"I'm here to stay."
His heart slammed against his ribs at those four simple words. Elation pumped through him, only to be instantly replaced by dread. He turned toward her and their eyes met. Feelings he'd thought he'd successfully buried rushed through him like a brushfire. Want. Need. And a love so fierce and hopeless it nearly choked him. He hadn't managed to forget her, even after she'd moved to her husband's estate in Cornwall. How could he possibly hope to function normally when she was here? Close enough to see. To touch. Yet never to claim as his own.
Tearing his gaze from hers, he returned his attention to the road. Having her return to Tunbridge Wells would only mean torture for him. The years had changed nothing. He was still a commoner, she a lady. A viscountess.
Realizing the silence between them had grown heavy, he asked, "Did you enjoy living in Cornwall?"
"I hated it," she said in such an implacable tone, he turned back to her in surprise, not quite certain how to respond. She stared straight ahead, her face pale, her gloved hands fisted in her lap. "I used to spend time on the cliffs, looking out at the sea. Wondering…"
"Wondering what?"
She turned and looked directly into his eyes with a bleak expression that sent a chill through him. "How it would feel to jump from the cliff. To fall into that churning, frigid water."
Shocked, he pulled the horses to a halt. He searched her face, looking for any indication she might be speaking in jest, but there was no mistaking the horrible truth to her words.
He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said, inwardly cringing at the inadequacy of his words. "I had no idea. All these years… I thought you were happy."
"The only thing that brought me happiness was thoughts of home. Of one day being able to return here."
Questions buzzed through his mind. What had happened in Cornwall to make her so unhappy? Clearly the separation from her home and her brother had greatly affected her. He cursed his own stupidity for not considering such a possibility, but he'd just assumed she would flourish in her new surroundings. He'd pictured her presiding over elegant soirees, being feted and admired by all of Society. And even if he had considered that she might not be happy, what could he possibly have done? Nothing.
Although her marriage had broken his heart, she had to marry in accordance with her father's wishes. 'Twas only right that she do so. He'd wished her well, secure in the knowledge that she would be pampered by a wealthy nobleman who would worship the ground she walked upon.
Yet she'd been unhappy. Had Lord Darvin not showered her with affection? It seemed impossible to credit. What man would not love her to distraction? No, it must be something else-
The answer hit him like a punch in the gut. No doubt the fact that she had not borne a child was the source of her unhappiness. He recalled her saying on more than one occasion how she longed for a large family some day, and how he'd hidden his misery behind a smile, knowing he could never marry her and therefore be the one to provide her with the children she wanted.
Pity gripped him, and without thinking, he reached out and covered her clenched hands with one of his own. Her eyes widened slightly, but she made no move to pull away from his touch. With his heart pounding as if he'd run a mile, he said, "I hope being home brings you the happiness you deserve, Lady Darvin."
She studied him for several seconds with an expression he could not decipher, then murmured, "Thank you." She then returned her gaze back to the path in front of them. "I'd like to go home now."
"Of course." He reluctantly withdrew his hand from atop hers, knowing he'd never have another opportunity to touch her so intimately again. Filled with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, he grasped the reins, then set the horses in motion toward Wesley Manor.
Sammie thought the hour Eric spent drinking tea with her and her parents in the drawing room had passed innocently enough. The moment he departed, however, she realized her naivete.
"Oh, did you see that, Charles?" Mama asked breathlessly.
Papa looked at her over the top of his bifocals. "See what?"
"Why, Lord Wesley, courting our daughter."
Sammie nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. While she attempted to catch her breath, Papa frowned and said, "Well of course I saw Wesley. Impossible to miss the fellow, especially since he sat directly across from me. But all I saw him doing was drinking tea and enjoying these biscuits. Very good biscuits, by the way."
Mama waved an impatient hand at him. "Lord Wesley would not take tea with us for no reason. He was courting, I tell you. Oh, I cannot wait to tell Lydia-"
"Mama," Sammie gasped out. She coughed several times, finally managing to catch her breath. "Lord Wesley is not courting me."
"Of course he is." She clapped her hands in front of her, and her face took on a rapturous expression. "Oh my word, Charles, our darling Samantha shall be a countess!"
Alarm raced through Sammie. Good heavens, why hadn't she anticipated such a reaction from Mama? No doubt because the magistrate's visit, coupled with her disturbing conversation with Eric in the Chamber, had interrupted her logical thought processes. Besides, she'd dismissed the possibility of anyone believing Eric would court her as completely illogical-yet here it was, staring her in the face. Something was horribly wrong with her logic of late, and the timing could not have been worse.
Well, she had to stop this at once. Before Mama started planning a wedding that would never occur. Rising from the settee, she strode across the room to her mother and grasped both her hands.
"Mama. Lord Wesley came today at Hubert's invitation. To see Hubert. To look at Hubert's latest invention. Do you understand?"
Mama sent her an exasperated look. "Well, of course I understand, Samantha. But clearly his visit with Hubert was simply a ruse to see you" A sly gleam flashed in her eyes. "I watched him very closely and caught him looking at you one time with an expression that could only be described as 'interested.'"
"I'm certain he merely had dust in his eye," Sammie said, trying to hold the desperate note creeping into her voice at bay.
"Nonsense." Mama reached out and patted Sammie's cheek. "Trust me, darling. A mother knows these things."
Sammie drew a deep, calming breath. "Mama, I assure you the earl has no interest whatsoever in making me his countess." That, at least, was the truth. "I beg you not to misinterpret what is nothing more than simple politeness on his part. If you do, he will no doubt withdraw his friendship from Hubert. I know your intentions are good, but surely you can see how embarrassing it would be for both Lord Wesley and myself if it were suggested he were a suitor."
"I see nothing of the sort. Indeed, what I see is that one of the most eligible bachelors in England has taken a fancy to my daughter. Do you not agree, Charles?" She shot her husband an annoyed glare when he did not answer. "Charles?"
Sammie's father, slumped comfortably in his favorite chair, awakened with a snort. "Eh? What's that?"
"Do you not agree that Samantha would make an admirable countess?"
"Mama, I would make an appalling countess."
"Heavens, I only dozed for a moment. Did I miss a proposal?" Papa asked, blinking behind his bifocals.
"No!" Sammie all but shouted. Dear God, this situation had gotten totally out of hand, and only served to strengthen her resolve to end things with Eric tonight-before Mama arranged to announce the banns. "There is nothing between Lord Wesley and I." Or there won't be after tonight. "Do not even consider spreading tales that the man is interested in me. I'll not have this interference."
Mama stared at her with a stunned expression. "I'm not interfering-"
"You are. And it will accomplish nothing except causing me embarrassment. Is that what you want?"
"Certainly not," Mama all but huffed. "But-"
"No 'buts', Mama. And no more matchmaking." Sammie blew out a deep breath. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several letters to write." She left the drawing room, closing the door behind her with a smart snap.
Cordel
ia stared at the closed door and whooshed out a frustrated breath. She turned toward her husband and treated him to a narrow-eyed stare when he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "well done, Sammie."
Oh, what a vexing situation! Here was an earl, practically sitting on their doorstep like a gift from above, and she was the only one who recognized this golden opportunity. Well, of course recognizing such opportunities was a mother's responsibility, but how both Sammie and Charles could be so obtuse was a mystery of gargantuan proportions.
Well, she had seen that hungry look in Lord Wesley's eye when he'd thought himself unobserved. He was smitten with Samantha, she'd stake her life on it. Oooh, just the thought of lauding a proposal from an earl over Lydia's head shivered anticipation down her spine. Lord Wesley was a fine gentleman who she knew would make Samantha very happy. What woman in her right mind wouldn't find the dashing nobleman attractive? And even if he weren't terribly attractive, he was terribly wealthy. And well-connected.
Oh, it was a mother's dream come true! The possibilities were all but dizzying. Indeed, now that she thought of it, she felt rather lightheaded. She glanced over at Charles, then pursed her lips. Drat. No point having a spell when her hartshorn-fetcher was snoring.
Well, nevermind. There was no time to indulge in the vapors anyway-not when so many plans needed to be made. For regardless of her protests, Samantha had hooked one of the largest fishes in England.
Now all that was necessary was reeling him in to the shore.
Chapter Eighteen
Margaret lifted her gaze from her book and observed her brother pace the length of the paneled library. Brandy snifter in hand, he crossed from the fireplace to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, his steps muffled by the thick Persian rug. Back and forth, again and again, pausing each time at the mantel to stare with a brooding expression into the flames, only to continue on.
After a quarter hour of watching him, she lowered her book to the chintz settee where she sat. She'd observed him carefully this afternoon, and she suspected she knew exactly what was troubling him. When next he halted by the fire, she asked, "Are you all right, Eric?"
He turned toward her, blinking with unmistakable surprise. Clearly he'd forgotten her presence. A sheepish grin pulled up one corner of his mouth. "Forgive me. I'm being a dreadful bore."
Rising, she walked to the fireplace, enjoying the warmth emanating from the low-burning fire. Large and drafty though it was, the library somehow possessed a cozy air and had always been her favorite room. Much more so than the drawing room where her father's portrait hung above the mantel. A shudder had run through her when she'd seen his cold-eyed countenance staring down from the canvas earlier today. She ruthlessly shoved the image aside. Like her husband, her father was dead. Neither one could hurt her anymore.
Looking up at Eric, she laid her hand on his sleeve, marveling at how good it felt to be able to touch someone. "Something is troubling you," she said softly. "Do you wish to talk about it?"
Tender weariness filled his gaze. "I'm fine, Margaret."
He wasn't, but clearly he did not want to burden her-a kindhearted but unnecessary gesture on his part that sparked a flare of annoyance in her. He returned his gaze to the fire, obviously considering the discussion closed. Foolish man.
Adopting a casual tone, she remarked, "I enjoyed meeting your friends today. Young Hubert is quite ingenious, and Miss Briggeham was…"
His gaze whipped back to hers so quickly she swore she heard his muscles snap. "Was what?"
Any doubts she may have harbored about the source of his preoccupation instantly vanished. "I thought her quite interesting."
"Indeed? In what way?"
"I admired her spirit in stating her opinions to Mr. Straton regarding the Bride Thief. I also could plainly see that she is devoted to her brother-a feeling I can well understand."
He acknowledged her remark with a smile. "She and Hubert are very close."
"She is not the sort of woman who normally captures your interest."
His entire body stilled for an instant. Then, with a casual air that would no doubt fool anyone except her, he asked, "What do you mean?"
"There's no point denying it to me, Eric. I know you too well. I saw the way you looked at her."
"And what way was that?"
She gently squeezed his arm. "The way every woman dreams of being looked at."
He said nothing, just stood, watching her with an unreadable expression. She wondered if she'd pushed too much, and perhaps she had, but she could not stand to see him so troubled. "She cares for you as well, you know," she said softly. "I could see it, even in those few moments we spent together."
A tortured sound rumbled in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
"Why are you not happy? You should thank God that as a man you're not trapped by the confines that dictated my fate. You have the freedom to pursue your heart's desire. To marry whom you choose."
He opened his eyes and pierced her with a look that made her wonder if she'd made a terrible error in her assessment. "You know how I feel about that. I have no intention of marrying. Ever."
His harsh reply took her aback. "I'd assumed your feelings on the subject would have changed over the years, and certainly by now, as you clearly have feelings for Miss Briggeham." When he remained silent, she felt compelled to add, "She is the sort of woman a man marries, Eric."
A muscle clenched in his jaw. "I realize that."
"Surely you want a son to inherit the title."
"I care nothing about perpetuating my title." He swept his hand in a wide arc encompassing the room. "While I cannot deny that I prefer living like this as opposed to residing in the slums of London, my title has not brought me happiness." He pinned her with a penetrating stare. "Any more than your title brought you."
His words cut through her like a steel blade. "But surely a wife, a family, would bring you happiness."
A short, humorless laugh erupted from him. "I am frankly amazed that you, of all people, would recommend marriage." He tossed back his brandy, then set the empty snifter on the mantel with a sharp click of crystal against the marble. "Our parents' union was nothing short of hell, as was yours to that bastard Darvin. Why would you wish such misery on me?"
"I want only your happiness. And I learned that marriage can be beautiful if two people care for each other as you and Miss Briggeham seem to. I knew a woman in Cornwall named Sally. She lived in the village and worked in the kitchens at Darvin Hall. She was the same age as me and married to a local shopkeeper. Oh, Eric, they were so much in love…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked into the fire. "And so incredibly happy, in a way that filled me with joy for them, but also with envy. Because I so desperately wanted what they shared."
Raising her gaze back to his, she whispered, "I was in love like that once. If I'd been allowed to choose the man I wanted, I might have enjoyed the contentment Sally knew."
Confusion flickered in his dark eyes. "I did not know you'd cared for someone."
"It happened after you left home for the Army."
"Why did this man not offer for you?"
Hot tears pushed behind her eyes, and she looked up at the ceiling to keep them from falling. "Many reasons. He never gave me any indication he cared for me as anything more than a friend. And even if he had, Father never would have allowed it." She lowered her chin and met his questioning gaze. "He was not titled. Or wealthy. But he owned my heart." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "He still does."
Eric stared at her, stunned by her revelation. Then a slow burn of anger seeped through him. Damn it, she'd not only been sold into marriage, she'd been ripped away from the man she'd loved. A single tear eased down her pale cheek and guilt flayed him once again for failing her. If only I'd known. If only I hadn't been away at war. But by her own admission she still loved this man. By God, I won't fail her again. She shall have the man she wants.
Taking her by the shoulders, he asked gently, "Who is he?"<
br />
"It matters not."
"Tell me. Please."
She pressed her lips together, then whispered, "Mr. Straton."
Eric felt as if the floor gave way beneath him. "Adam Straton? The magistrate?"
She jerked her head in a nod. A single sob escaped her, and he gathered her into his arms. Hot tears wet his shirt, her shoulders quaking as he helplessly patted her back and allowed her to purge her anguish.
The magistrate. If he weren't so stunned he would have laughed himself into a seizure at the irony. Of all the men in England to choose from, Margaret had to love the man determined to see him hang!
Tipping his head back, he squeezed his eyes shut. He could well imagine the hopelessness she'd felt at her situation. Had Adam loved Margaret as well? He didn't know, but of course it would not have mattered. Their father never would have allowed a commoner to court Margaret. And Eric could not imagine the strictly law-abiding Adam Straton ever thrusting aside Society's rules and declaring himself to an earl's daughter.
Well, this was one hell of a bloody mess. God knows he wanted Margaret's happiness, yet how could he encourage her to consider a relationship that would involve Straton more closely in his life?
Margaret's sobs quieted, and she leaned back to look at him. Spiky, tear-wet lashes surrounded dark eyes that pleaded with him. "Please, Eric. It is too late for me-but not for you. You've found someone to care for, who returns your affection. Do not throw it away. Love is so very precious. And rare. Don't allow the unhappiness and bitterness that defined our parents' lives to destroy your chance for a happy future."
Drawing a deep breath, she continued, "In spite of the sadness we knew here at Father's hands, you and I managed to carve out a cheerful existence for ourselves. Imagine how wonderful Wesley could be if it were filled with love and laughter and children born of a loving relationship. You would be an incredible father, Eric. Kind. Patient. Caring. Nothing like him. And I would be delighted and proud to call a woman you loved my sister, and to be an aunt to your children." Rising up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. "I'm afraid I must retire now as I'm completely exhausted. Please, please think about what I've said."
The Bride Thief Page 24
