Regina Scott by The Heiresss Homecoming

eyes were solemn, his hands hanging loosely as if he were ready to do anything she needed. He knelt in front of her and laced her half boots, quickly, efficiently. Somehow that only made her throat tighter.
    “Are you all right?” he murmured as he rose.
    “I’ll be fine,” she said. “And so will Jamie. Thank you for your concern.”
    “You don’t look fine,” he said. “Pardon my intrusion, but you look done in.”
    All at once, she felt done in. The burdens she carried seemed to press upon her, threatened to shove her to her knees. “No, I...” she started, but the tears were coming again, and she couldn’t seem to stop them.
    He sat beside her, slipped one arm around her as if protecting her from all her sorrows. The touch, the kindness, the unquestioning silence, was her undoing, and she found herself sobbing. She buried her face in his vest, trembling. His hand rubbed up and down her arm, offering commiseration, solace. She felt as if the darkness was fleeing from her, vanquished by his strength and allowing her own strength to rebound.
    At last she pulled away from him, took a deep breath and tried to gather the shreds of her dignity.
    “Forgive me,” she managed. “I’ve soaked you, and I don’t even have a handkerchief.”
    “Not much room in a fencing vest for one,” he agreed, patting his chest as if to emphasize the point. “Shortsighted, really. I imagine more than one fellow has been tempted to cry after losing a match.”
    The idea was so silly she choked a laugh. “Perhaps you should suggest it to your tailor. It will be a great innovation.”
    One corner of his mouth turned up as he removed his arm from around her. “Ah, yes. I shall leave my mark on history as the earl who invented pockets in fencing waistcoats. We can call them Kendricoats.”
    She found her breath coming easier and shook her head at him wryly. “You truly are a clever fellow, my lord.”
    “Perhaps,” he said, gaze studiously on his hands resting on his buckskin breeches, “you could call me Will. You already call Lord Wentworth Jamie.”
    She felt herself blushing. “A very kind offer, to be sure. But then, you are continually kind to me. But if you are to be Will, I must be Samantha.”
    He inclined his head, then raised his gaze to hers. “It would be my honor. Just remember, Samantha, that you are an amazing woman. Please forgive anything my son or I might have done that would make you think otherwise.”
    * * *
    Will regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. He wasn’t sure why he’d left the exercise salon by the back stairs after counseling his son to make things right with Samantha. Some part of him had wanted to stand beside Jamie if he needed that support. Another part feared to find his son and Samantha in each other’s arms. He wasn’t sure how he’d react to that, but he’d promised himself to behave like the gentleman he believed himself to be.
    Instead he’d found Samantha alone and looking so bereft he’d felt compelled to offer comfort. She’d stopped crying at last, the tears glistening on her fair cheeks like sea spray on pearls. She’d even given him a smile, her eyes shining with that light that called to him. Now she dropped her gaze, and one arm wrapped around her waist as if something inside hurt.
    “You are neither of you to blame,” she murmured. “I have reasons for my choices. Please don’t press me on them.”
    Did she know he longed to do just that? He wanted to know what kept a woman of her beauty, position and, by all accounts, income from marrying and marrying well. Of course some might have wondered the same thing about him. But he knew why he had no interest in marrying again. The marriage of a man in his position was meant to ensure the line, to unite families for security and prestige. He had an heir in Jamie. He needed no more prestige than being the Earl of Kendrick. And he was proud enough that he would not marry for income to secure the