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 observe her. Before she'd taken a half-dozen steps, Mama pounced upon her like a cat after a ball of string.
"Samantha! There you are, darling. I've looked for you everywhere. Misters Babcock and Whitmore wish to dance with us! Isn't that wonderful?"
Sammie looked over Mama's shoulder at the two hovering dandies and forced herself to smile, although she suspected she merely bared her teeth. "Wonderful doesn't begin to describe my feelings, Mama."
Mama beamed. "Excellent! The quartet is about to begin a quadrille."
"Actually," Sammie said, trying to keep the impatience from her voice, "I don't want to-"
"Miss a single note," Mama finished with a laugh and a warning glare. "Come along, Samantha."
Somehow managing to suppress a groan, Sammie cast a quick longing glance toward the sanctuary of the potted trees. She recognized that admonishing look in Mama's eye. The only way she could hope to escape the quadrille would be if Mrs. Nordfield's floor obligingly opened up and swallowed her. She stared at the wooden floor, praying for a miracle, willing the parquet to yawn open before her, but her prayers went unanswered. Stiffening her spine, Sammie braced herself to allow Misters Babcock and Whitmore to lead her to the dance floor, vowing that this was the last soiree she would ever attend.
"I'm afraid Miss Briggeham promised the upcoming quadrille to me," came Lord Wesley's deep voice behind them.
Sammie, Mama, and the dandies turned around in unison. Sammie watched Mama's eyes widen at the sight of the earl.
"Lord Wesley," said Mama, dropping into a low, graceful curtsy. "What a lovely surprise to see you here." Mama straightened and flashed him her most beatific smile, while adroitly elbowing Misters Babcock and Whitmore aside. "And how divine that you wish to dance with Samantha."
"Yes, divine," Sammie echoed without a lick of enthusiasm.
Amusement flashed in Lord Wesley's brown eyes. "Perhaps, Miss Briggeham, you'd prefer to accompany me on a tour of the gallery? I understand Mrs. Nordfield and her daughters are talented artists." He turned to Mama. "You're welcome to accompany us, Mrs. Briggeham, if you wish."
Mama's face lit up like a candle. "How kind you are, my lord. I would be delighted-"
"I say"-broke in Mr. Babcock, peering through his quizzing glass and thus resembling a one-eyed hedgehog-"If Miss Briggeham isn't going to dance the quadrüle with Wesley, I think she should-"
A series of chirping sounds emitted from Mama's lips. "Heavens," she breathed, clutching Mr. Babcock's arm. "I feel quite faint. Mr. Babcock, will you and Mr. Whitmore please escort me to my husband?"
"Are you all right, Mama?" Sammie asked, knowing from experience that the question was expected of her. She also knew, however, that Mama would never "faint" without a settee nearby.
"I'm fine, darling. I simply need to rest for a moment. So much excitement, you know."
"Allow me to assist you, Mrs. Briggeham," Lord Wesley said, offering his hand. Mama waved aside his concern. "I'll be fine, thanks to the kind assistance of Misters Babcock and Whitmore. You two go tour the gallery. There's no need for me to chaperone. I can see from here that there are at least a dozen guests enjoying the paintings." Seizing Misters Babcock and Whitmore each firmly by an arm, Mama led them away, emitting several more chirps.
Sammie observed Lord Wesley from the corner of her eye and fought to hide a smile at the half-dazed, half-amused expression he fixed upon Mama's departing back.
"Your mother is very efficient at social…" his voice trailed off as he clearly struggled to find the proper word.
"Manipulation?" she suggested.
He turned to her, his lips twitching. "I was going to say strategy." Extending his elbow, he offered his arm. "Shall we tour the gallery?"
Sammie hesitated. "I appreciate you rescuing me, my lord. However, it is not necessary for you to continue the ruse."
"What ruse is that, Miss Briggeham?"
"The 'I'll escort you to the gallery so you aren't forced to dance with those nincom-I mean, gentlemen'-ruse. I'm most grateful, but-"
"You're quite welcome. However, it was no ruse. I very much would like the honor of your company."
She looked up at him, searching for the telltale signs of calculated speculation she'd grown accustomed to over the past weeks. To her surprise, however, she only saw what appeared to be warm courtesy. Still, he no doubt only wished to escort her to question her about the Bride Thief, a prospect that filled her with resignation. Deciding to get the inevitable over with as quickly as possible, she queried, "Why do you wish for my company?"
He leaned forward in a conspiratorial way. She breathed in, enjoying his clean scent even as she dreaded his answer. "I promised Mrs. Nordfield I would view her paintings, and I believe she wishes me to do so with her unmarried daughter. You would be doing me a service to accompany me." He leaned back. "Besides, I understand the paintings are… unusual, and I'd welcome your opinion."
"I'm afraid my knowledge of art is limited, my lord."
"With all due respect to our hostess, I fear 'art' is most likely not what we shall be observing, Miss Briggeham."
Laughter bubbled in Sammie's throat. At least this man was amusing. And after the way he'd rescued her from the horrors of the quadrille, she supposed she owed him a boon. Relaxing a bit for the first time in hours, she inclined her head and curved her gloved hand around his extended elbow. "You've piqued my interest, Lord Wesley. I'd be delighted to view the gallery with you."
Chapter Five
Eric walked slowly toward the long gallery, very much aware of the small, gloved hand resting lightly against his sleeve. Very much aware of the petite woman strolling next to him.
You've piqued my interest, Lord Wesley.
As you've piqued mine, Miss Briggeham.
The touch of her dainty hand radiated heated tingles up and down his arm. He wasn't sure why she evoked such a reaction in him, but there was no denying that she did.
They paused in front of the first canvas. From the corner of his eyes, he
watched her study the painting for nearly a minute, angling her head first right, then left.
"It's very… interesting," she finally offered.
Eric stared at the hodgepodge of dark colors. "It's appallingly awful," he whispered.
A noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle erupted from her throat, and she hastily coughed. She looked up at him, and he was struck by her eyes… keenly intelligent eyes that appeared magnified behind the thick lenses of her spectacles. They reminded him of aquamarines-brilliant, shining, and sparkling clear.
He studied her upturned face carefully. A smattering of pale freckles paraded across her small nose. His gaze drifted to her mouth and his attention was captured by one lone freckle dotting her pale skin near the corner of her upper lip… her sinfully plump upper lip that along with its equally full mate appeared too large for her heart-shaped face. Her thick, chestnut hair was pulled into a chignon, with artful curls framing her face. Several shiny strands had worked free of their pins, lending her a slightly disheveled air. A sudden urge to sift his fingers through those disarrayed curls washed over him, and his brow tugged downward in a frown.
She leaned a bit closer to him. "You're the art expert among us, my lord. What does this painting depict?"
He inhaled and a tantalizing whiff of honey tickled his senses, along with the faint scent of… freshly dug dirt? He suppressed a smile. The woman called a toad, a mouse, and a garden snake pets, and her "perfume" revealed she'd spent time digging in the mud before attending Mrs. Nordfield's party, yet that elusive trace of honey smelled good enough to eat. What an… intriguing combination.
Forcing his attention back to the god-awful painting, he said in a serious tone, "This is a barn during a particularly fierce rainstorm." He pointed to a shapeless brown blob. "Here you can see a horse dashing back to its stall." He looked down at her. "Do you not agree?"
She offered him a smile, and his breath caught as it had at the cottage. Her smile transformed her, lighting her features with an endearing hint of deviltry and mischief. "Hmmm," she said, tapping her chin with her fingertips. "I think it more likely that this is a painting of the bottom of a lake."
"Indeed? What would a horse be doing at the bottom of the lake?"
"But that blob isn't a horse at all, my lord. It is a large, openmouthed fish."
"Oh! I see you're admiring my portrait of dear Aunt Libby," Lydia Nordfield said, joining them at the picture. Her sharp eyes took note of Miss Briggeham's hand resting on his arm.
"A wonderful rendition," he murmured, schooling his features into a suitably serious expression. "Indeed, when Miss Briggeham and I have completed our tour of the gallery, I look forward to discussing your talents with you, Mrs. Nordfield."
Mrs. Nordfield snapped open her fan, waving it with a vigor that set her carefully arranged rows of sausage curls in motion. "Why, thank you, my lord. Of course, I'm delighted to accompany you-"
"I wouldn't dream of monopolizing your time," Eric said. "I shall seek you out once I've formed my impressions of your collection."
"I look forward to it, my lord," Mrs. Nordfield replied in a tone that made it clear that nothing short of death would keep her from discussing her art with him. She excused herself with clear reluctance.
"Heavens, whatever will you say to her?" Miss Briggeham asked in an undertone. "You compared dear Aunt Libby to a horse!"
"At least I didn't compare her to an openmouthed fish," he teased, and was rewarded with a becoming peach blush. "In truth, I most likely won't need to say anything, as Mrs. Nordfield will no doubt carry the conversation."
She nodded slowly, her expression turning serious. "You're quite right. I see that you share my mother's talent for-"
"Manipulation?" he broke in with a smile.
"No!" Her cheeks bloomed brighter. "I meant social gatherings. Polite conversation. Idle chitchat."
"I'm afraid it's inevitable given how many functions I've attended."
They strolled toward the next painting. "I suppose you're very popular."
He raised his brows. "I receive a great many invitations, if that's what you mean. But then, it appears you do as well."
A humorless laugh escaped her. "Yes, I'm afraid so. At least lately."
"You sound… disappointed?"
"I fear that in spite of my sisters' kindhearted attempts to teach me, I'm a horrible dancer. And as I'm sure you've discerned, I'm not an accomplished conversationalist on idle matters."
"On the contrary, Miss Briggeham, you've yet to bore me."
There was no mistaking the surprise that widened her eyes. They paused in front of the next painting and he forced himself to look at it. After careful consideration of the unrecognizable swirls, he ventured, "I'm at a loss. What do you think?"
"Perhaps this is dear Aunt Libby's vegetable garden?"
He turned toward her. "Or perhaps her husband?"
She laughed, her face again lighting up with that smile he could only describe as enchanting. After several seconds, however, her merriment faded. She opened her mouth, then closed it, a frown creasing her brow. Finally, she said, "I'm no good at pretending, my lord. If you wish to know about my encounter with… him, I prefer you simply ask and be done with it, rather than wasting your time escorting me about the room for half an hour to gently lead up to your queries."
"Him?"
"The Bride Thief." She slipped her hand from his arm, and he immediately missed its warmth. "I'm well aware that my mistaken abduction is the only reason everyone is seeking my company."
"Surely you do not believe that your popularity is based solely on your encounter with that Thief person."
"On the contrary, I'm positive it is. And a more vexing situation I've never encountered."
She started walking again, and he fell in step beside her, resisting the urge to recapture her hand and curve it through his arm. His heart pinched at her words, and his gaze quickly swept over the guests strolling the gallery. What was wrong with these people? Could they not see that Miss Briggeham was amusing and intelligent? But of course, her intellect would work against her. She was not flirtatious or frivolous, and he could well imagine that she would therefore not garner an abundance of male attention.
"I would have thought most young women would enjoy being the center of attention," he remarked, as they paused at another hideous painting.
"I fear I am not most young women." She huffed out a sigh. "Before my encounter with the Bride Thief, I enjoyed attending the occasional soiree. I'd settle myself amongst the matrons and chaperones, watch my sisters and mother dance, and visit with one of my dearest friends, Miss Waynesboro-Paxton."
"I don't believe I know her."
"She lives at the west boundary of the village. Unfortunately she was unable to attend this evening due to her health. Her eyesight is failing and she also suffers severe bouts of joint pain, the poor dear."
They walked toward the next painting, and she continued in an exasperated tone, "Now, however, there's a party to attend nearly every evening. In spite of the fact that I constantly trod on their toes, gentlemen insist on asking me to dance." She indicated her muslin gown with impatient hands. "I look ridiculous in these frilly clothes. I know nothing of fashion, yet ladies now solicit my opinion on the subject. Gentlemen approach me to discuss the weather. Lord Carsdale engaged me in conversation about the latest rainfall for nearly a quarter hour. And all of it is merely polite chatter to lead up to their questions regarding my abduction."
He barely managed to suppress the need to inform her that while Carsdale had discoursed on the weather, he'd also been leering down her bodice. His own gaze dipped and his lips tightened at the sight of her generous curves. Damn, no wonder Carsdale hadn't been able to take his eyes off her. "Did Lord Carsdale inquire about the Bride Thief?"
"Everyone has inquired."
"And what do you say?"
"The truth. That he was kind to me, especially after he realized his error. And that he only wants to h
elp the women he steals."
"And how do people respond to that?"
"The men ask about his horse and whether or not he carried any weapons. And those two nincom-I mean, Misters Babcock and Whitmore-wished to know the details of how the gentleman tied his cravat."
Suppressing a smile, he asked, "And the ladies?"
"They heave sighs and ask such silly questions as 'was he handsome?' or 'was he strong?' or 'what color were his eyes?'"
"I see. And what do you tell them?"
"That his mask completely hid his features. And that he was very strong. He scooped me off the ground as if I weighed no more than a sack of flour."
You barely do, my dear. "How do you answer about his eyes?"
"I tell them it was too dark to tell. But his eyes were intense. And glowing with intelligence. And commitment to his cause."
"It sounds as if the brigand made quite an impression on you."
She halted, then turned to face him squarely, blue fire igniting her eyes. "He is not a brigand, Lord Wesley. He is a man committed to helping women in need, in spite of the risk to himself. He has nothing to gain and everything to lose by his unselfish actions. Dare I be so bold as to say that if more people were like him, the world would be a much better place, indeed."
Indignation, like her smile, did wonderful things to Miss Briggeham. Becoming color flushed her cheeks, and her chest rose and fell with her deep, rapid breaths. Her magnified eyes burned like blue braziers, filling him with the urge to slip her spectacles from her nose to observe that fire without any obstacles.
"In fact," she continued in a heated whisper, "I would dearly love to help the man in his noble cause."
Pleasure that she believed his cause noble filled him, but the feeling was quickly replaced by foreboding. Help the man? Bloody hell, what was she thinking? Whatever it was, he needed to discourage her. Immediately.
Forcing his voice to remain even, he asked, "How could you possibly help him?"
"I don't know. But if there was something I could do, I pledge I would."
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