"She hasn't. I told ye, she's been highly sought after ever since."
"I know. But…"
"She's gotten under yer skin."
Their eyes met and understanding flowed between them. Understanding born of years of sharing, first as boy to servant, then young man to mentor, then as man to man. Friend to friend. Confidant to confidant. And what Eric had always felt for Arthur was more like son to father than anything he'd ever had with his own sire.
"Under my skin," Eric repeated slowly. "Yes, I'm afraid she has."
A long breath expelled from Arthur's lips. "Well split my windpipe." He leaned back against the leather chair and regarded Eric through shrewd eyes. "Be a shame if she got hurt."
There was no denying the hurt that pricked Eric. "Why do you suddenly harbor this ill opinion of me? I have no intention of hurting her."
"I hold ye in higher regard than anyone, and ye know it," Arthur said, his gaze sharp and steady. "Ye wouldn't mean to hurt her, but Miz Sammie's not like yer usual sort of woman. She's not one of yer sophisticated widows or experienced actresses."
"Do you think I don't know that?" Eric again raked his hands through his hair. "Bloody hell, you make it sound as if I'm bent on seducing the woman. It's disturbing and insulting that you'd even think such a thing. Do you not trust me?"
Arthur's fierce expression softened. Rising on creaking knees, he crossed the room to stand before Eric, then laid a warm hand on his shoulder. " 'Course I do. With my life. Ye're the finest man I know. But sometimes a man's judgment can get clouded. Even the most well-intentioned man. Especially if there's a woman involved."
Understanding and concern flowed from Arthur's gaze. "Miz Sammie… she's kind. Decent. Even to folks who snicker about her behind her back. And she's innocent. Just the sort of woman who might read more meanin' into yer attentions than ye mean." He leveled a look on Eric that seemed to penetrate to his soul. "Unless of course ye truly mean them?"
A humorless sound emitted from Eric's throat. "It sounds as if you're asking me what my intentions toward Miss Briggeham are. Why? You've never shown such an interest in my private life before."
"I've always been interested. I've just never commented before."
"But you are now."
"Yes. Because I know Miz Sammie. And I like her."
"Has it occurred to you that perhaps I like her, too?"
"Truth be told, ye'd be a fool not to. Salt of the earth, Miz Sammie is. Guess I'm just hoping ye'll be… careful with her. She's got a kind heart. I'd hate to see it broken." Arthur squeezed his shoulder. "Ye've a good heart, too. Would please me mightily to see ye give it to someone before I'm too old to realize ye've done it."
Eric's eyes narrowed. "You're reading far too much into a simple invitation."
Arthur didn't answer for several seconds. He simply looked at Eric with that same penetrating expression that somehow made him want to squirm. "Yes, ye're probably right." He squeezed Eric's shoulder then headed toward the door. "Enjoy yer evening, my lord. I'm sure Miz Sammie and Master Hubert will enjoy yer fancy telescope."
The instant the door closed behind Arthur with a quiet click, Eric grabbed his brandy snifter and tossed back the contents. The heat burned down his belly, soothing the unsettling feeling jittering there.
A simple invitation,, damn it. That's all this was. He had no intention of involving himself with Samantha Briggeham. He had responsibilities, a secret life. A price on his head.
There was no room for her in his world.
Standing in a spacious glass-walled alcove set in the corner of Lord Wesley's vast conservatory, Sammie watched Hubert approach the Herschel with an awed expression. The boy issued a rapturous oh! that brought a smile to her face, and she concentrated on Hubert's excited enthusiasm, a feeling she herself should be experiencing… not this aching, almost painful awareness of the tall, dark-haired man patiently answering the barrage of rapid-fire questions shooting from Hubert's lips.
Heavens, was it possible for a man to be breathtaking? She never would have thought so. Until now. Until she stood in his home, trying to focus her attention on his words, on his magnificent telescope, and failing utterly. Until he glanced her way and all the oxygen seemed to leave the air.
Dressed completely in black except for his snowy white shirt and cravat, he looked elegant; yet at the same time he somehow exuded an air that underneath his polished veneer lurked a barely contained energy. A suppressed strength that hinted there was more to him than his well-bred appearance indicated.
"There's Sagittarius," Hubert said with breathless wonder, gazing through the eyepiece. "And Aquila. I've seen them before, but never like this! They look close enough to touch." Turning, he grabbed Sammie's hand and tugged her toward the telescope. "Look, Sammie. You've never seen the likes of this."
Forcing her gaze away from her disturbing host, she reminded herself that she was eager to experience the splendor of such a fine telescope and stepped up to the instrument. After a minute adjustment to the focus, she gasped in delight.
"It's as if the heavens are laid out before me, just slightly beyond my reach." The stars shimmered like diamonds against black velvet, twinkling with a close-up brilliance that coaxed her hand to reach out, as if she could gather them up and sift them through her fingers.
"The stars are indeed fabulous," Lord Wesley said from behind her, "but if you look just over here…"
His voice trailed off and the warmth of his body surrounded her as he stepped in close behind her. Resting one hand upon her shoulder, he reached around her with his free hand and slowly pivoted the telescope. "Now," he said, his deep voice close to her ear, "you should be able to see Jupiter."
She watched the jewel-studded sky shift as he adjusted the telescope, her breath trapped in her throat at the brush of his body against hers. His clean, masculine scent invaded her senses, and she had to fight the urge to lean back against him, to surround herself with him as she would with a warm, velvety blanket.
Tingles erupted on her skin where his hand rested on her shoulder, scissoring pinpricks of pleasure down her spine. Squeezing her eyes shut against the sensations swarming through her, she forced a deep breath into her lungs. This unscientific, illogical behavior on her part would simply not do at all. Opening her eyes, she blinked, then gasped.
"Oh, my," she breathed. "It's a miracle to see something that is so far away."
"Tell me what you see," Lord Wesley said softly.
"It's… incredible. Red. Burning. Mysterious. Too distant to even imagine what it's like there." With the heat of his body grazing her back, she gazed at the distant planet and tried, completely unsuccessfully, to convince herself that the rapid beating of her heart was strictly due to the thrill of scientific discovery.
She drew a bracing breath and inwardly scolded herself, then turned toward Hubert, who was all but bouncing with excitement. Pushing her spectacles higher on her nose, she offered him a smile that felt decidedly shaky.
"Is it grand, Sammie?" Hubert asked.
"The grandest thing you'll ever feel… I mean, see."
She stepped hastily aside and watched Hubert apply his eye to the glass. His exclamation of wonder echoed through the room, and she dared a peek at Lord Wesley. He was watching her, and when their gazes met, he offered her a smile.
"You're pleased?"
"Oh, very much so, my lord." Heavens above, was that breathless voice coming from her? She nodded her head toward her brother, who was completely absorbed. "And I think it's fair to say that if Hubert were any more excited, 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 min
d 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."
"I'm certain you don't mean to sound so surprised," he teased.
"I'm not surprised, my lord." Mischief twinkled behind her spectacles. "At least not very much." Her amusement slowly faded. "I appreciate your kindness toward me, but I wish to express my gratitude for the generosity you've shown Hubert." Reaching out, she lightly touched his arm. "Thank you."
" 'Twas no hardship. Hubert's a fine boy with a sharp,
inquisitive mind."
"Yes, he is. But many people simply… dismiss him."
"Many people are fools."
A slow smile, filled with unmistakable admiration, eased over her face, and he felt as if he'd just been presented with a priceless gift. He glanced down at her small hand resting on his sleeve and marveled that such an innocent touch could ignite such a fire in him. Raising his gaze, he stared into her magnified eyes, which regarded him with a warmth that only served to further heat his blood.
Her gaze dropped to where her hand still rested on his sleeve. Issuing a self-conscious sound, she withdrew her hand, and he barely resisted the urge to grab her fingers back and press them against him.
The room suddenly felt too warm. Too confining. He needed to put some distance between them, but before he could move, she set the jar on the table, then rose. Had she felt it, too?
She approached the fireplace, where she looked up at the massive portrait hung above the marble mantel. "Your father?" she asked.
"Yes." Eric gazed dispassionately at the man who had sired him. Marcus Landsdowne had provided the seed to create his son, but that was the extent of his "fathering." He supposed many men would have removed the portrait, but he'd never considered doing so. His father's unforgivable treatment of Margaret was the driving force behind his mission as the Bride Thief, and he made certain he looked upon his father's face every day so he wouldn't forget… wouldn't forget how the greedy bastard had bartered away a beautiful young woman like a piece of chattel. Or how his reckless infidelities had shamed his mother. Or how he'd treated his son with a cruel combination of contempt and indifference.
No, he'd never forget the sort of man he'd vowed never to become.
Yet the portrait taunted him every time he gazed upon it, for there was no denying the physical resemblance between he and his father, a fact that rankled him. I may look like you, but I'm nothing like you, you bastard.
The Bride Thief Page 12
