The Bride Thief

he'd leap right out of his shoes.'

He chuckled. 'Actually, I reacted the very same way the first time I looked through that telescope.'

An image of Lord Wesley hopping about with boyish abandon flashed through her mind, leaving a smile in its wake.

'By jingo, this is incredible,' Hubert said in a hushed, reverent tone. Turning toward them, he reached inside his waistcoat and withdrew a small, leather-bound book. 'Would you mind if I jotted down some notes, my lord?'

'Take your time and jot all you wish, lad,' he invited, offering Hubert a warm smile. Returning his attention to her, he said, 'Perhaps while Hubert is enjoying the Herschel, you'd like to see some more of my home, Miss Briggeham?'

Sammie hesitated. It was a completely innocent invitation, yet her heart skipped at the thought of being alone with him. Then she nearly laughed aloud at her own silliness. Of course they wouldn't be alone. A house this size would have dozens of servants. Besides, she didn't dare stay here to look through the telescope again and risk having him stand so close behind her. And she refused to drag Hubert away from the Herschel.

'Surely the prospect of touring my home is not such a weighty matter,' he said in a teasing tone. Extending his elbow, he said, 'Come. I've arranged for tea in the drawing room. On the way, I'll show you the portrait gallery and bore you to tears with tedious stories about my excess of ancestors.'

Forcing a lightness into her voice she was far from feeling, she took his arm and murmured, 'How could I possibly resist such a tempting invitation?' As they exited the conservatory, she fervently prayed that he would, indeed, bore her to tears. But she very much feared that she already found Lord Wesley far too fascinating.

They paused near the last group of portraits in the gallery. 'I take it this is your mother?' Miss Briggeham asked.

Eric stared at his mother's beautiful face, which smiled serenely back at him, her countenance not showing a trace of the bitter unhappiness she'd suffered. 'Yes.'

'She's lovely.'

His throat tightened. 'Yes, she was. She died when I was fifteen.'

The small hand resting on his sleeve squeezed his arm with clear sympathy. 'I'm sorry. There's no good time to lose a parent, but it must be especially difficult for a boy on the brink of manhood.'

'Yes.' He managed to push the single word through his tight throat. Memories assaulted him, as they did every time he looked at his mother's portrait. Voices raised in anger, his father lashing out with verbal barbs that cut deep wounds, and his mother, desperately miserable, a prisoner of unhappiness in her marriage.

'Who is this?' Miss Briggeham asked, yanking him from his disturbing reverie.

He gazed at the next portrait and the ache that always accompanied thoughts of Margaret gnawed at him. The painting had been done to commemorate her sixteenth birthday. She looked young and so sweetly innocent in her ivory muslin gown, and he vividly recalled visiting the library during her endless sittings to tease smiles from her. What sort of face is that, Margaret? You look as if you've chewed on a sour pickle. Smile, or I'll steal some red paint and draw a big grin on you. In retaliation, Margaret had sucked in her cheeks, making a fish-face. In spite of their foolishness, the artist had managed to capture Margaret with a serene smile and just a hint of deviltry in her eyes.

'That is my sister, Margaret.'

He felt her start of surprise. 'I didn't know you had a sister, my lord.'

Turning his head, he gazed down at her. He'd wager that nearly every other female in the village was acquainted with the family members of the peerage. 'Margaret is Viscountess Darvin. She lives in Cornwall.'

'I've always wished to see the Cornish coast. How long has she lived there?'

Since my sire sold her like a sack of flour. 'Five years. Since her… marriage.'

She clearly heard the tightness in his tone, for her eyes flooded with sympathy and she asked in a soft voice, 'Is her marriage not happy?'

'No.'

'I'm so sorry. It's too bad the Bride Thief couldn't have saved her.'

Her words sizzled through him like a lightning bolt of guilt. 'Yes. It's too bad.'

'Do you see her often?'

'Not often enough, I'm afraid.'

'I'd miss my sisters dreadfully if they lived so far away,' Miss Briggeham remarked.

'You have three sisters, I believe?'

'Yes. They're all married. Lucille and Hermione live here in Tunbridge Wells. Emily, who recently married Baron Whitestead, lives only one hour's ride away. We all see each other frequently.'

'I recall meeting your sisters at a musicale several years ago.'

A smile flashed across her lips. 'I daresay you wouldn't forget them. Individually, my sisters are all beautiful. But together as a trio, they are breathtaking.'

He couldn't disagree. Yet she was the sister he found unforgettable.

'But what is most amazing and wonderful about my sisters,' Miss Briggeham continued, 'is that they are as lovely inside as they are on the outside.'

He detected no envy in her voice, only fierce pride. He studied her upturned face, debating whether to tell her that she was equally as lovely. Would she accept his compliment as his true feelings, or believe he'd merely uttered it as nothing more than polite gibberish?

Unable to decide, he let the moment pass. Turning, he led her to the drawing room where tea had been laid out. He closed the door behind them, watching her as she crossed the parquet floor to the center of the room. She turned in a slow circle, taking in the cream silk-covered walls, the overstuffed sofa, settee and wing chairs, royal- blue velvet draperies, brass sconces flanking the heavy mirror, cozy fire crackling in the grate, and the smattering of antique porcelains his mother had loved gracing the mahogany end tables.

'A lovely room, my lord,' she said, completing her circle to face him once more. 'As is your entire home.'

'Thank you.' He indicated the tea service. 'Would you care for some tea? Or would you like something stronger? A sherry perhaps?'

She surprised him by accepting a sherry. While she settled herself on the settee, he poured her drink and a brandy for himself. He then joined her, sitting on the opposite end of the settee. She took a tiny sip of her sherry, drawing his gaze to her foil lips. He instantly imagined leaning over and touching his tongue to her lower lip to sample the sweetness clinging there. He squeezed his eyes shut and tossed back his drink to banish the erotic image.

When he opened his eyes, he set his empty snifter on the low table in front of them, then picked up a glass jar resting next to the tea service. Extending the jar toward her, he said, 'This is for you.'

'For me?' She set her glass on the table, then reached out for the jar. Holding it aloft to capture the fire's light, she exclaimed, 'Why, it looks like honey.'

'It is. I recalled Hubert saying your supply was nearly depleted, so I…' His voice trailed off as a delighted smile broke over her face. A smile that utterly enchanted him, washing warmth through him. A smile he already knew wasn't brought on by gifts of flowers, and he suspected couldn't be coaxed with any of the other trappings most females longed for.

'How incredibly thoughtful,' she said. 'Thank you.'

'You're welcome. I must admit, however, that my gift comes with a request.'

'I shall be pleased to grant it if I can.'

'You said that the honey cream you make relieves the aches in your friend's hands.'

'It seems to, yes, even without the warming properties I hope to add to it.'

'My stableman suffers from stiff joints, and perhaps your cream could help him. I'll be happy to supply you with several more jars if you'd consent to make some cream for me to give him.'

Her smile deepened. 'I already supply Mr. Timstone with my cream.'

'You do?'

'Yes. For several months now. While it's not a cure, of course, it affords him some temporary relief. I would be happy to make an extra batch for him. It is not necessary to give me more than one jar, my lord. One is more than generous. You're… very kind.'