Chapter Twenty-five
Samantha Durary. She whispered her name out loud and sighed with the rightness that washed over her. It was strange, really; it was only a name, yet it had felt like a weight around her had just been lifted. She hadn’t realized how much of her identity was wrapped up in her name, in how others saw her. When it was taken away—rather, exchanged for a different one—she had felt bereft, lost, and insecure in who she was. It didn’t make sense because she hadn’t changed, just what others called her. But it had seemed like more.
And now, now she was free. Her name felt like the softest, most comfortable day dress, the kind that fits perfectly and is exactly the perfect shade of blue that highlighted her skin. Calling herself Miss Miranda had felt like wearing itchy wool, in the wrong shade of pink and poorly fitting to boot. There was no other way to describe it. From now on, she would simply be Samantha, well, Lady Samantha if one had to be utterly correct.
Mrs. Keyes had been a dear, apologizing profusely when she’d knocked on her door a few minutes earlier. Samantha had accepted her unnecessary apology quickly, assuring her it was nothing of consequence, but the poor housekeeper was scandalized by her mistreatment of a gently bred lady.
Samantha had tried to keep her smile in check because she was the one soothing Mrs. Keyes’s ruffled feathers, not the other way around.
And when Mrs. Keyes had left to alert Cook about seeing to the morning meal, Samantha had closed her door, allowing her thoughts to flit back to earlier.
She was betrothed.
She didn’t feel differently, at least about the betrothal part. Yet something monumental had altered in her life. She was to be married, and knowing Heathcliff, it was probably going to be soon.
Which was perfectly acceptable.
It was perfectly perfect. She couldn’t think of a more apt word.Perfect.Now, if only she could be convinced it was more than just necessity and a healthy dose of attraction that was leading them down the aisle. Was it wrong to want more? Yet she didn’t exactly have a choice.
But it would be nice for it to exist regardless.
A knock sounded on her door and she opened it, not having moved away from it when Mrs. Keyes had gone.
“Oh!”
Her sister gave a little jump, then pulled her into a tight hug. “Were you directly behind the door? Never mind, I’m so happy to see you! What in heaven’s name is going on?” Liliah asked, releasing her and frowning with concern. “Lucas is in the parlor with the viscount, I’m to take you there, but I only just arrived myself, and neither of those beasts have told me a farthing’s worth of news.”
Samantha gave her head a little shake. “That doesn’t surprise me. Let’s go, and I’ll give you the shortened version on our way.”
Samantha watched as Liliah’s mouth popped open as she started to relay the story to her sister. When they approached the parlor, she finished with the fact that she and the viscount were betrothed.
“Well, that was certainly an eventful night.” Liliah blinked, then walked into the parlor.
“Ah, Wife.” Lucas stood and opened his arms.
“Ah, Husband, who will be sleeping alone.” Liliah glared, then made a wide arc around the room and took a seat far away from her husband.
Heathcliff’s snicker pulled Samantha’s attention away from her sister. His amusement was a warm sound, and it echoed in his expression, drawing her in, causing her belly to do odd flips of attraction as she soaked up the sound.
Heathcliff’s gaze met hers, and he gestured to the seat beside him, inviting her.
How often had she wished for him to give her any real indication of his affection? It was so much the opposite from what she had expected. He would kiss her, caress her, speak kindly to her—but only in those stolen moments. All the other times, when he could be tender or attentive, he would alienate himself. Yet, finally, blessedly, it seemed that the man he was in those private, stolen moments, was the same man all those other times. She wondered if maybe he had been that man all along, but had some misguided sense of propriety. . . though she never thought him as one who followed any social protocol.
Men, she decided, made no sense.
“I’d stop laughing.” Lucas cast the words toward his friend, and Heathcliff sobered the tiniest bit.
Samantha glanced at her sister, who was shooting daggers with her angry eyes toward her husband. “Liliah?” she asked, curious. The earl must have done something nearly unforgivable to earn such a response from his usually quite amorous wife.
“I do believe my husband should explain what happened, and I’m also quite certain part of that explanation will have a very humble apology,” Liliah remarked, arching a brow.
Heathcliff coughed, trying to cover up a chuckle.
Samantha slowly sat beside him, her heart pounding with a nervous pleasure. As she placed her hands demurely in her lap, she cast a sidelong look at Heathcliff, her betrothed. His warm gaze met hers, and he reached out and placed a warm hand over hers. The heat seeped through her, warming her hands, then her arms, and then spreading through her chest, causing her heart to increase its pace before slowing into a comforting rhythm.
For a moment, she felt quite treasured.
It was a lovely feeling.
