Samantha (Barrett 2)

1

London, England

March 1815

In walked the man of her dreams.

Samantha stared, transfixed, as the vision stepped directly from the pages of her latest Gothic romance into the noisy, smoke-filled tavern.

He had arrived ... her long-awaited hero.

It mattered not that he was a total stranger to her, nor that he patronized so seedy an establishment as this, nor that he pointedly displayed an ominous-looking knife handle from the top of one muddied Hessian boot. All that mattered was his towering height, his thick black hair, his uncompromising jaw, his piercing gray eyes. And that dimple ... it was just where she'd always known it would be; in his left cheek. It flashed briefly as he nodded a greeting to someone, then vanished into the taut lines of his face.

Yes, it was irrefutably he—the hero of all her fantasies.

Breathless and eager, Samantha watched as he carelessly swung off his greatcoat, shaking rivulets of rain from it with swift, purposeful strokes. Simultaneously, he surveyed the room, his cool gaze taking in the shoddy furnishings and seedy occupants in one enveloping glance.

He moved forward, commanding and sure, coming closer to where Sammy sat—close enough so she could see the drops of water glistening in his hair, causing the ends to curl a bit at the nape. He seemed to be looking for someone.

Instead, he found her.

His dark brows rose, not with instantaneous, adoring surrender, but with decided, disapproving surprise.

Without hesitating, Sammy flashed him a smile, drinking in his splendid, chiseled features and exciting, leashed power. He was just as she had imagined him—no, better.

Her heart tightened in her chest as he approached her.

"What despicable cad deserted you here, little one?"

"Pardon me?" Sammy blinked in confusion.

With apparent disgust, her hero scanned the room. "You needn't feel ashamed. Just tell me what unscrupulous blackguard accompanied you to such a place, then abandoned you."

"Oh, nothing like that, sir." Sammy assured him brightly. "Actually, it was I who spotted this establishment from my carriage window and chose to stop here. Given the circumstances, it seemed the best place. . . ."

"The best place ... to what?" He looked censuring now, his gray eyes chilling, stormier than the skies that heralded tonight's downpour. "Is this your idea of an evening adventure? If so, you've either lost your way or your mind! Tell me, have you looked about you? I seriously doubt that you have, else you would have bolted. And, thankfully, it seems that these low-lifes have yet to spot you as prey. Had they done so, I assure you that your elegant gown would have long since been tossed up over your foolish, beautiful head!"

Sammy sucked in her breath. This wasn't at all the way she'd envisioned their first meeting.

Following her hero's icy, pointed gaze, she surveyed the dimly lit tavern, trying to see what was upsetting him so. True, the tables were a bit shabby, even broken in spots, and the pungent smell of gin—mixed with some other, unrecognizable foul odor—permeated the room. And, she had to admit, the occupants of the tavern did need to shave ... as well as to bathe. Still, they'd shown no signs of harming or even approaching her, so why was her hero hinting at violence?

"I don't know what you mean, sir," she confessed, bewildered. "Despite their rather coarse attire and unpolished manners, the gentlemen here have made no improper advances toward me. They are merely enjoying their spirits and each other's company."

The stranger gaped in utter disbelief. "Gentlemen?" he managed. Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a muffled hiss. "Sheltered innocent, what you see are pickpockets, highwaymen, and drunks . . . and an occasional murderer or two." He straightened, e

mphatic and fierce. "This is Boydry's—as unsavory a pub as they come—not the bloody Clarendon Hotel!"

"Really?" Samantha was finding it very difficult to share the intensity of his tirade. She was too busy drowning in the hypnotic spell of his towering presence. And, after all, he was only trying to protect her—the foremost duty of a true hero.

"If such is the case, then why are you here?" she asked, half tempted to stroke the hard, uncompromising line of his jaw. "You don't appear unsavory to me."

His dimple flickered in response. "Don't I? That is only because you don't know me."

"No ... but I'd like to."

He blinked. "You'd like to____"

"Oh yes. Don't you see?" Sammy leaned forward, making an animated sweep with her hands. "It's as if Mrs. Radcliffe had penned it; a young woman alone . . . darkness . . . danger." A pause. "Of course I would have preferred a castle turret to a tavern"—she gave a philosophical shrug— "nevertheless, you've arrived ... and you're exactly as I pictured you."

"You have lost your mind," he muttered.

"My lady, it's no use."

A portly gentleman with a stricken expression interrupted them. Hastening over, he mopped sheets of rain from his saturated face with a neatly folded, if soggy, handkerchief.

"I've tried to hail a half-dozen carriages. None of their drivers can even see me through this downpour. We shall have to wait until the rain relents. Our only other choice is for me to make my way farther into Town to seek help, and I refuse to leave you alone in"—he scanned the rear of the tavern and shuddered—"this place." Abruptly, he tensed, evidently becoming aware that they were not alone. With great dignity he turned to cast a disparaging look at the man standing beside Samantha, a look that transformed into reserved politeness as recognition dawned on his weathered face. "Well . . . good evening, my lord."

The stranger inclined his head in surprise. "Smithers! What on earth are you doing at Boydry's? In fact, why have you even ventured from Allonshire on a night like tonight?"

"We are on our way to the Barrett's London Town house," the older man replied tersely. "It was barely drizzling when we departed from Allonshire. A quarter hour later, the heavens opened up. As bad luck would have it, one of our carriage wheels broke. We had no choice but to seek shelter—and assistance—at the nearest sanctuary; which, unfortunately, happened to be here."

"We?" The handsome stranger glanced expectantly toward the doorway. "Is the duke with you, then?"

"No, my lord. His Grace is at home with the duchess. The birth of their second child is imminent . . . hardly a time to travel. He has entrusted Lady Samantha into my care."

"Lady Samantha." Startled gray eyes darted back to Sammy, a warm golden light melting the chill from their frosty depths. "This is little Samantha? What happened to the tot with chocolate on her chin?"

Samantha blushed. "She grew up," she returned quickly, shifting in her seat. Taken aback by this unexpected turn of events, Sammy forced herself to regain control. "Smitty . . ." She turned to her uneasy companion. "I'm ready for a proper introduction."

"Lady Samantha, permit me to introduce the Earl of Gresham." Smitty's tone clearly indicated that introducing the earl to Samantha was about as desirable as emptying a chamber pot. "You were little more than a babe when last you met—far too young to recall your casual acquaintance."