The Bride Thief

An image of Miss Briggeham frolicking in the lake flashed in his mind, her gown clinging to her soft feminine curves. Or did she perhaps shuck her gown and wear only a chemise… or less? Heat rippled through him at the provocative thought. 'Perhaps her mother finds Miss Briggeham's… predilections endearing. And interesting.'

'Nonsense, although Cordelia does try to make everyone think she does.' Leaning back, she beamed a sharp-toothed smile at him. 'Thank goodness my Daphne is a perfect lady. Such a delightful young woman. So accomplished musically, and her singing voice rivals the angels. And a talented artist as well. You must tour the gallery while you're here.'

'It would be my pleasure.'

Her fingers tightened on his arm. 'And you won't forget your promise to dance with Daphne.'

'I am a man of my word,' Eric said, knowing full well his indication that he would dance with her daughter was half the reason Mrs. Nordfield had hosted this party.

'Excellent.' She cast her gaze toward the French windows, then cocked her head to the side. 'It sounds as if the musicians are starting a quadrille. I shall help you locate Daphne-'

'You go ahead,' Eric interrupted, offering her his most charming smile. 'I wish to enjoy a cigar before returning to the festivities, and I wouldn't dream of keeping you from your other guests any longer.'

Clearly torn by the pull of her hostess duties, she slid her hand from his arm with obvious reluctance. 'Yes, I suppose I must return.' She narrowed her eyes at him. 'I shall tell Daphne to expect your invitation to dance, my lord.'

'I pray she will consent to do me the honor, madam.'

Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like she'd crawl through flames for the opportunity, Mrs. Nordfield dipped her head and curtsied, then crossed the stone terrace to re-enter the house.

The instant she disappeared through the French windows, Eric stepped back into the shadows, brushing away the wrinkles his hostess's clinging fingers had wrought upon his jacket. Although he was well used to dealing with marriage-minded mamas like Lydia Nordfield, for some reason he found her manner particularly annoying. Her condescending comments regarding Miss Briggeham had grated on his nerves.

But the irritation was worth the price. As he'd known she would when he'd called upon her last week, Mrs. Nordfield had spread the positive light he'd purposely cast upon Miss Briggeham's abduction faster than fire-burned paper, his cause aided by the article that had appeared in The Times just that morning. After exclaiming over Miss Briggeham's bravery, he had informed Mrs. Nordfield that while he'd received numerous invitations to parties hosted in Miss Briggeham's honor-invitations he'd sadly been unable to accept due to prior engagements-he'd been surprised to note that she, the foremost hostess in the area, had yet to invite him to a party. He would certainly clear his engagements to attend her soiree-and be granted the honor of dancing with her one remaining unmarried daughter.

He'd received an invitation to her gathering two days later.

The ever-vigilant Arthur Timstone had already reported that rather than being shunned or immersed in scandal after her abduction, Miss Briggeham was the toast of the village. Still, Eric knew that Mrs. Nordfield's stamp of approval was necessary to ensure that Miss Briggeham didn't suffer socially from her encounter with the Bride Thief-an encounter he'd been unable to erase from his mind.

Once he'd realized that Miss Briggeham had provided the authorities with little new information regarding the Bride Thief, Eric had assumed he'd forget all about her.

He'd assumed incorrectly.

Her words, uttered in that wistful tone, had embedded themselves in his mind. This has been a grand adventure… I've always wanted one, you see. He could well imagine a young woman such as Miss Briggeham-an on-the-shelf-spinster bluestocking who'd spent her entire life in Tunbridge Wells-yearning for adventure.

I'm often lonely myself. Her poignant statement had touched him deep inside. He sensed a kindred spirit in her, and God knew he understood loneliness. The isolation brought on by the secret life he led sometimes threatened to strangle him. Even when he was surrounded by people, he still felt alone.

Training his gaze on the house, he noted that all the French windows leading into the crowded ballroom stood open to capture the cool evening breezes. In the garden, crickets chirped a nocturnal chorus, competing with the strains of violin music, the hum of conversation, and the tinkling of crystal glasses drifting toward him from the house. Sweet scents floated from the rose trellis, surrounding him in a cape of flowery fragrance.

The soiree was in full swing. But where was Miss Briggeham? Remaining hidden in the shadows, he craned his neck, searching the crowded room. When he finally caught sight of her, his heart performed an odd leap.

Yes, indeed, his machinations had clearly succeeded, for it certainly appeared that Miss Briggeham was faring well, just as Arthur had reported. She currently stood in the midst of half a dozen ladies, who surrounded her in a way that reminded him of vultures circling carrion. Two gentlemen joined the throng, each jostling the other to hand Miss Briggeham a glass of pale yellow punch.

Positioning himself more comfortably against the rough stone exterior, he extracted his gold cigar case from his waistcoat, then withdrew a cheroot. After lighting it, he inhaled the fragrant smoke and observed the woman he'd been unable to dismiss from his thoughts.

Her chestnut hair was arranged in a simple chignon at her nape. Although her pale blue muslin gown was modest.

It couldn't completely hide her feminine curves. She stood straight, her head held high, but even with perfect posture she remained petite in stature.

Another gentleman bearing punch joined the group surrounding her, and Eric marveled that she could stand to drink one more glassful. His gaze fastened on her lips, which spread in a smile of thanks to the newcomer. Even at a distance there was no mistaking the beguiling fullness of her mouth. The newcomer made her a bow, eyeing her with an expression of unmistakable interest. Annoyance pulled down Eric's brows, an inexplicable reaction that irked him further.

He observed her for a quarter hour. Gentlemen and ladies alike buzzed around her like bees to a hive. At first he thought she was enjoying herself, but after several minutes' observation, he realized that her smile seemed forced. And it appeared she was gritting her teeth. Curious reactions, surely.

But even more unusual were the unmistakable twinges of sadness he detected shadowing her eyes. Clearly she tried to hide her unhappiness, but by watching her closely, he was sure he wasn't mistaken. The instant she believed her audience wasn't looking, her smile vanished, her shoulders slumped, and she gazed toward the windows leading outdoors with unmistakable longing.

Guilt, along with sympathy, tugged at his heart. Why was she unhappy? Was her encounter with the Bride Thief somehow responsible?

With a brisk nod and tight smile, she extricated herself from the group surrounding her, making her way around the perimeter of the room. A tall, fair-haired gentleman Eric recognized as Viscount Carsdale waylaid her, quite close to the French windows near where he stood. While he couldn't hear their conversation, he clearly saw Carsdale lift her gloved hand to his lips for a kiss that lingered far longer than proper, while the bastard treated himself to a prolonged leer down Miss Briggeham's bodice.

Bloody hell. Outrage pumped through Eric. Was Carsdale treating her with so little respect because of her encounter with the Bride Thief? Was this the source of her unhappiness? Were other men treating her the same way? Damn it, perhaps her reputation had suffered. He recalled the feel of her enticing curves pressed against him, and his jaw tightened. He wouldn't allow anyone to disrespect her- especially as a result of the situation he'd unwittingly thrust her into.

Tossing his half-smoked cheroot on the ground, he extinguished the glowing tip beneath his heel, intent upon rescuing Miss Briggeham from that bastard Carsdale. The instant he entered the room from the terrace, however, Lydia Nordfield plastered herself to his side.

'I see you've finished your cigar, my lord,' she cooed, commandeering his arm in her steely grip.

He offered her a polite bow, while deciding the best way to shake her off. Miss Briggeham, however, managed to escape from Carsdale on her own, so he spent a few more moments with his hostess. Accepting a glass of champagne, he responded to her banal chatter, all the while keeping one eye trained on the petite, chestnut-haired woman making her way across the room. Two gentlemen he recognized as Misters Babcock and Whitmore-both