required Sam not speak her name. “Lord Ridgefeld was kind enough to escort me.” There it was. Her sibling would have no objection to Elijah; he was known to Cart, a patron of the museum, and a nobleman.
Garrett threw his arms in the air and swung his head toward Marce. “Did I not inform you of the man’s intentions?” he snarled.
Did they know Elijah sought to court her with marriage in mind? Was it possible he’d already spoken with Cart and Garrett about his intentions? “What do you know of Elijah’s intentions?” Sam demanded, settling her hands on her hips.
“Oh, so you do not deny it?” her brother countered. “…and it is Elijah now?”
“I do not know what I should be denying!”
“Hush!” Marce’s fingertips massaged her forehead, and Sam noted for the first time that her sister was gowned in an ethereal, billowy, white nightshift, her equally white robe thrown over, the sash untied as if she’d been awakened suddenly.
Even her normally expertly styled hair hung haphazardly in one long plait over her shoulder.
“The pair of you are giving me a headache.”
Garrett threw himself face down on the low chaise lounge with an exaggerated sigh.