The Bride Thief

by Jacquie D’Alessandro

  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 sons of local wealthy men-intercepted her. Eric's fingers tightened around his champagne flute when Babcock kissed her hand.

  He was about to stride across the room, when Miss Briggeham pointed out the French windows toward the terrace. The instant Misters Babcock and Whitmore turned to look outside, she dashed across the parquet floor and secreted herself behind a copse of palms. Eric bit back a smile and nodded absently at whatever Mrs. Nordfield was saying. Hmmm… Those palms looked very similar to the ones he kept in his conservatory-a coincidence that definitely warranted further investigation.

  Sammie pushed her spectacles higher on her nose and cautiously peered through the dense foliage provided by Mrs. Nordfield's potted palms and ferns.

  Good heavens, there they were-Alfred Babcock and Henry Whitmore. They remained near the French windows, confusion stamped on their faces as they clearly wondered where she'd nipped off to.

  Sammie heaved a sigh. Never in her life had she encountered two more tiresome individuals. Worse, it was nearly impossible to maintain a serious countenance in their company, as Mister Babcock's excessive, bristly facial hair lent him an unfortunate resemblance to a hedgehog, while Mister Whitmore's black hair, close-set eyes, and beak-like nose put Sammie firmly in mind of a crow. She'd listened to them extol the methods of tying the perfect cravat until she'd wanted to strangle them with their own neckwear. In desperation she'd pointed toward the darkened garden and exclaimed, "Look! A herd of deer!" The instant they turned their heads, she'd sprinted toward sanctuary as if pursued by a pack of rabid dogs. She was safe for now… but how long could she hope to remain undiscovered?

  "La, Sammie, whatever are you doing hiding amongst Mrs. Nordfield's plants? Are you all right?"

  Sammie barely stifled a groan. Clearly not as long as she'd hoped. She turned to face Hermione. Her beautiful sister, whose eyes filled with gentle concern, flapped open her delicate lace fan and joined her behind the palm fronds.

  "I'm fine, but please keep your voice down," Sammie implored, peeking through the leaves.

  "Sorry," Hermione whispered. "Who are you avoiding? Mama?"

  "Not at this particular moment, but that is an excellent suggestion. Right now I'm trying to escape the dandies standing by the French windows."

  Hermione craned her neck. "Misters Babcock and Whitmore? They seem like perfectly nice gentlemen to me."

  "They're lovely, if you like cabbage-headed nincompoops."

  "Oh dear. Have they been unkind to you?"

  Hermione looked ready to do battle in her defense, and a rush of gratitude warmed Sammie. Forcing a smile, she said, "No. Even worse. They both wish to dance with me."

  Hermione's fierce expression relaxed. "Which is why you've taken up residence behind the palm trees."

  "Exactly."

  "What are you two doing back here?" The loud whisper close to her ear nearly startled Sammie out of her skin. Turning, she watched her sister Emily jostle herself into position next to Hermione.

  "You're always involved in the most unusual pursuits, Sammie," Emily said, adjusting her cream-colored muslin gown, her green eyes alight with interest. "Upon whom are we spying?"

  Before Sammie could reply, Hermione reported in a loud whisper, "She's not spying. She's hiding from Misters Babcock and Whitmore."

  An inelegant snort completely at odds with her ethereal beauty escaped Emily. "The Hedgehog and the Beady-eyed Crow? Wise decision, Sammie. Those two could bore the paint from the walls."

  "Precisely," Sammie agreed in an undertone. "Which is why both of you must return to the party. Someone is bound to notice the three of us standing back here. In fact-"

  "Whatever are the three of you doing there behind the palms?"

  Lucille's high-pitched voice all but echoed off the wallpaper. Reaching out, Sammie grabbed her sister's gloved hand and unceremoniously yanked her behind the foliage, setting the leaves in motion.

  "Please keep your voice down, Lucille," Sammie begged. Good heavens, her quest for peace was turning into a complete debacle. A very crowded debacle. She knew her sisters meant well, but the potted plants barely provided enough hiding space for two people. Four was simply out of the question.

  Pressing tighter into the corner, Sammie barely suppressed a gasp when Hermione's heel pressed down on her toe. "You must all leave," she said in a desperate whisper. "Shoo!" She waved her arms at her siblings as best she could manage in the tight quarters.

  "Stop elbowing me, Lucille," Emily said in a heated undertone, ignoring Sammie's plea.

  "Then stop bumping me with your hips," Lucille shot back. "And keep your ostrich feathers to your
self," she added, flicking the plume adorning Emily's headband.

  "Who is nudging my back?" Hermione asked, trying to look behind her. "I was here first-"

  "Actually, I was here first," Sammie muttered, yanking her abused toes from under Hermione's heel.

  While her three siblings argued about who was jabbing whom, Sammie separated the palm fronds and peered across the room, praying no one noticed the activity occurring behind the palms.

  Her prayers were in vain.

  Misters Babcock and Whitmore, among others, were casting curious glances toward the copse of potted trees. But worse, Mama was approaching the foliage, eyeing the quivering leaves with clear suspicion.

  "Mama is coming this way," Sammie said, flapping her hands at her trio of sisters. "If she finds me, she'll parade me all around the room again and I'll be a candidate for Bedlam. Please, help me!"

  The mention of their mother immediately silenced her sisters, then set them into action. Hermione laid a comforting hand on Sammie's shoulder and whispered brusquely, "Lucille, you take Mama on the right, Emily, the left. I'll bring up the rear."

  Employing the military-like flanking procedure they'd used for years to divert their mother's attention, Hermione, Lucille, and Emily emerged from behind the palms in a rainbow-hued flurry of muslin, feathers, and ribbons. Peeking through the leaves, Sammie watched them intercept Mama and adroitly turn her around. Mama glanced over her shoulder toward the trees and frowned.

  "Have you girls seen Sammie?" Mama's question drifted over the music. Sammie shrank back against the wall, willing herself to become invisible.

  "Why, I believe she's by the punch bowl," Lucille said, leading Mama away. They disappeared through the crowd, and Sammie blew out a long breath.

  You are nothing but a coward, her conscience scolded. Sammie balked at the description, but she couldn't deny its truth. She hadn't resorted to hiding behind the shrubbery at a party in years, but drastic action had been necessary. And while she couldn't spend the remainder of the interminable evening hiding, she desperately needed a moment to herself before rejoining Mrs. Nordfield's soiree. Her temples throbbed with the effort of remaining pleasant while everyone stared at her, whispered about her, and asked her ceaseless questions. Heavens above, she'd never expected that the end result of her mistaken abduction would be… this.

  While she was grateful that no breath of scandal had touched her family as a result of her late-night encounter with England's Most Sought-After Man, no one, not even Mama, had predicted that Sammie would become the Most Sought-After Female in the village. No longer was she "Poor, Odd, Sammie." No, now she was regarded as "Witty, Fascinating Sammie Who'd Conversed with the Bride Thief."

  Surely her newfound popularity should have pleased her. Flowers arrived daily from gentlemen who only a fortnight ago had avoided her. Female callers stopped by every afternoon or sent invitations to tea.

  Yes, everyone who had previously slighted her-whether to her face or behind her back-now professed to be her friend. Everyone clamored for details about her adventure with the Bride Thief. In spite of the fact that she was an abysmal dancer, gentlemen wished to partner her for the quadrille and the waltz. The ladies of the village now sought her counsel-but on ludicrous subjects such as fashion and jewelry. Even her own family, with the exception of Hubert, lavished praise upon her, as if she were a clever pet who'd performed a remarkable trick.

  No, she couldn't enjoy this surge of popularity because in her soul, in the deeply buried part of her that had always secretly longed for acceptance, she knew that the interest in her was only superficial. None of her new "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. "Forgiv
e 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…"