Authors: Cathy Maxwell
Samantha could scarcely believe her ears. “Isn’t that like you? I’m trying to have a meaningful discussion, and you want to kiss me! Well, I have no desire to kiss you.”
“You lie.”
“I do not.”
“Don’t dare me.”
“I’m not!” she said firmly.
“Samantha, that was the wrong thing to say.”
One look at the fire in his eyes, and she agreed with him. She turned and started to run, but his hands took hold of her arms. He turned her toward him and his lips came down over hers.
His kiss was brutal, full of anger. And she allowed her own ire to show, matching him stroke for stroke. These weren’t the soft, yearning kisses of before; this was a test of wills.
He broke the kiss off first. “You won’t give quarter, will you?”
Her lips felt bruised and sore, and the beat of her heart pounded in her ears. “Will you?” she challenged.
His eyes softened. “What do you think?” And he bent to kiss her again…except suddenly Samantha knew that she could not withstand an
other onslaught, especially one that wasn’t edged with anger.
She pushed away and ran.
Yale followed her to the door.
“Sam!”
She ignored him, dashing into her room, and pushed the door shut. A second later, he slammed his door.
She picked up a pillow and threw it. And then another, and another. He was arrogant. Stubborn. Selfish!
She heard him stomping around the sitting room.
If he thought she would open this door, he was wrong. Let him be the first one to apologize. She was the injured party.
At one point, she thought she heard his booted steps come to the door. She sat up in bed, her heart in her throat. For a second she could almost picture him on the other side, his hand poised to knock.
But then she heard him walk away. His bedroom door opened and closed. She waited as one frozen, listening. A few minutes later, she heard him pass on his way down the hall.
Samantha caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and barely recognized the white-faced woman with large, sad eyes who stared back at her. At no other time in her life had she felt so confused about her own mind.
Less than a week ago, her world had been simple. Everything had been either wrong or right. Now, she didn’t know what she thought or how
she felt—except for the fact that she loved him.
Hopelessly loved him.
The anger inside her evaporated.
She wished she were made like other women. They could laugh and flirt and hide their feelings. Some of them had had many lovers—but she’d had only the one and knew instinctively there would be no other man for her but Yale.
“Dear Lord,” she prayed, “how does one live with a broken heart?”
Yale clumped out of the house, thoroughly disgusted with everyone inside it.
It had felt good to kiss Samantha. Too good. A man couldn’t think clearly when a woman tasted like that. Of course, this was the first time he’d ever had a woman turn his world upside-down before.
He’d almost begged her forgiveness. For one heart-rending moment, he’d stood in front of her bedroom door prepared to go down on his knees to her.
But then he’d come to his senses. Samantha didn’t love him. She’d told him as much.
Well, he didn’t love her. She was too complicated. There wasn’t a man alive who could understand her. He was tired of trying.
The silly thing was, she’d cared for him more when she’d thought him penniless than she did now that she knew he was a rich man with powerful family connections. Any other woman
would be happy as a cat with fresh cream. But not Sam.
No one had ever dared to question his motives before.
She not only dared—worse, she had been right! He hadn’t thought of the danger of bringing a sick child around his brother’s children.
The woman irritated him beyond reason!
Hailing a hack, he went down to the docks. The
Wind Eagle
sat at her moorings, just as he’d left her before he’d made his ill-fated trip to the North Country. He went into the office of the warehouse owned by his shipping company. The clerks in the office jumped up from their chairs at his appearance. At last he was in a place where people respected him.
He took off his jacket and went to work. His desk was piled with correspondence and his banker was begging an audience. Work always kept his life in perspective.
Women never did.
Samantha couldn’t spend the day moping. She had promised to make a poultice for Alice’s chest and she would do so—even if what she really wanted to do was pack her bag and take the earliest mail coach back to Sproule.
She prepared the poultice and then Emily led her up to the servants’ quarters on the third floor where Alice and Terrance were staying. Since the servants were all occupied with their chores elsewhere in the house, this floor was very quiet.
Samantha excused Emily at the staircase and followed the sound of someone reading. In a small dormer room, close to the back stairs leading down to the kitchen, she found Alice in bed sleeping. Terrance sat quietly on the floor beside her bed, listening to Fenley read a book.
Samantha paused in the doorway, surprised to see the manservant here.
Fenley finished the last words of the story before rising from his chair. “Good morning, my lady. I was entertaining our guests.”
“I see that. Did you enjoy the story?” she asked Terrance.
“Aye, my lady.”
“Terrance knows his letters and is good with numbers,” Fenley said with approval. “I believe that once His Grace hears that, he will think better of the young man. Perhaps we will find a position for him in the duke’s household.”
“Why, that is wonderful,” Samantha said, while Terrance beamed proudly.
“Me mum said she would watch over us from heaven, and it seems as if she has,” Terrance said. “Just when things got so bad I was afraid we’d starve, Lord Yale saved us. He’ll never regret it, my lady. I promise he won’t.”
“I am sure he will not,” Samantha assured him. She sat on the edge of the bed and gently woke Alice to place the poultice on the girl’s chest. Alice rolled right back to sleep.
Samantha felt her forehead.
“Is she going to be fine, my lady?” Terrance asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Samantha said with complete confidence. “Sleep is the best healer, although you are most fortunate Mr. Carderock found you when he did.”
“I know that,” Terrance agreed readily. He paused a moment and then said, “I am sorry we caused so much trouble for his lordship this morning.”
Samantha tucked the covers around Alice’s painfully thin shoulders before saying, “His lordship and the duke are brothers. They argued as brothers do argue.”
Fenley chuckled his agreement.
“Now, take care of your sister and watch her closely,” Samantha told Terrance. “I will have some clear broth sent up and you must make sure Alice drinks all of it.”
“I will,” the boy promised.
“I’ll come back and check on her in an hour or so.”
“Yes, my lady.” Terrance made a clumsy bow, and Samantha smiled at him.
She left the room. Fenley followed her out into the hall.
“I’ll personally see that the broth is sent up from the kitchen, my lady.”
“Thank you, Fenley.” She lightly touched his arm. “It’s nice of you to take an interest in those children.”
“It is no chore at all. I’ve always enjoyed the strays Master Yale brought home.”
Master Yale.
She had not heard Fenley refer to Yale that way. She liked the paternal sound of it.
He started for the back stairs, but Samantha’s voice stopped him.
“What do you mean about Yale bringing home strays?”
The servant turned to her. “Master Yale always came home from school with some poor boy or other who didn’t have anywhere to go…or didn’t want to go where he should. Master Yale had a soft heart when he was a child. It was a characteristic of his I’ve admired. For a while, when he was a young man on the town, I thought he’d lost it. It is good to see that in spite of his being a successful man of business, he has returned to his youthful compassion. I believe a gentleman needs compassion.”
His words struck uncomfortably close to the heart of her worries…
“His Grace said you know all the family secrets.”
Fenley gave a small bow. “I have been privileged to be with the House of Ayleborough for a good many years.”
“Then you probably are aware of the differences my husband had with his father?”
His watery blue eyes watched her carefully now. “They argued often,” he said bluntly. “Master Yale never was one to bow to authority,
whether from his father or the headmaster of whatever school he was attending at the time. The old duke was much like His Grace. Their immediate thoughts and fears are for their own loved ones and the good of the family. Master Yale was always a bit irreverent toward those topics.”
Samantha polished the smooth wood of the stair banister with the palm of her hand, debating a moment before drawing a deep breath and asking, “Why was Yale disinherited?”
Fenley frowned.
“I know it isn’t proper of me to ask. But everyone seems to know except me, and there is no one else to whom I can turn except you.” She placed her hand on his arm. “Yale would only say something flippant, and if I asked the duke, he would huff for me not to worry about it. But I
do
worry. You see, I’ve heard stories, and yet in many ways he doesn’t fit the image of the man in the stories.”
Samantha felt heat rush to her cheeks as she added, “In some ways he does.”
Fenley’s eyes sparkled with silent laughter. “Oh, he always was a rogue with the ladies.”
“I’d heard that Yale was disinherited because of women, but His Grace mentioned that wasn’t true. He said it was because Yale squandered money.”
“Young Master Yale did spend rather freely, but not any more than any other idle son of a rich father.”
“Then what happened?”
Fenley shook his head. “I don’t know if I should tell you. It’s not important anymore.”
“Please. I must know.” She pleaded with him with her eyes. “I want to know.”
“Well, someone should tell you,” he relented. He looked to either side in the hall to ensure they were alone. “You understand, don’t you, my lady, that in families what seems as nothing to an outsider can be very serious to the persons involved?”
Samantha thought of the numerous family disputes her father had been called upon to resolve as vicar. Some of them had been quite petty. “I know what you are saying.”
“Good.” He drew a breath and then said, “In my opinion, the argument between Lord Yale and his father had to do with control. Whether my lord wishes to admit it or not, he is very much like his sire.”
“Is he?” Samantha had not noticed. “My memory of the old duke was of a kind, gentle man.”
“Yes, well, in his younger days, the old duke loved a challenge. He was opinionated and headstrong. No one told him what to do.”
“Much like Yale is now?”
Fenley smiled. “Exactly. Wayland was always more biddable. As the oldest son, he had had it drummed into him what was expected. He was a good student and took his responsibilities seriously, just as his father wished him to. Mean
while, Master Yale had a difficult time in school—I do not mean that he is not intelligent; he is. He’s quicker than a cat on most matters. But he is not studious.”
Samantha shook her head. “I cannot imagine his energy confined to a schoolroom.”
“It was difficult. And once his mother died, he turned into quite a handful. I’ve always believed he felt left out of the family. His brother and sister had the same mother, who was undoubtedly the old duke’s favorite wife. Poor Master Yale was years younger and didn’t even look like the rest of them.”
“I see the family resemblance.”
“But he didn’t,” Fenley reminded her gently. “He was a lonely child even though he was popular and had friends. He was always very handsome, and women had a tendency to mother and make over him. Men gave him the benefit of the doubt. Of course, he was spoiled rotten and became a wild little prankster. You should ask about some of his more outrageous stunts at school. He was sent down from Eton three times before they finally said they didn’t want him back.”
“And the old duke was not happy hearing that.”
“Absolutely not. Although he managed to get Yale into St. John’s College. He lasted less than six months there. Of course, his father didn’t know about it because Master Yale didn’t come home. He hied himself to London, used his fa
ther’s good credit, and set himself up in grand style.”
Samantha laughed at the thought. It sounded like Yale.
“It was funny,” Fenley agreed. “Here he was, a lad of nineteen with his own residence, flank of servants, and memberships to the best clubs. The first bills arrived on the old duke’s desk about the same time as the letter from the chancellor of the college. The duke had me accompany him when he made the trip from Northumberland to London to confront his son. Master Yale had hosted a party the night before. We literally had to kick the empty wine bottles out of our way to walk across the floor. Master Yale was in a drunken stupor.”