Page 74 of The Scot Beds His Wife
She gasped, but didn’t move, her sightless eyes round as jade tea saucers.
Samantha enjoyed the look of pleasure on his face so intensely, that she couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Mr. Monahan, if Alice is downstairs, would you very much mind escorting my mother-in-law down to her?”
“Oh no!” Eleanor surged to her feet. “That is, I couldn’t impose upon Mr. Monahan’s precious time.”
“I would be delighted.” Eammon recovered his wits faster than she’d thought he would after such a shock.
“As he said, Mother, that’s a lot of stairs,” Samantha reasoned innocently. “And it’s been so long since I’ve eaten… maybe you could ask the kitchen to send me something to settle my stomach?”
“Yes, but—I could wait for…” Eleanor folded her hands in front of her, and Samantha didn’t miss that she covered the hand that had been kissed with the other, not as though to scrub the kiss away, but to protect it.
Eammon took her delicate hand once more, and tucked it into the crook of his arm, gallant as any lordly gentleman, even in his workshirt and vest. “Haven’t you waited long enough?”
It was Eleanor’s turn to audibly swallow, but after a breathless moment, she took her first hesitant step forward, the long-legged Eammon allowing her to lead the way.
“Thank you, Mr. Monahan, for everything,” Samantha called.
Eammon looked back at her from the doorway, regarding her as though she’d worked a miracle. “Thankyou,” he said softly.
Samantha settled back into pillows soft as down clouds and breathed in the scent of the man to whom they belonged as she listened to the couple make their way down the echoing halls of Inverthorne.
“Tell me, Mr. Monahan, was Great Scot’s foal as dark a gold as he is?” the dowager asked, politeness overtaking her terror.
“That’s just it, my lady,” came the husky, delighted reply. “He’s more white than gold, but for a bit at the mane and tail.”
“Which is why they named him Ghost?”
“Aye, you have the right of it.”
“I believe I like that name…” Their voices faded with distance.
Samantha looked around her, at the chamber in which the legendary Earl of Thorne took his legions of lovers to this very bed. It was different than she’d suspected it would be. No silks or velvets or draperies done in lascivious colors.
His chamber was a testament to a restless, masculine hunter. Furs stretched beneath the chair by the fire in place of a carpet. Various landscape tapestries insulated what would have been cold stone walls. Strange and foreign figurines, sculptures, and sketches littered the surfaces of very simple but finely crafted furniture. From Africa, she wondered, or India, perhaps?
She couldn’t believe Gavin St. James slept here. She’d expected something fit for Casanova or King Louis XIV or some other famous libertine.
Inverthorne was very different than she’d been led to believe.
Much like its lord.
Sure, he was a selfish opportunist. A charming schemer. An enterprising rake. A beautiful fallen angel. But he was also just a man. A man with a family who loved him.
A man with a broken heart.
CHAPTERSIXTEEN
Samantha should have known the moment she’d woken the next morning to the rain, that her wedding would be a disaster. Wasn’t it supposed to be a bad omen to have rain on one’s wedding day?
Of course, it had been relentlessly sunny when she’d signed papers and spoken vows with Bennett, so there went the omen theory. Maybe the curse belonged to her, and had nothing at all to do with the weather.
Certainly seemed more likely.
Upon waking, she was again examined by Eammon, who announced her on the mend and had left her a cane should she attempt to walk. Immediately, she had left to seek out a washroom and toss the contents of her stomach into that, like proper folk.
She found that the cane worked passably well. In fact, she’d been able to hobble back to her breakfast tray and keep down a slice of toast spread with Devonshire cream and preserves, drink an entire pot of scalding tea,and clean her teeth before collapsing into a chair with exhaustion.
God, but she was glad there was no long walk up the aisle; she probably wouldn’t make it.
