The Earl of Gresham.
Samantha might not recall their acquaintance, but she knew that name well. It appeared repeatedly in the newspapers, and had for years, both in the socials and the headlines.
Remington Worth—the Earl of Gresham—initially a promising protégé to the legendary Admiral Nelson, eventually the Royal Navy's youngest, most brilliant captain; hero of the Battle of Trafalgar, ingenious commander of the War of 1812. Renowned by sea as an undefeated, unyielding naval leader.
By land as London's most notorious rake and womanizer.
Sammy had no trouble understanding the latter. Remington Worth was dangerously exciting, dashing and forbidden —every bit a hero.
He was magnificent.
"Lord Gresham." Sammy gave him her hand, willing it to stop trembling as the earl brushed it with his lips. Ignoring Smitty's glowering disapproval, Sammy lifted questioning eyes to Gresham's. "You asked if the duke were with us. Are you a friend of Drake's?"
"Your brother's path and mine have crossed many times over the years, in business and socially," the earl answered smoothly. "I have nothing but the greatest respect for the duke . . . and his trusted valet," he added, with a courteous nod in Smitty's direction.
Smitty's only response was a rather haughty sniff.
Apparently unbothered, Gresham released Sammy's hand and bowed. "Forgive my earlier rudeness, my lady. I had no idea who you were or why you were at Boydry's."
"As I said, we are on our way to the family Town house," Smitty supplied, his tone crisp. "This is to be Lady Samantha's first London Season."
"Is it?" Gresham's teeth gleamed—the smile, not of a besotted lover, but of an amused and indulgent uncle. "Well, we cannot have Lady Samantha miss one dazzling moment of her first Season." He turned to Smitty. "Let me have a look at your carriage. Perhaps I can be of some help."
Smitty appeared to be on the verge of refusing when, with a resigned sigh, he relented. "Fine. Thank you very much, my lord."
"Not at all." Gresham turned his hypnotic silvery gaze on Sammy again. "I'm afraid I must ask you to accompany us. I realize the weather is dreadful, but I cannot allow you to remain alone with these"—his lips twitched—"gentlemen."
Samantha was on her feet instantly. "Of course not, Lord Gresham. I would feel much safer with you."
Loudly, Smitty cleared his throat. "The carriage is out by the road, my lord."
Leaving his drenched greatcoat behind, the earl made his way back out of the tavern. Kneeling beside the deserted Barrett carriage, he noted that the left rear wheel was shattered beyond repair, leaving the regal coach tilted precariously along the flooded roadside.
"I had the footmen and driver ride the horses on ahead to seek help," Smitty informed the earl. Squinting through the ceaseless downpour, he shoved a shock of drenched white hair off his forehead. "That was nearly an hour ago. There's been no sign of them since."
"That doesn't surprise me," Gresham replied, frowning at the irreparable slivers of wood. He rose, his fine lawn shirt nearly transparent from the soaking it had already received. "Your carriage is going nowhere tonight," he announced. "The wheel cannot be fixed, even temporarily. I had hoped I could patch it well enough to take you the short distance to London, but 'tis impossible. I'm sorry."
Smitty shook his head in distress, turning to Lady Samantha to offer her comfort.
Vaguely, Sammy wondered why Smitty was regarding her with such regret. But the majority of her concentration was on her hero.
Never had she seen shoulders so broad, so incredibly muscled. Because the rain had molded his clothing to his body, she could make out his corded biceps, the strong tendons in his forearms.
The rippling columns of his thighs.
Despite the storm's chill, a fine sheen of perspiration broke out on Sammy's skin. What would it be like to touch him? she wondered. To kiss him? To be crushed in those powerful arms?
"Take mine."
Samantha blinked. "P-Pardon me?"
Gresham assessed her with paternal concern, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. "You and Smithers take my carriage and go on to your Town house."
Sammy's tremble had naught to do with the cold and everything to do with the warmth of his fingers.
The earl frowned. "You're shivering. You'll take ill if you don't get out of this storm. We cannot have that—you'll miss your first ball at Almack's." Turning, he strode back into the tavern, returning instantly with his coat, which he draped about Samantha's shoulders.
Dazedly, Sammy wondered if he noticed that his touch worsened her trembling threefold.