The Rambunctious Lady Royston Read Free Page A

bending down to hear their senseless chatter. Her eyes were very intriguing, too—green as emeralds and of a pleasing almond shape under those dark, wing-like brows.
    He surprised himself by asking, "How do you come by dark lashes and brows when your hair is copper?"
    If Samantha found anything strange in this question she did not show it on her face. "My brows are like my mother's, I imagine, as she had the same coloring. She was Irish. And my hair is a common red, not copper."
    "No, no, child. Red does not describe it at all. I stand by my description. You have a brother, I believe."
    "Yes, my lord," she answered, then took a deep breath and added in a challenging voice, "Wallace is in his last year at Cambridge, much to his chagrin. He feels the time spent with his head between the pages of a book could be put to better use polishing the buttons on a Hussar uniform. My mother died when I was three. My father is a younger son who makes his living on a small estate in the country. This is our first trip to London, made only to present my sister to polite society. I no longer have a governess, although I put three of them through the hoops over the past ten years, causing the last to retire to her brother's parsonage not six months ago in a complete collapse. I ride extremely well, have a fair to middling command of the French language, hate needlework, loathe politics, break out in spots if I eat green beans, and my teeth are tolerably good," she concluded triumphantly. "Now, if there's nothing else you desire I would like to withdraw and check on my sister."
    She made to rise, but at his firm "Sit down!" she fell back into her chair with a thump. "You are distressed, and rightly so, both by my questions and my manner. If I were a gentleman I feel sure I would be moved to apologize. But I am not, and besides, you must admit its not every day that a man is confronted with a young girl with fire and spirit such as yours. I will thank you for your candor and will endeavor to return the courtesy."
    "Don't burst a stitch on my account, your lordship, as I find myself not in the least intrigued by your life story," Samantha returned sarcastically.
    The Earl ignored this outburst and rose to stand behind his chair, forcing her to arch her neck as she looked into his face. "I am Zachary St. John, twelfth Earl of Royston, worth a good seventy thousand a year, and a bachelor of thirty years. I own three major estates—all large and productive—a mansion in Mayfair, a hunting box in Scotland, and have a considerable stable. The St. John jewels are known as one of the premier collections in the realm, and I am the most eligible and elusive bachelor in the city."
    "Huzzah to you, my lord. Most impressive. Are you thinking of putting yourself up for sale? I'm certain many would be tempted to make you an offer."
    "These are all minor things," he said, and then dismissed it all with a sweep of one strong, tanned hand. In a more serious tone he continued: "I have two major problems, and until today I had no way of solving either. The first is that I am bored. I can see that surprises you, but it's nevertheless true. I am bored to extinction with my life, my friends, my money, and my title. The second problem is that, at the advanced age of thirty, I have no heir. Until last year this lack did not bother me in the slightest, as I had a younger brother who I was more than happy to have succeed me when I finally am handed my notice to quit. Unfortunately, he was lost in the war."
    "I am so sorry, your lordship," Samantha supplied, her tender heartstrings touched. The suddenly vulnerable look in his dark eyes she dismissed as none of her concern, especially since it was almost instantly replaced by his usual devilish stare.
    "Do not interrupt," he warned curtly. "As my friends, such as they are, will tell you, I am a very unlikable man. I am hated or endured for my politics—depending upon your leanings—work and play hard as is my wont, and