Including Miss Ionides, if he didn't miss his guess.
Rising from his chair, he walked to the bellpull and rang for a servant. He needed a bath.
His butler walked into his bedroom a second later, not in response to his summons-with a message instead.
"There's someone to see you, sir."
Owens's tone was such that Sam's gaze turned wary. "Who?"
"Your mother, my lord."
"At this damned hour?" Already bad-tempered and moody after his dissatisfying night, the last person Sam cared to see was his mother. "Does she know I'm home?"
"She saw your hat and gloves on the console table."
The viscount swore. "I don't suppose you could tell her I was sleeping?"
"She ordered me to wake you, sir."
The viscount swore again. "Don't send her up." His voice was brusque. "I'll come down."
"She's in the breakfast room, sir, having her breakfast."
"While she's ruined mine," Sam said.
The butler glanced at the glass of cognac the viscount held in his hand, his expression bland. "A shame, sir, but she wouldn't be deterred."
"Is she ever?"
It wasn't a question that required an answer, or certainly not one by a servant.
"Tell her I'll be down in ten minutes," Sam said curtly.
When the viscount entered the breakfast room a half hour later, bathed, dressed, and more tranquil for the three additional drinks he had imbibed, he was able to say "Good morning, Mother" with a modicum of courtesy.
"Your chef burned my toast," his mother noted irritably.
"I'll have him fired on the spot."
"I see your caustic sense of humor is undiminished."
"You're up early," he replied, not about to trade insults. He and his parents agreed on very little; they saw each other less. And if his mother was calling on him at what was for her the crack of dawn, she brought trouble for certain. He remained standing.
"I came to remind you of our dinner party tonight."
"I'm sorry. Did my secretary send an acceptance?"
"Of course he didn't, and that's why I'm here. Clarissa Thornton will be there with her parents, and I wish you to attend. The earl and countess always ask for you, and their land borders our Yorkshire estates."
"And their daughter is angling for a husband."
"You needn't be so crass, Samuel. Is it a crime for a beautiful young woman to wish to marry well?"
"Just so long as it's not to me."
"The Thornton family goes back well before the Norman invasion. Their bloodlines are as pure as ours. No taint of industry stains their heritage, nor does the stench of new money-"
"You may stop, Mother. I've heard the lecture a thousand times more than I wish, and the taint of industry or new money doesn't concern me. Nor does Clarissa Thornton." His smile was tight in spite of the fact that he was well sedated with cognac. "Is that clear enough?"
The Countess of Milburn sat up straighter, her blue gaze cool. "I told your father you would be obstinate as usual."
"You should have listened to him and saved yourself a trip to Park Lane so early in the morning."
"Your marriage to Penelope has left you bitter."
"Your persistent efforts to marry me off then and now have left me bitter, Mother. Kindly stop interfering in my life. Penelope was a disastrous mistake I have no intention of repeating."
"You shouldn't have been so cruel to her, and she would have been perfectly content."
A tick appeared high on his cheekbone and he restrained his temper with difficulty. "In the interests of peace in the family-however strained-let's not discuss Penelope. You know nothing about the matter."
"I know perfectly well what her mother told me. You treated her abominably."
"No, I did not," he said, his voice taut.
"She loved you to distraction."
"No, she did not." The tick was more pronounced.
"You don't know how to treat a woman with respect."
He was doing his damnedest just then. "I have an appointment, Mother. If you'll excuse me. Owens will bring you fresh toast if you wish."
"I don't wish fresh toast. I wish you to come to dinner tonight."
"I'm sorry, Mother. It's impossible."
"Have you no thought of an heir," she inquired heatedly, her eyes snapping with irritation, her slender shoulders quivering ever so slightly with her indignation.
"Marcus has sons."
"The Lennoxes have always inherited by direct bloodlines."
"Then maybe it's time for a change. Good day, Mother." And he walked from the room before he said something inexcusable.
His temper must have been evident on his face, for the servants moved out of his way as he stalked down the corridor. Fucking Clarissa Thornton! What the hell was his mother thinking? As if he were interested in another empty-headed schoolgirl intent on marrying a wealthy man.
And as though his heated emotions required surcease, the very unschoolgirllike sensuality of Miss Ionides appeared in his thoughts. He smiled. What a perfect antidote to his mother's annoying visit. He could be at the racetrack within the hour.
Chapter Five
The day was balmy with a light breeze, the sunshine brilliant, the field of thoroughbreds choice. It was the kind of afternoon to put anyone in good humor. And once he found Miss Ionides, Sam thought as he walked into the royal enclosure, he just might attain that state.
He'd missed the first race, having been waylaid by his steward, who'd required numerous signatures on numerous documents, most of which could have safely waited until tomorrow with anyone but Patrick. But Patrick McGuff ran Sam's estates with a fine-tuned precision and for his expertise, however compulsive, Sam willingly suffered an occasional inconvenience.
His headache was almost gone-several cups of very black coffee along with a quick breakfast had restored his energy after his sleepless night-and now all he had to do was find Miss Ionides and convince her to leave with him. Nothing too daunting, he facetiously thought, remembering her pointed rejections yesterday. But he remembered, as well, the look behind the look in her eyes, the one that responded to him with an instant susceptibility. And she wasn't a novice after two husbands and considerable lovers. She knew what she was feeling.
When he found her, however, she was surrounded by a flock of admirers, and she refused to acknowledge his presence. He stood apart for a time, enjoying the view-she looked especially fine in cream georgette and a small flowered hat-enjoying her obvious discomfort as well. She'd taken note of him despite her studied indifference. But when he finally approached her sometime later, his voice was deliberately bland. "Could you spare a few moments, Miss Ionides? I could use some help deciding which horse to bet on in the next race."
The Spanish ambassador's son, who had been the most solicitous of her admirers, looked at Sam and snorted. "Might you like some advice on the ladies as well, Ranelagh?" Sam's record of wins at the track was unparalleled.
"I wasn't talking to you, Jorges, but if I were, I wouldn't be asking for advice on either horses or ladies."
"I'm afraid I can't help you, Lord Ranelagh," Alex interjected, fixing her gaze on Sam's forehead because her pulse rate had quickened the instant he'd walked into the enclosure and only sheer will had maintained her composure under his surveillance. "I rarely bet on the horses."
"Perhaps we could learn together, then"-he smiled-"about the merits of thoroughbreds."
How beautifully he smiled, how at ease he was in pursuit. "Thank you, but I'm really not interested." Her voice was brusque because she'd barely slept last night for thoughts of him, and his assurance was galling. Furthermore, he looked as though he'd not slept either, his eyes shadowed with fatigue, and she wasn't naive enough to think he'd lost sleep over her.
"She's not interested, Sam," the Prince of Wales noted jovially, turning from his conversation with Lord Rothschild. "Now, there's a first, eh, my boy? And I don't blame you, Alex," he added, grinning. "Sam's not to be trusted with a pretty lady."