Wilhelmina nodded her approval as she studied her reflection in the mirror. She would be damned before she’d be caught in a matronly cap, which any right-minded woman of her age would don, and preferred to flaunt stylish coiffures instead. Not too youthful-there was nothing worse than a woman of a certain age trying to look like an ingénue-but fashionable and perhaps a bit dashing. Is that what Sam saw when he looked at her? An older woman with a bit of dash? Or an aging shell of the girl he’d once known?
“Shall I bring the jewel box?” Marsh asked, eyeing the deep neckline.
“Yes, please. The cameo necklace and earrings, I think.”
“Are you certain, Your Grace?”
Wilhelmina sighed. Marsh was right. She was trying too hard to impress Sam. “No, I suppose not. Something simpler.” She opted for a gold lyre-shaped pendant set with seed pearls, on a delicate gold chain, and plain gold hoop earrings.
She was ready. Or was she? Would she ever be ready to face his judgment of her? To stand before him without shame?
How foolish. Shame had never been a part of her nature. She had long ago ceased to regret the life she’d chosen. There was no going back, no reclaiming of innocence or virtue, and to lament the impossible seemed a pointless waste of time. But on each occasion she’d seen Sam over the years, she’d experienced momentary pangs of uncharacteristic regret. If only she’d known he was alive, if only she had received his letters, if only…if only…
But this time was different. Hertford had made her his duchess and given her back a modicum of respectability. Some high sticklers would never accept her completely; some doors would always be closed to her. But her rank and fortune opened most doors, and in a few of them she’d found good friends whose unwavering support and love had opened even more doors. When she’d married Hertford, Wilhelmina had determined to cast off her old life entirely, to become an asset to the duke rather than an embarrassment. For the seven years of her marriage and the four years of her widowhood, Wilhelmina had become as close to a pillar of society as was possible for a former courtesan. There was no need for shame and regret when facing Sam. She was able to face him proudly, finally, after all those years.
Wilhelmina glanced out the window as she left the bedchamber. The rain had not let up. It looked as though the storm would last a while longer. Which meant she might have an entire afternoon with Sam.
She could not decide if the fluttering in her belly was anxiety or anticipation. Or just the idiotic girlish reaction she had whenever Sam Pellow, however briefly, walked back into her life again.
Chapter Two
Sam was glad he had not ordered tea right away because, as he ought to have expected, the duchess had not yet returned after half an hour. He’d spent the greater part of his years living in close quarters with men, and sometimes forgot how long it took a lady to “shake off the dust of the road.” It was one of those things about women that tested the patience of many men, but that Sam always found rather endearing. He liked the idea that ladies always wanted to look their best. But today it only gave him more time to ponder this unexpected encounter. He was encouraged by their brief exchange, which had been neither awkward nor strained. She had been perfectly open and friendly; none of her protective hackles were up, as they sometimes had been in the past. But those hackles had always been thrown up in defense of his own undisguised disdain. It had taken many years for Sam not to feel betrayed by her decision to lead such an infamous life. Discovering what had become of Willie had changed his own life forever. He no longer harbored romantic illusions of any kind where women were concerned. Willie had cured him of that weakness. Or so he’d always thought, until he found himself in London seeking her out. Not once, but twice. It had been a fool’s errand each time, but he’d never been rational where Willie was concerned.
By the time he’d come to terms with the fact that she had only done what she could to survive after her shrew of a mother had tossed her out on her ear, it was too late to effect the sort of reconciliation he’d wanted. She had married and become a grand lady, a duchess.
She was widowed now, though. That piece of news had been something of a jolt. This serendipitous meeting at an old country inn might have been an opportunity for that reunion he’d once dreamed about. Except that Sam’s destination, once the storm passed and he was back on the road, put a damper on the various wild fantasies that had been spinning around in his head.
No, today it would simply be two old friends who hadn’t met for years, catching up with each other’s lives. He would enjoy that. And when they’d grown easy in their conversation, perhaps she would allow him to apologize for his past behavior, for judging her so harshly.
A lull in the noise and general conversation in the room allowed Sam to hear bustling in the entry hall. When he saw the duchess through the doorway, escorted by Grissom, the innkeeper, he signaled to one of the serving maids to bring the pot of tea he’d ordered. He rose as she crossed the room, and drank in the sight of her as she approached the alcove.
By all rights, a woman of her age should not look so appealing, and yet a brief surge of sexual desire crested and broke like a wave inside him. It was pure stupidity, of course. They were both too old for such nonsense. His only excuse was that he had been without a woman for too long.
But damn it all, she looked good. Without the bonnet, it was easier to study her. Willie’s face still held much of the beauty she’d had at sixteen. Good bones, he supposed. She would always have classic good looks, he imagined, even in her eighties. Her hair was still blond but more honey-gold than the bright guinea-gold of her youth. Were there silver strands among the gold? He couldn’t see any, but she was only two years his junior, and he had more silver in his hair than he’d like.
But it was the way she moved that stirred his loins. A sort of feline grace that drew all eyes to her as she crossed the public room. The skirts of her white dress flowed elegantly as she walked, hinting at the curve of thigh and hip beneath, and the bodice dipped into a deep vee that revealed a tantalizing glimpse of bosom. Even at her age she radiated an irresistible sensuality. Was it a performance, well practiced, or had it always been there, drawing him from the start, all those years ago?
“Duchess,” he said as he held out a hand to her.
“Thank you, Sam.” She took his hand and allowed him to guide her up the two steps to the alcove. When she was seated, she looked up at him and smiled. “I am sorry to have been so long. You have no idea how complicated a process it can be for ladies to dress, even with help.”
“It was worth the wait,” he said as he took the seat across from her. “You look beautiful.”
She chuckled. “Sam! You have become a flatterer.”
He smiled and shrugged, a bit embarrassed that he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He was saved from responding by the arrival of no less than Mrs. Grissom with a pot of tea and a serving girl with a tray of crusty bread and butter and jam. The tea service was obviously her best china-not the heavy blue and white dishes that lined the old deal dressers flanking the fireplace, but delicately thin-walled pieces such as Sam had brought his wife from the East Indies.
“Here you are, Your Grace, a nice pot of my best Bohea. And more ale for you, Cap’n.” Mrs. Grissom and the girl unloaded their trays and arranged everything on the table just so, as if they were in the finest restaurant in London instead of the old Blue Boar in Upper Hampden. “The bread’s fresh baked, and there’s good local butter and my own blackberry jam. If there’s anything else you need, you just ask Lizzie here to fetch it for you.”
The duchess offered effusive thanks and the innkeeper’s wife beamed, bobbed several curtsies, then tugged the girl Lizzie with her as she left them. While Willie set about preparing the tea, Sam marveled at how easily she wore the mantle of her high rank. She truly was a duchess, every inch of her. The blacksmith’s daughter had done very well for herself.