The Bride Thief

'friends' were interested in her. They only wished to question her about the Bride Thief. She knew full well that once their curiosity was satisfied, their interest would quickly wane. And somehow, even though she tried not to let it, that hurt worse than the twitters she'd learned to ignore over the years.

Yet she'd tolerated the constant stream of callers, not willing to diminish her sisters' and Mama's utter delight with her newfound popularity. Smiling until her face ached, she endured countless hours sitting in the drawing room, sipping enough tea to float a frigate, answering countless questions, all the while wishing she were with Hubert, poring over their scientific journals, assisting him in his Chamber of Experiments, and furthering her own experimental studies.

When she wasn't trapped in the drawing room, she stood for endless hours before the seamstress, being fitted for frilly gowns that made her feel conspicuous and awkward. Yet she'd gone along with Mama's plans, refusing to mar her mother's happiness at her popularity, and reluctant to tempt the fates that miraculously hadn't immersed her family in scandal.

Even more vexing than the nonstop visitors, however, were the constant rounds of fetes, soirees, and musicales. Although she loved music, she normally attended few such functions. She'd grown weary of trying to mold herself into a graceful, witty conversationalist, and enduring indifference-or even worse, pitiful expressions that clearly said, Oh, isn't it a shame that poor Samantha isn't more like her beautiful sisters.

She'd philosophically accepted her physical and social shortcomings long ago, knowing her family loved her in spite of them. Still, social functions made her feel uncomfortable and inept. Yet over the past fortnight she'd attended literally dozens, her smile permanently affixed to her lips, unwilling to disappoint Mama. Her patience, however, had reached its limit. How long could this intolerable situation continue? When would these people grow tired of her and leave her alone? Soon, dear God, please make it soon. Thankfully this soiree was the last one scheduled for a while-at least that she knew of. She could only hope Mama wasn't hoarding another stack of invitations somewhere.

She heaved a heartfelt sigh. As much as she wished to remain hidden, she knew the time had come to return to the party. But she vowed to avoid Misters Babcock and Whitmore. And to depart the festivities as soon as possible.

Bracing herself with a fortifying breath, she turned.

And found herself staring at a perfectly knotted, snowy white cravat.

Startled, she stepped back, her legs bumping the huge urns containing the palms and ferns. Thank goodness the porcelain urns were so tall, else she would have tumbled backward and fallen ignominiously into the plants. Tilting back her head, she looked upward. Her gaze met questioning dark brown eyes.

Sammie drew a deep breath and tried to curb her impatience. Lord above, it was utterly impossible to find a private moment. Couldn't this blasted man find some other corner to escape to? Her gaze wandered over this latest intruder upon her solitude. His black, formal evening attire, accentuated by a silver brocade waistcoat and blinding white shirt, fit his tall, broad-shouldered frame perfectly. His face was arresting rather than handsome, as if an artist had hewn his features with bold, broad strokes to create high cheekbones, a square jaw, perfectly straight nose, and a firm yet well-shaped mouth. Her sisters and Mama would no doubt think him very attractive.

She thought him a cursed pest and fervently wished he would take his leave of her sanctuary.

'Forgive me for startling you, Miss Briggeham,' the gentleman said in a deep voice. 'After I observed that trio of ladies departing from behind the trees here, I assumed the spot was empty.'

Sammie barely managed to suppress a groan. He knew her name. Just like everyone else at this soiree, he no doubt wished to question her regarding the Bride Thief. At best, he'd merely lure her into mind-numbing conversation, then somehow lead the discussion to the topic on everyone's lips. At worse, he'd question her and ask her to dance.

Striving to be polite, even as she inched away from him, she asked, 'Have we met, sir?'

He stared at her for several seconds before replying, and Sammie's skin heated under his intense regard.

'Yes, we have, however it was a number of years ago.'

He made her a formal bow. 'I am the Earl of Wesley. At your service.'

Pushing her spectacles higher on her nose, Sammie peered at him, then frowned. 'Forgive me, my lord, for not recognizing you. I thought you were much… older.'

'That would have been my father. He died five years ago.'

Heat rushed into Sammie's cheeks at her faux pas. No doubt every other person present knew the earl's father had died years ago. Except her. Just another reason she inwardly cringed at these social gatherings. She never knew the proper things to say. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean-'

'Quite all right,' he said, waving his hand in a dismissive fashion. He quirked one brow at her, mischief lurking in his dark eyes. 'Tell me, Miss Briggeham, what brings you to seek refuge behind the foliage?'

Pesky gentlemen such as yourself. She quirked a brow right back at him. 'I might ask the same of you, my lord.'

He smiled, displaying white, even teeth. 'I'll tell you if you tell me.'

Sensing his amusement, and relieved that he'd chosen to overlook her faux pas, she said, 'Two gentlemen were pestering me to dance.'

'Indeed? Which gentlemen?'

'Misters Babcock and Whitmore.' She peeked through the ferns and noted the gentlemen in question still stood near the French windows.

He moved closer to her and locked through the camouflaging leaves. Sammie inhaled, filling her head with a combination of sandalwood and-she sniffed again-an intriguing scent she could only describe as clean. She pointed to the duo by the windows.

'Ah, yes, I am acquainted with them,' Lord Wesley said, 'although only in passing. I'm afraid I do not attend many local social gatherings.'

'Consider yourself fortunate,' Sammie muttered, releasing the leaves. 'If you'll excuse me, Lord Wesley-'

'Of course, Miss Briggeham. However, you might wish to remain for another moment.' He separated several leaves higher than Sammie could reach and peered through the opening. 'It appears Misters Babcock and Whitmore are looking for someone. If you show yourself now…'

His voice trailed off and Sammie suppressed a shudder. While she had no great urge to talk to Lord Wesley, he appeared, for the moment at least, to be the lesser of two evils.

'Thank you for the warning, my lord. Under the circumstances, I believe I'll remain here for a few more minutes.' Straightening to her full height, she realized he was quite tall. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. She wished she possessed such useful height. How convenient to be able to reach high shelves in the Chamber without the aid of a ladder.

As it appeared he wasn't going to leave her alone, she reminded him, 'You never did say what brings you behind the foliage, my lord.'

'Mrs. Nordfield was chasing me down with the accuracy of a seasoned hunter, and with what I can only describe as a 'matchmaking gleam' in her eye. This was the most expedient place to duck out of sight for a moment.'

Sammie nodded in sympathy. She could well imagine Lydia Nordfield tracking after the eligible Lord Wesley like a hound after a fox. And that 'matchmaking gleam' was familiar to Sammie as well, much to her dismay. It was the same look Mama had been casting in her direction with renewed determination over the past two weeks. The mere thought sent an uneasy chill down her spine.

Her gaze ran down his tall, muscular body. 'Don't fret, Lord Wesley. No doubt you can outrun Mrs. Nordfield. You appear to be quite a healthy specimen.'

'Er, thank you.'

Peeking through the ferns once more, Sammie observed with dismay that Mama was conversing with Misters Babcock and Whitmore. At that instant the trio turned toward the copse of potted plants, and Mama's eyes narrowed. Gasping, Sammie hastily stepped back, as if the ferns had caught fire.

'I'm afraid I must be going, Lord Wesley,' she said, performing an awkward curtsy. 'I fear my mother has detected my presence. Good evening to you.'

He made her a bow. 'And to you, Miss Briggeham.'

She scooted from behind the palms. Keeping her head bent low and eyes downcast, she prayed no one would