The Bride Thief

over his face, shaking his head. 'What if you decide to marry in the future?' The instant the words passed his lips, another image of her, wrapped in some faceless man's arms, filled his mind, almost choking him.

'I have no desire to marry. My scientific work fulfills me, and I hope to someday travel. If I'd wanted to be a wife, I could have agreed to a match my parents recently tried to arrange. You have my word that I shall not attempt to extract an offer of marriage from you.'

'That is wise, as I've no intention of ever marrying. And I would never want to be forced into marriage.'

'Nor would I. But what of your title?'

'It will die with me,' he said, his voice stiff with cold finality.

'I see.' She expelled a long breath, then said, 'Well, now that we've discussed and dismissed all the obstacles…'

God knew he ached to make love to her. But with his damned conscience all but hammering him in the head, he felt compelled to save her from herself. For in spite of her protestations, she obviously didn't realize how much she stood to lose.

Forcing aside the need that threatened to overwhelm his good intentions, he took her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. Praying she would see the depth of his regret, he said, 'I cannot be your lover. Not because I don't want you, because I do.' A humorless laugh escaped him. 'Desperately. But I cannot, will not be responsible for your social ruin.'

She lifted her chin a notch higher. 'I've told you I would not hold you responsible for any adverse effects stemming from our association.'

'I understand. But I am not the sort of man who can simply walk away from or ignore my responsibilities.'

Confusion flashed in her eyes. 'But what of your previous lovers? Were you not concerned for their reputations?'

Tenderness washed through him. Cupping her heart-shaped face between his hands, he brushed his thumbs over her smooth cheeks. 'None of my previous lovers were innocents. Any association with me, or any other man, would not harm their social standing. You would be ruined. I cannot do it.'

His words drained all the expression from her eyes. 'I see.' She stepped jerkily backward and his hands slipped from her face. 'In that case, I suppose it's best if I go home. May I have my spectacles, please?'

'Of course.' He extracted her glasses from his jacket pocket and handed them to her. He watched her slip them on, his insides aching with a sharp pang of loss.

After adjusting her glasses, she offered him a formal nod. 'I bid you good-bye, Lord Wesley.' Turning on her heel, she headed down the path toward her home.

Good-bye. There was no mistaking her meaning or her tone. This was clearly the last she expected to see of him.

It was for the best. He should be happy. But damn it, his heart bloody well hurt at the thought of not seeing her ever again. Seeing her smile. Hearing her laugh. Touching her. Kissing her. Making love to her.

He pressed his lips together to keep from calling her name, planted his feet firmly in the dirt to keep from running after her, clenched his hands into tight fists to keep from grabbing her. Then he squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn't have to watch her walking away from him.

He'd done the right thing. The noble thing. For her. Although where he'd found the strength to resist her offer, he'd never know.

Never know. Yes, now he'd never know what it would have felt like to have Samantha Briggeham under him. Over him. Wrapped around him. Moaning his name. Awakening her to the passion she longed to experience… and had wanted to share with him.

He opened his eyes. The path she'd taken was now deserted. Forcing himself to move, he turned to leave, but his footsteps halted as his gaze riveted on the jar of honey. He'd set it down near a clump of bushes before he'd approached her. Instantly a swarm of images bombarded him. Her pleasure at his gift. Her desire-glazed eyes after he'd kissed her. Her earnest, achingly hopeful expression as she asked him to become her lover.

A humorless sound emerged from his throat.

Yes, he certainly was noble.

A noble idiot with an ache in his heart that he feared might not ever subside.

Sammie sat at her escritoire, drumming her fingers against the polished cherry wood surface. He refused. I must put the idea out of my mind.-

Unfortunately her mind was not cooperating at all.

Pursing her lips, she blew out a slow breath. His refusal should have left her embarrassed. Humiliated. Chastened. Instead she was frustrated. Disappointed.

And more determined than ever to have her way.

But how? How to convince him… entice him… seduce him? Why did he have to be so excruciatingly noble?

Yet even as she asked herself that question, she had to admit that she admired him even more for his concern for her welfare and reputation. If he weren't so honorable, she suspected he would not appeal to her so much. Still, she could not let this opportunity to experience passion pass her by. She could not imagine wanting to share such intimacies with anyone other than Lord Wesley, and if she failed to convince him, she feared she'd grow old without ever knowing what physical love was like. Perhaps if she hadn't met Lord Wesley she might have remained content to simply record such dreams in her journal.

But now that she'd tasted his kiss, knew the strength of his arms around her, felt the heat of his desire, she had to know more. And since she was determined to proceed, she needed to learn how to prevent pregnancy.

Pulling a clean sheet of vellum from the top drawer, she penned a quick note to Lucille asking if she could visit her this evening after dinner. Folding the missive, she sealed it with wax, then headed downstairs to find Hubert. She knew he would be happy to deliver the letter to their sister's house in the village, as Lucille always kept ajar filled with Hubert's favorite honey biscuits in her pantry.

While she waited for Lucille's reply, she'd formulate a logical list of questions to ask her sister regarding ways to prevent pregnancy.

And hope she would have a reason to make use of the information.

At nine o'clock that evening Sammie entered Lucille's cozy drawing room, but froze in the doorway as she met the inquisitive stares of three pairs of eyes.

'Good evening, Sammie,' Lucille, Hermione, and Emily chimed in unison.

Oh, dear. This was not at all what she'd had in mind. Normally she'd be happy to spend an evening with all her sisters, but these were not normal circumstances. Clearly she'd have to wait to discuss the topic uppermost on her mind until another time, but she chafed at the delay. Swallowing her disappointment, she walked into the room and hugged her sisters.

Once the greetings were complete, they settled themselves on chintz-covered chairs around the fireplace. As Lucille poured generous glasses of sherry, she asked, 'All right, out with it, Sammie. What's going on with him?'

Sammie's hand froze in the act of reaching for her glass. 'I beg your pardon?'

'Oh, don't be coy,' Hermione scolded, scooting her chair closer to Sammie. 'We're absolutely dying to know all about it.'

Sammie took her sherry and immediately quaffed a hefty mouthful. Oh, dear. She had a sinking feeling she knew which 'him' and 'it' her sisters referred to. Her suspicions were confirmed when Emily, who shared the settee with her, shifted so close she nearly sat in Sammie's lap. 'Oh, he's ever so handsome, Sammie,' Emily said, her eyes shining. 'And wealthy and-'

'Titled,' Lucille cut in, setting the decanter on the table next to her chair. 'A very impressive lineage. He's the eighth earl, you know.'

'No, I didn't know,' Sammie murmured. 'But-'

'The earl's aversion to marriage is well known, but it appears he's changed his mind about taking a wife if he's courting our Sammie,' Hermione said, accepting a tray filled with sweet biscuits from Lucille.

Sammie nearly spewed a mouthful of sherry. Instead she swallowed the liquor and nearly choked. While she knew no one else would believe the earl was pursuing her, she should have known her loyal sisters would accept