Kent, 1820
Samantha Briggeham turned from the opened window where the
cool night breeze drifted into the drawing room, and faced
her beloved but clearly addle-brained father. "I cannot
believe you're suggesting this, Papa. Why would you think
I'd consider marrying Major Wilshire? I barely know him."
"Pshaw. He's been a family friend for years," Charles
Briggeham said, crossing the drawing room to join her near
the window.
"Yes, but most of those years have been spent in the
Army," she pointed out, striving to keep her voice calm
and suppress a shudder. She couldn't imagine any woman
entertaining romantic thoughts of the dour Major Wilshire.
Heavens, the man sported a puckered frown that made him
look as if he'd just tasted a lemon. She strongly
suspected this conversation was the result of Mama's well-
intentioned, but unwelcome matchmaking machinations.
Papa stroked his chin. "You're nearly six and twenty,
Sammie. 'Tis time you married."
Sammie fought a strong urge to look heavenward. Papa was
the dearest, sweetest man alive, but in spite of having a
wife and four daughters, he was as thick as a plank when
it came to understanding females--especially her.
"Papa, I'm well beyond marriageable age. I'm perfectly
content as I am."
"Nonsense. All girls wish to marry. Your mother told me
so."
His words confirmed her suspicion that Mama was at the
root of this mess. "Not all girls, Papa." The shudder she
could no longer suppress edged down her spine at the
thought of being leg-shackled to any of the men with whom
she was acquainted. They were either tiresomedolts, or
they simply stared at her with a mixture of pity,
confusion, and in several cases, downright horror when she
dared discuss mathematical equations or scientific matters
with them. Most of them regarded her as "eccentric
Sammie," a nom de plume she philosophically accepted as
she knew she was eccentric--at least in the eyes of her
peers.
"Of course all girls wish to marry," Papa said again,
jerking her attention back to the matter at hand. "Look at
your sisters."
"I have looked at them. Every day of my life. I love them
dearly, but Papa, you know I'm nothing like them. They're
beautiful and sweet and feminine--perfectly suited to be
wives. For the past decade we've all but tripped upon
their constant stream of suitors. But just because
Lucille, Hermione, and Emily are now all married doesn't
mean I must marry."
"Don't you wish to have a family of your own, my dear?"
A long pause filled the air, and Samantha ignored the
twinge of longing that tugged her insides. She'd buried
such unrealistic fantasies long ago. "Papa, we both know
that I am not the sort of woman to attract a man to
marriage. Not in appearance or temperament. And besides,
I'm much too old--"
"Nonsense. You're prettier than you think, Sammie. And
there's nothing wrong with a woman being intelligent--so
long as you don't let anyone know." He shot her a pointed
look. "Luckily, Major Wilshire finds neither your advanced
age nor your keen intellect overly offputting."
Sammie pursed her lips. "How incredibly kind of him."
Her sarcasm floated over Papa's head. Stroking his chin,
he continued, "Indeed. In fact, the Major prefers a mature
bride. Of course, helping Hubert with his experiments,
gathering insects and toads and all that, will have to
stop. Quite undignified for a married lady to be crawling
about in the dirt, you know. Your brother will simply have
to carry on without your assistance."
This situation had gone quite far enough. Sammie cleared
her throat and pushed her spectacles higher on her
nose. "Papa. I love working with Hubert in his laboratory
and have no intention of stopping, especially now as my
own experiments are showing promise of a breakthrough. And
I am perfectly happy at the prospect of being a doting
aunt to my future nieces and nephews. I have no desire to
become Major Wilshire's wife, and frankly, I'm stunned
that you would even suggest such a thing."
"Major Wilshire is a fine man."
"Yes, he is. He is also old enough to be my father."
"He is only three and forty--"
"Provided he had children when he was quite young," she
continued smoothly, as if her father hadn't spoken. "But
more importantly, I don't love him, and he does not love
me."
"Perhaps not, but he certainly holds you in some
affection."
"Certainly not enough to marry me."
"On the contrary, he quite readily agreed to the match."
A heavy silence filled the air as the significance of his
words settled upon her. "What do you mean, he agreed to
the match?" she asked, when she finally located her
voice. "Papa, please tell me you haven't already discussed
this with Major Wilshire."
"Well, of course I have. Everything is settled. The Major
couldn't be happier. Nor your mother and I.
Congratulations, my dear. You're officially betrothed."
"Betrothed!" Samantha's explosive reply rang through the
air like a pistol shot. She squeezed her eyes shut and
forced herself to draw deep, calming breaths. Mama had
tried unsuccessfully in the past to find suitors for her,
but had finally abandoned the effort in favor of focusing
her attention on her three younger daughters--all beauties
of the first water.
But ever since Emily's wedding three months ago, Mama's
matchmaking eye had once again focused on her one
remaining unmarried daughter--a turn of events Sammie
should have anticipated, but hadn't. Clearly Mama had not
given up such ridiculous hopes. Still, she'd shrugged off
Mama's efforts, knowing full well that there wasn't a man
amongst her acquaintances who would consider marrying a
plain, bespectacled, outspoken, socially inept, firmly on-
the-shelf bookworm.
Except, apparently, Major Wilshire, whom Sammie could only
conclude had taken leave of his senses.
Papa fitted his monocle over his left eye and peered at
her. "I must say, Sammie, you don't look quite as ecstatic
as your mother assured me you would be." He looked truly
perplexed.
"I have no desire to marry Major Wilshire, Papa." She
cleared her throat, then added very clearly, "And I will
not do so."
"Pshaw. Of course you will. Everything is already
arranged, my dear."
"Arranged?"
"Why, yes. The banns will appear this Sunday. The wedding
will take place next month."
"Next month! Papa, this is madness. I cannot--"
"Now don't worry, Samantha." He reached out and patted her
hand. "I'm sure you'll be happy once you and the Major get
to know each other a bit better." His voice dropped to a
conspiratorial level. "He's planning to call on you later
this week to present you with a betrothal ring. A
sapphire, I believe."
"I do not want a betrothal ring--"
"Of course you do. All girls do. Your mother told me so.
Now, it's terribly late and I'm exhausted. All this
marriage arranging is quite wearying, and I wish to
retire. Your dear mother harangued me for hours, and I'm
quite incapable of talking any more. We'll discuss the
plans further tomorrow."
"There are no plans to discuss, Papa. I will not marry
him."
"Of course you will. Good night, my dear."
"I will not marry him!" Samantha shouted to his retreating
back as he closed the door behind him. An exasperated
oohh! escaped her, and she massaged her temples, where a
thumping headache was rapidly forming.
What had brought on this madness? And how on earth could
she fix this tangle?
Hellfires scorched her cheeks when she imagined what Mama
must have said to convince Major Wilshire he wanted to
marry her. She knew all too well how determined her mother
could be when she'd made up her mind about something. One
often left Cordelia Briggeham's company with the sensation
of having been smacked in the head with a cast-iron
skillet.
Yes, Mama's good intentions were unfortunately not always
tempered with tact, but Sammie couldn't help but admire--
occasionally in a horrified way--how her mother could
outmaneuver anyone. She had no doubt that if Mama had been
allowed to serve in the Army, Napoleon would have met his
Waterloo years earlier than he had.
Twisting her fingers together, she paced the floor, her
footsteps muffled by the thick Axminster rug. What on
earth was she going to do? The thought of spending the
rest of her life with Major Wilshire, listening to him
recount his every military maneuver in excruciating
detail, sent a shiver akin to panic shuddering through
her. And he would certainly demand that she cease her
scientific work--something she most certainly would not do.
Surely she could bring Papa around. But the finality in
his voice when he'd said everything is already arranged,
echoed through her mind. She could usually bend Papa
around to her way of thinking, but there was no swaying
him once Mama embedded an idea in his head. And her
marrying Major Wilshire was clearly embedded in his head.
Humiliation burned her cheeks. God in heaven, this was
just like her coming-out eight years ago. She'd begged not
to endure the pomp of it all--the parties where she knew
people whispered about her behind their hands, pitying her
because she possessed none of the beauty or grace of her
younger sisters. The frilly dresses that made her feel
conspicuous and awkward. Yet Mama had insisted, and Papa
had fallen meekly into line. So with her head held high,
she'd endured the whispering and the pitying glances that
were made away from Mama's sharp eyes and ears, and buried
her hurt behind countless false smiles.
She pressed her hands to her churning stomach, recalling
how Mama had arranged Hermione's marriage with a tactical
brilliance that would have rendered Wellington breathless.
True, Hermie was happy, but the poor dear had barely known
Reginald when they'd wed. She just as easily could be
miserable, although Sammie couldn't imagine sweet-natured
Hermie being anything but content. And Reginald worshipped
the ground his beautiful wife's petite slippers tread upon.
Sammie could not imagine Major Wilshire so much as
noticing whether she even wore slippers unless he could
somehow relate them to military strategy.
Flopping down on the chintz-covered settee, she huffed out
a frustrated breath. If she refused to honor the
arrangements Papa made, her family would suffer from the
ensuing gossip and scandal. She couldn't disgrace them.
But neither could she marry Major Wilshire.
Heaving a tired sigh, she rose and closed the window.
After extinguishing the candles burning on the mantel, she
left the room, closing the door behind her.
Dear God, what was she going to do?
In the flowerbed, Arthur Timstone heard the window click
shut and drew his first deep breath since he'd heard the
voices above him. He slowly rose from a crouch, his knees
creaking in protest, then stifled a yelp when his backside
found the rose hedges.
Glaring at the offending bush, he muttered, "I'm too
bloody old fer this sneakin' about in the bushes in the
middle o' the night. Unseemly, that's wot it is."
Stubble it. A man approaching his fiftieth year shouldn't
be gallivanting about after midnight like a randy lad. Ah,
but that's what love did to a bloke, made him act like a
slow-witted, puppy-eyed fool.
If anyone had suggested that he'd take one look at the new
cook at the Briggeham house and fall instantly in love,
Arthur would have called them daft, then laughed himself
into a seizure. But fall instantly in love he had. And
because of it, he'd just spent the last half hour trapped
beneath the Briggeham's drawing-room window, afraid to
move lest Miz Sammie or her pa should hear him, and trying
his best not to long for his warm bed an hour's ride away.
If he'd left Sarah's quarters only a few minutes
earlier . . . ah, but that would have been impossible.
Leaning back against the house's rough stone exterior, he
paused to rub his stiff joints before dashing across the
darkened lawn where he'd tethered Viking at the edge of
the woods. Poor Miz Sammie. Clearly she didn't want to
marry Major Wilshire, and Arthur didn't blame her for one
moment. While the Major wasn't a bad sort, his nonstop
talk of the War and his important role in it, could bore
the feathers from a chicken. Why, he'd drive Miz Sammie
straight to Bedlam. And salt of the earth Miz Sammie was.
Always a kind word and a smile for him, always asking
after his mother and brother in Brighton.
Emerging from the bushes, Arthur set off across the lawn
at a brisk trot. Determination stiffened his spine.
Something had to be done to help poor Miz Sammie.
Arthur knew only one man who could help her . . . the
mysterious man whose name hovered on everyone's lips from
London to Cornwall. The man eagerly sought after by the
magistrate for his daring exploits.
The notorious, legendary Bride Thief.
Through the window of his private study, Eric Landsdowne,
Earl of Wesley, watched Arthur Timstone cross the terrace
lawns on his way back to the stables.
The stableman's words rang in his ears. 'Tis a terrible
situation, my lord. Poor Miz Sammie wants not a thing to
do with that stuffy Major Wilshire, but her pa's
insistin'. Bein' forced to marry this way, why, it'll just
break Miz Sammie's heart, and a kinder heart I've yet to
meet.
Eric had sat behind his desk listening to his faithful
servant, neither one acknowledging by so much as a flicker
of an eyelash why Arthur would bring this news to him, but
both knowing exactly why. The secret they shared bound
them together tighter than a vise, although they rarely
discussed it during the day when the servants were awake,
for fear of being inadvertently overheard.
Such a mistake could cost Eric his life.
But simply knowing that Arthur shared his secret, that he
wasn't completely alone in the dangerous life he'd chosen,
afforded Eric a strong measure of comfort. He loved Arthur
like a father; indeed, the servant had spent more time
with him during his formative years than his own father
ever had.
Now, watching Arthur striding across the perfectly
manicured lawns, the early-morning sun glinting on his
graying hair, Eric noted the man's slight limp, and his
heart pinched. Arthur was no longer a young man, and
although he never complained, Eric knew his aging joints
were often stiff and painful. He'd offered him a well-
appointed bedchamber in the manor house, but the servant
had refused. Tears had glistened in Arthur's pale blue
eyes at the generous offer, but he chose to remain in his
rooms above the stables, close to the horses he loved and
cared for.
A smile tugged at Eric's lips, for he knew Arthur had also
refused his offer so as not to risk sneaking into the main
house in the middle of the night after returning from
seeing his lady love. Even though there were no secrets
between them, they rarely discussed their respective love
lives. Arthur would be mortified if he suspected Eric knew
of his late-night trysts, but Eric was happy for the man.