“I’m sorry, Willie. I should not have asked. It is none of my business. Let us talk of other things. Tell me about this charity you’re so involved with.”
Uneasiness showed in the tightening of her jaw and the nervous fidgeting of her hands. She held her mouth in a grim line for a long, uncomfortably silent moment, and then, in a voice barely above a whisper, said, “I had a child, once.”
Ah, Willie. Had?
“But she was born early and did not live even an hour.”
“I’m so sorry, Willie.”
“I named her Samantha.”
He suddenly felt the blood drain from his face, and his throat went dry. “Samantha?” he choked.
“After her father.”
He buckled, as though punched in the stomach, and a sound like a wail poured out of him. “Noooooo. Oh no, Willie, my love. It was our child?”
She nodded.
“Oh God.” He wrapped his arms around his waist as though to hold in the pain. “That’s why you left Porthruan, isn’t it? That’s why your mother chucked you out of her house? Because you were pregnant with my child.”
She nodded again.
He grabbed her roughly into his arms, buried his face against her neck, and held her tight. For several long moments, they each gave in to pain and grief-silent, sorrowful, heartbreaking grief for a child whose death they ought to have mourned together twenty-four years ago.
And Sam grieved for more than the loss of a child. Against the smooth skin of her neck, he muttered, “It pains me that you went through all that alone, Willie. I wish more than anything that I had been with you, that I could have shared the burden of grief with you.”
“I wanted that baby so much,” she whispered, “for it was all I would ever have of you. To lose her so soon after losing you was almost more than I could bear.”
“And because you had lain with me, because I made you with child, you were thrown out into the world without resources. Ah, Willie. No wonder you took the course you did.”
She lifted her head from his shoulder and backed away slightly so that he had to loosen his arms. But he did not let go. He wasn’t ready to let her go.
“Do not blame yourself for my scandalous career, Sam. It was my choice to become a demirep. When I recovered-it was a difficult, premature birth that might have killed me if I hadn’t been so young and healthy-I clung to James as the only friend I had in the world. He had been kind to me, extraordinarily kind, and I repaid him by becoming his mistress. There was no turning back after that.”
“But you would never have been forced to make that choice if I hadn’t seduced you in that damned hayloft.”
“It was a mutual seduction, as I recall. I was a very willing participant.” She smiled up at him, and though a trace of sadness still colored her eyes, she gave him a look that spoke of something else altogether. Attraction. Seduction. Invitation? Was she signaling that she would be a willing participant again? Or was that merely wishful thinking on his part? Perhaps it was just the moonlight.
“Besides,” she said, “I probably would have run off in time, away from Porthruan and Mama. I was miserable there. I count myself lucky that I found a protector in James. If I’d gone off on my own, I’d likely had landed in the stews and been even more miserable. As it was, I fell into a life of affluence and luxury.”
She wriggled out of his embrace but allowed him to keep an arm around her shoulders. They sat in silence for a while, Sam lost in his thoughts of young Willie being cast out and then losing the baby, of his role in her downfall. Yet he had to agree with her that things might have been worse. He ought to thank that damned artist for making sure she did not land in the streets. And she had certainly led an interesting life.
“Were you happy?” he asked.
“Most of the time. Were you happy at sea?”
“Most of the time. I certainly grew to love it. But at first I was merely frantic to get back to you. But the Calliope-the ship where the press gang took me-set sail the next morning for the West Indies and there was nothing for it but to hope to get a letter to you at the first port.”
Her head dropped onto his shoulder. “What a time that was, the two of us pining after each other in our different ways. At least I was in a world I knew. You were thrust into something relatively unknown. It must have been horrid.”
“In those early days, I used to be frightened to death when the guns were run out and we rammed their charges. That’s when I’d think of dying and never seeing you again. And many a night I’d be standing watch up in the foretop roost, freezing my jiggers off, and the only thing that kept me warm was thinking of you and me curled up in that hayloft like two inkle weavers.”
Sam ran his hand up and down her arm, tucking her close, thinking again of that hayloft. “But he was good to you? Benedict? He treated you well?”
“Yes, while I was with him he treated me with great kindness and affection.”
“Do you still see him?”
“Occasionally, but not often. He used to be a fixture at my salons. And even all these years later, we are still linked in many minds because of those early allegorical paintings.”
“His work is very different now, I think.”
“Yes, though he is still sought out for portraits. Hertford loved James Benedict’s work and was mad for the Muses. More for the model than the art, I always thought. He was determined to own all nine paintings, and went to great expense tracking them down and convincing the owners to sell them. He only managed to obtain seven of them. The Prince Regent refused to part with Erato. And he never could locate the owner of Terpsichore. I was sorry for that, because I’d always liked that one best.”
“So did I.”
Willie leaned away and looked up at him. “You saw it?”
“I bought it.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “You? You are the elusive owner of Terpsichore?”
He nodded, grinning. “I bought it shortly after I saw you when I returned to England for the first time. Your mother had told me about the artist you’d run off with, but she didn’t know, or wouldn’t reveal, his name. But it was easy enough to learn his identity, especially when inquiring after his famous model. I was angry at you and heartsore, determined to carry on without you. But I was hell-bent to see those paintings. Benedict still had most of them, and was pleased to display them for me. They held me spellbound, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Terpsichore, with the movement of the drapery and the way you held the lyre. I fell in love with it. We negotiated a price, and I spent every remaining shilling of my prize money on that painting. I carried it from ship to ship, until I finally bought the house in Sussex, where even now it hangs in the drawing room. Poor Sarah never knew why I loved that painting so much, and I never told her, although it is clearly the work of a master. You see, I never forgot you, either, Willie.”
She reached up and stroked his cheek. “What a pair we are, two old fools still carrying our youthful torches. My navy lists and your painting.”
He wrapped his arms around her again and said, “Maybe it’s time we let those torches burn again.” He smiled into her eyes, bent his head, and kissed her.
Chapter Five
Instinctively, she melted into his arms-arms still familiar even after all those years-and ignored the small voice in her head warning her that, despite how much she wanted it, she was making an enormous mistake to give in to her desire for Sam. He would never truly be able to forget or forgive her shady past, which would only lead to pain for both of them. But she silenced the traitorous voice and allowed the kiss to deepen. For just this moment, this single moment, she wanted him with a yearning deeper and more powerful than she’d ever known. Because this was Sam. Her first love.