Sam’s hair was still thick and dark, though cut short, which was a surprise. He’d worn it long, tied in a queue the last time she’d seen him. The hint of silver at his temples had not been there before, either, and somehow made him even more attractive. And there was a small scar she did not remember, that cut through one eyebrow.

His eyes had always been a changeable sort of brown, sometimes dark as coffee, sometimes sherry-colored. But now they seemed more golden than she remembered, as if they’d been bleached and polished by the same sun that had darkened his skin.

That face, so familiar and yet so changed, still had the power to make her weak in the knees, and to set off an explosion of emotions she’d thought long buried.

Composing herself, she reached out a hand to him. “Sam. How good to see you again.”

“And you,” he said, and took her gloved fingers to his lips. “It has been a long time, Your Grace.”

“If you are going to ‘Your Grace’ me, then I must call you Captain Pellow. It is Captain, is it not?”

“It is. I made post a few years back.”

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you. But I’d rather you called me Sam.”

“Only if you call me Willie. No one has called me that name for years. I rather like it. Sometimes Wilhelmina is too grand.”

“Isn’t that why you chose it?”

She chuckled. “Indeed. Plain Wilma Jepp just did not have the right note of…panache. But I’m older and wiser now and no longer trying to impress anyone. Willie will do quite well, thank you.”

“Willie, then.”

He smiled again, and it took some effort for her to breathe properly. That smile did not belong to a man of mature years, but to a boy of eighteen who’d delighted in teasing her and making her laugh.

“Since we both seem to be waiting out the storm,” he said, “would you care to join me?” He gestured toward a small alcove set slightly above the main floor, where there was a table and two facing benches with high sides, like box pews, that provided a measure of privacy. The rest of the room-it appeared to be a combination taproom and dining room, probably the only public room at the inn-was filled with people, mostly men, crammed shoulder to shoulder around long tables, talking and laughing, tankards clanking, utensils clattering. There were a few other separate alcoves along the windowed walls, all occupied.

“At least it’s removed somewhat from the general hubbub,” he said. “I was one of the first to arrive-the blasted bonnet of my curricle began to leak like a sieve-so I managed to claim the best seat. I’d be pleased to share it with you. And the duke, too, if he’s with you.”

Ah. He didn’t know. “His Grace passed away four years ago.”

“Oh. I am sorry. I hadn’t heard.” An odd expression crossed his face for an instant and was gone. Then he sighed. “I can tell you every maneuver of every battle on land and sea during the late wars, but I confess I did not keep abreast of society news. My condolences, Willie. I know how happy you were with him.”

Did he? The last time she’d seen Sam-could it truly be ten years ago?-she had been married to Hertford for less than a year. Sam had approached her at a rout party, and she’d been rather stunned to see him there. He was almost always at sea and seldom in London. Plus, he did not approve of her, of the choices she’d made in her life, and so it surprised her when he had deliberately sought her out. He’d seemed at loose ends, a bit uncertain, but nevertheless pleased to see her, which made her heart lurch. She’d politely asked about his voyages and his family, and learned that he’d recently lost his wife. When she told him of her marriage to the duke, the conversation spiraled into a painful awkwardness she’d never quite understood. Had he disapproved? Had he thought she was reaching too far above herself? Or was he disappointed for some other reason? She had never known why, but it had been a decidedly uncomfortable encounter.

“I was indeed happy with Hertford,” she said. “I could not have asked for a better husband or champion. I miss him. But life goes on, as you know.”

“Yes, it does, sometimes with the most surprising turns. Like bumping into you here, in the middle of nowhere, after all these years. We have a lot to catch up on, Willie. I’d be honored to share my table with you while we wait for the storm to pass.”

Wilhelmina smiled. “I’d love nothing better. A nice pot of tea would be just the thing. Thank you, Sam. Just give me time to shake off the dust of the road. I’ll join you shortly.”

She turned and found her ubiquitous factotum at her side. His thuggish face often struck fear in the best of men, with its large, crooked nose, heavy brow, and a long scar running down one cheek and across his chin. It was, though, a comfort to Wilhelmina, who relied so much on him. Smeaton, who’d once been a pugilist, had been in her employ for more than fifteen years and was now indispensable. Part butler, part steward, part man of affairs, and part bodyguard, he managed everything in her life, whether at home in London or on the road.

“I have ensured that you have the best room in the inn, Your Grace,” he said in the soft, cultured voice so at odds with his face. “I inspected it myself and believe it will be suitable.”

“Thank you, Smeaton.” He had no doubt made sure that anyone who might have occupied the room had been moved elsewhere. The dear man tossed around her rank and fortune much more than she ever did. He was a great snob, Smeaton was.

“I am afraid there is no private parlor to be had in this inn, Your Grace,” he said, his tone dripping with incredulity at such an omission, “but there is a decent table in the bedchamber where you might dine in private.”

“I am sure it will do quite well for one night,” Wilhelmina said. “But as soon as I have changed out of these clothes, I shall be going down to the public room.”

A look of horror gathered in his eyes. “The public room? Are you quite sure, Your Grace? I noted a few unsavory-looking fellows in there, and I dislike to think of you exposing yourself to such company.”

Wilhelmina laughed. “One of those fellows is a captain in the Royal Navy and an old friend. I am going to have tea with him. With your approval, of course.”

“Your Grace!” He reared back, looking offended. “I would never presume to approve or disapprove of anything you chose to do.”

“I am happy to hear it. Now, be so good as to direct me to my room, and then send Marsh to me.”

“This way, Your Grace. And I believe Miss Marsh is waiting for you.” He led her up a narrow flight of stairs that turned back on itself twice before reaching the next floor.

The bedchamber she’d been given-or that Smeaton had commandeered-was clean and spacious, with a simple stone-fronted fireplace, solid oak furniture, and a bank of diamond-paned windows overlooking the inn yard. The bed-large and plain, hung with old damask bed curtains-dominated the room. Ginny, Wilhelmina’s maid, was making up the bed in the fine linen sheets they’d brought with them. The inn’s sheets lay in a heap on the floor. Marsh, her dresser, was unpacking a trunk and draping dresses over chairs in front of the freshly made fire so the heat might loosen any wrinkles or creases. They both bobbed curtsies when she entered the room.

“I have laid out a few dresses for you to choose from, Your Grace. I had thought this one…?” Marsh indicated a plain jaconet dress with a high standing collar of Vandyke lace. It was simple enough for a day indoors at a country inn, but not what Wilhelmina had in mind. She shook her head, and Marsh held up another simple dress of sprigged muslin. No, that wouldn’t do, either. Marsh seemed put out of countenance that Wilhelmina should reject her advice for dresses that were perfectly appropriate.

But Marsh wasn’t having tea with Captain Sam Pellow. Some might think the dowager Duchess of Hertford was past her prime-they would be wrong-but she still wanted to look her best when meeting a gentleman. And this was no ordinary gentleman. This was Sam. Her Sam. Her first love.