"You're especially charming when you blush," Anders's teeth gleamed.
"My lord—"
"Stephen."
"Stephen." Sammy wondered where all this was leading. She could tell by the envious glances being cast her way that most women would swoon with pleasure over the attention she was receiving from the handsome viscount. Unfortunately, he left her cold. But then, he wasn't her hero.
The sound of tinkling laughter caught Sammy's ear, and she glanced over in time to see Rem touch Lady Sheltane's arm in an obviously intimate gesture. She had an excellent notion where that was leading.
"Who is Lady Sheltane, my lor—Stephen," Sammy corrected herself. "Her name sounds familiar."
"It must. Do you recall last Season when the elderly Marquis of Sheltane's magnificent thoroughbred stunned the entire ton by sweeping Newmarket?" "Oh!" Sammy's eyes widened. "Is Lady Sheltane related to the marquis? His granddaughter... no, then her title would be ..."
"His wife."
"His wife?" Sammy's head jerked around, and she stared openly at the beautiful flaxen-haired woman of whom they spoke. "Why, she can't be older than five and twenty!"
"True. And Lord Sheltane is nearing sixty—and exceedingly rich."
"I don't doubt it. Where is the marquis?"
"Home . . . ailing."
"And she—" Sammy's mouth snapped shut.
"Yes." Anders whirled Samantha about the room. "You are refreshingly naive, my dear. A rarity, to say the least."
Sweetheart, let me give you some advice. . .
Sammy could hear Rem's voice as clearly as if he were speaking the words aloud. You're about to embark on your first Season. Dozens of men will be attempting to win your hand. . . and anything else they can acquire in the process. I would suggest you temper your sincerity just a bit. If you bare your heart before the entire ton, you'll have no protection from the unscrupulous blackguards of the world. "I suppose I am, Stephen," she replied, unwilling to explain that, in this case, naiveté had nothing to do with it. She'd witnessed more than her share of infidelity in her lifetime . . . but her hero?
The strings fell silent, and Sammy stepped away from Anders. "Will you excuse me, please?"
"Of course." He bowed.
Sammy gathered her skirts and made her way through the crowd, uncertain precisely where she was going, only knowing that she needed to get away.
She collided head-on with the instigator of her flight.
"Samantha?" Rem caught her elbows to steady her. "Why are you fleeing through Almack's like a bandit?"
"I— That is . . ." It was too much. Despite her best efforts to regain control, Samantha felt tears well up in her eyes.
"Are you all right?"
Miserably, Sammy shook her head. "I apologize for walking into you. . . . I'm not feeling well. If you'll allow me to go ..." She made one futile attempt to pass.
Rem didn't release her. "Has someone said something; done something?"
"No!" she snapped. "Fear not—my honor is intact, Lord Gresham. I just wish to leave."
"I'll take you home."
"And interrupt your intimate evening? I wouldn't hear of it!" Were those biting words really coming from her?
Rein's dimple flashed. "My intimate evening?"
"There you are, Rem." Lady Sheltane breezed over, gifting him with a tantalizing smile. Simultaneously, her frosty blue eyes appraised Samantha. "I don't believe I've met your little friend."