The Bride Thief

Chapter Eight

"That's the third time ye've checked the mantel clock in the last ten minutes, my lord," Arthur Timstone noted in his husky voice from across the room. "Yer guests will arrive soon. Makes the time go slower when you watch it."

Eric turned from his position near the fireplace in his private study and looked at his faithful servant over the rim of his brandy snifter. Arthur was comfortably ensconced in his favorite chair next to Eric's mahogany desk, a half-filled tumbler of whiskey cradled between his work-roughened hands.

They met like this frequently in the evenings, sharing a drink while Arthur related any news he'd gleaned through the servant grapevine that might be of interest to Eric and the Bride Thief. Tonight, however, it seemed Eric himself was the focus of gossip.

"Quite a stir this invitation to Miz Sammie has caused at the Briggeham's," Arthur remarked. "Her ma is all a-twitter. She's already invited Missus Nordfield to tea tomorrow to discuss it."

Eric had suspected something of the sort might occur, but he was well-versed in the art of sidestepping match-making mothers. "There's nothing to discuss. I simply offered to show Miss Briggeham and her brother my telescope."

" 'Course that's all there is to it," Arthur agreed with a nod. "Anybody would be a fool to suggest ye'd be interested in Miz Sammie."

"Precisely. And both Cordelia Briggeham and Lydia Nordfield, along with everyone else, know damn well my long-standing views on marriage. They'd be fools to think I'd changed my mind."

"Bah, ye could shout it from the rooftops that ye've no wish to marry. Wouldn't matter to some. They'd just think it a challenge of sorts. They probably think ye're just bein' coy."

"Coy?" A bitter sound erupted from between Eric's lips. "After witnessing firsthand my parents' nightmare marriage, and knowing how unhappy Margaret is in hers, I've no intention of foisting such misery upon myself. And even if I were mad enough to consider marriage, I couldn't possibly subject a wife, or children, to the danger I face. If I were caught, their lives would be ruined."

"A wise decision," Arthur agreed. " 'Course them match-makin' biddies have no way of knowin' that reason." He savored a sip of whiskey, then expelled a contented sigh. "Still, it's mad for them to think ye'd want Miz Sammie. She's not the sort of woman to attract a man like you."

"No, she's not," Eric agreed in a harsher tone than he'd meant. He tossed back his brandy and immediately poured another.

"Still, with all the attention comin' her way, she might catch some gent's eye. Ye'd think there'd be one bloke with enough smarts to see beyond her spectacles." Arthur shook his head and muttered a disgusted sound. "But bah, these young pups want nothin' more than pretty faces, coy smiles, and simperin' giggles. Wouldn't know a special woman if she jumped up and bit their arse. And special, that's wot Miz Sammie is." He jabbed a thick index finger in Eric's direction. "I tell ye, if I were a few years younger and a gentleman, I might court her meself."

Eric's hand froze halfway to his mouth. Slowly lowering his snifter, he asked, "I beg your pardon?"

Arthur waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Don't concern yerself. I'm arse over heels for my Sarah. Still, a man'd have to be blind not to notice Miz Sammie's smile. Or how pretty her hair is. Or how those big eyes of hers sort of… glow. And smart as a whip she is, too. Took young Hubert under her wing, and thanks to her teachings, he's now sharp as a nail. Yes, there's more to Miz Sammie than wot most people see."

Eric leaned against the marble mantel in a relaxed pose completely at odds with the inexplicable annoyance pumping through him. "I didn't know you were so… aware of Miss Briggeham and her charms."

The instant the sharply spoken words left his lips, he knew he'd made a mistake. Arthur blinked several times, then leaned forward and peered at Eric. Eric tried his damnedest to keep his expression impassive, but clearly he failed because Arthur said, "I'm old, not blind. And I didn't know.you were aware she had any charms."

Eric raised his brows. "I'm neither old nor blind."

Arthur's expression slowly changed from confused to stunned. "Devil take me, surely ye're not casting yer eye at Miz Sammie!"

Eric opened his mouth to deny it, but before he could utter a word, Arthur's eyes rounded. "Damn it, boy, have ye lost yer mind? She's not the sort of woman for the likes of you."

Unexpectedly stung by the remark, Eric asked in a cool tone, "The likes of me? What does that mean?"

"Oh, get that stick out of yer arse. Ye know I love ye like a son. It's just that…" His eyes turned troubled and his voice trailed off.

Eric cocked a brow. "Clearly there's something you wish to say to me, Arthur. Why not simply say it-as you always have?"

Arthur downed a hefty swallow of whiskey, then met Eric's gaze. "All right. Why exactly did you invite her here?"

He didn't pretend to misunderstand what Arthur was asking, yet how could he explain what he himself didn't understand? Setting his snifter on the mantel, he tunneled his fingers through his hair. "I suppose I feel a certain responsibility toward her, to make certain she doesn't suffer any social backlash because of her kidnapping."

"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 mind 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.

He glanced at Miss Briggeham, who was studying the portrait with great interest.

"I gather you see the resemblance," he said, bracing himself for the inevitable comparison, even as he again told himself it didn't matter. The resemblance was only physical.

"Actually," she said, turning to face him, "I don't."

Confusion assailed him. "You don't? Everyone says I look like my father."

She tapped her fingers on her jaw and studied him with a serious frown. "Physically, I suppose."

"What other way is there?"

A blush stole over her cheeks, and she averted her gaze. Rising, he moved to stand in front of her. The fire's glow backlighted her, casting her countenance into shadow. Reaching out, he lifted her chin with a gentle fingertip until their eyes met.

"Tell me," he said, perplexed by the strange need to know what she meant. "Please."

"I only meant that your father seems… that is, he appears to have possessed a… harshness to his character. It's there, in his eyes. Around his mouth. The way he holds himself. You don't have that severity of spirit."

"Indeed?" He refused to examine the slow roll his heart performed. Or the pleasure her words washed through him.

His surprise must have shown on his face, for she immediately looked stricken. "Forgive me, my lord. I fear I'm far too outspoken, but I meant no offense. What I was really trying to say is that you are much the handsomer."

"I see." The corner of his mouth tipped up and he couldn't resist teasing her. "You think me handsome, Miss Briggeham?"

Her eyes widened, and her tongue peeked out to moisten her lips. "Well, yes. I'm certain most people would agree that you're… pleasing to the eye. Certainly most female people."

"Ah. And you are undeniably female. But you are quite nearsighted are you not?"

"Yes, but-"

He cut off her words by giving into the urge that had gripped him since the first time he saw her, and slid her spectacles from her nose. Retreating several paces, he asked, "Now what do you think, Miss Briggeham?"

She squinted at him, then pressed her lips together as if suppressing a grin. "I'm certain you're still handsome, however, I can't see you clearly."

"Then come closer."

She took a hesitant inch-long step forward, then squinted again.

"Well?" he asked.

"I'm afraid you're still blurry, my lord. But scientific logic would indicate that your appearance is unchanged."

"Ah, but in science, one must always test theories." He drew one step closer to her. "Can you see me now?"

Her lips twitched. "Still a blurry blob, I fear."

Another step closer. No more than two feet now separated them. He gazed at her, prepared to see nervousness, expecting to see anxiety, hoping to see desire flare in her eyes. Instead, she simply stared at him steadily, with what appeared to be cool detachment, her brows slightly raised, as if he were some sort of… scientific specimen. Bloody hell! "Am I still a… what did you call me? Oh, yes. A blurry blob?"

"You're getting clearer, but you're still fuzzy about the edges."

"Well then, why don't you simply tell me when I'm in focus." He leaned forward, slowly, watching her intently, willing her to react to the heat he knew simmered in his gaze. He knew the exact second he came into focus. No more than six inches separated their faces. She drew in a sharp breath and her pupils dilated.

"Can you see me clearly now?" he asked softly.

She swallowed and nodded. "My, yes. There you are. Right… there. So very… close." Her voice held a breathless, husky note that stroked over him like a caress. And her eyes… yes, they now shimmered with awareness, with the dawning heat he wanted. Reaching out, he gently grasped her wrist, pleased that her pulse raced beneath his fingertips.

His gaze dropped to her mouth and desire hit him low and hard. The sweet scent of honey wafted over him, befuddling his senses. He simply had to know if she tasted as sweet as she smelled. Had to. Just once.

Before he could recall all the reasons he shouldn't, he lowered his head, brushing his lips lightly over hers. Soft. Honey. A hint of sherry. His curiosity not nearly satisfied, he drew her into his arms and kissed her again, his lips circling, teasing, tasting hers.

Warm. Sweet. More. Had to have more.

With the tip of his tongue, he traced her full bottom lip, coaxing her to open for him. A tiny, breathy sound escaped her, sending a rush of her warm, sherry-scented breath over him. With a groan, he slipped his tongue into the silky velvet of her mouth.

Heat. Honey. Heaven.

Her sweet taste filled him, and everything faded away except her. God, she tasted good enough to eat and the urge to simply devour her overwhelmed him. He gathered her closer, pressing her lush curves to him, savoring her softness, ignited by the breathtaking way she fit in his arms. As she'd fit against him when he'd abducted her. Only this embrace was so much more. Because this time she returned it-with a hesitant wonder that grew into a rapidly increasing enthusiasm, dissolving any remaining control he imagined he possessed.

She mimicked his every action, tentatively at first, like a student presented with a new puzzle, but she caught on quickly. With devastating results. As he tasted her, she explored his mouth with the same slow thoroughness, her soft tongue sliding against his. Even as his fingers delved into her silky hair, scattering pins, her fingers sifted through the hair at his nape. When his arms tightened around her, she drew up on her toes, lifting her mouth higher for him.

A low groan rumbled between them. His? Hers? He didn't know. All he knew was that she felt incredible. Tasted incredible. And that he wanted more.

With one hand holding her head, the other skimmed slowly down her back, reveling in her soft, womanly curves. He caressed his palm over her buttocks, then pressed her closer to him, knowing she had to feel his arousal. But instead of backing away, she strained closer to him.

A maelstrom of heat flashed through him, like a brush fire on dry kindling. His pulse roared through his veins, pounding in his ears, obliterating everything but her. The texture of her hair. The fragrance of her skin. The taste of her in his mouth.

More. Had to taste more. Dragging his lips from her, he pressed a trail of kisses down her neck, savoring the vibrations against his lips as she expelled a long, low, moan.

"Samantha…" Her name whispered past his lips, unable to be contained. He touched his tongue to the frantically beating pulse at the base of her throat. Honey. God, did she smell like honey everywhere? Taste like it all over? An image of them, naked, in his bed, flashed in his mind. Her, eyes glazed with need, legs splayed, wanting. Him, grasping her hips, touching his tongue to her moist flesh…

Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had to end this insanity. Now. While he still could. Drawing a shaky breath, he forced himself to straighten and end their kiss.

He looked down at her and swallowed a groan. Damn it, she was as aroused as he. Shallow breaths puffed from between her moist, swollen lips, which remained slightly parted, begging him to kiss her again. Her eyes were closed, and crimson colored her cheeks. His gaze dropped to the rapidly beating pulse at the base of her throat, then lowered to her breasts, which still pressed against his chest. He imagined her nipples were tight and hard, and he ached to slip his fingers inside her bodice, to touch her.

Her eyelids fluttered open, and his resolve nearly crumbled at her dazed, languorous expression. A tremor shuddered through her, and his arms tightened around her, absorbing the shiver, inducing one of his own that tingled down his spine. He brushed a tangled chestnut curl from her flushed cheek and waited for her slumberous gaze to focus on him. When it finally did, he gritted his teeth against the guileless wonder shining from her eyes.

"My heavens," she said. "That was…"

"Delicious. Delectable. Delightful." A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth. "So many'd' words to describe one woman. Or perhaps 'l' words would be better."

"I cannot deny that lightheaded comes to mind."

A chuckle of pure masculine satisfaction rumbled in his throat. Touching his fingertip to that beguiling freckle at the corner of her upper lip, he murmured, "I was thinking of luscious. And lovely."

She went completely still. All vestiges of desire slowly faded from her eyes until she stared at him with a completely blank expression. No, not completely blank. Shades of disappointment shadowed her eyes. He could almost hear her saying I'm not lovely. You're just like all the others who have spent the past weeks spouting insincere compliments.

Her expression filled him with an ache he could not name. Before he could figure out a way to erase that disillusioned look from her eyes, she pressed her lips together, then stepped back, out of his embrace.

"May I have my spectacles, please?" she asked in a flat voice.

"Of course." Reaching behind him, he picked her glasses off the mantel, then placed them in her outstretched palm. She quickly slipped them on, then wrapped her arms around herself as if to ward off a sudden chill. She drew several deep breaths, then she lifted her chin and met his gaze squarely.

Guilt smacked him like a brick to the head. Damn it, what was he thinking, kissing her in such a passionate manner? Kissing her at all? A gentleman would never do such a thing, and he knew he should heartily beg her pardon. But how could he apologize for something that had felt so… right? And how to make her understand that he thought she was lovely? Achingly so.

Before he could decide, she said, "I think it would be best if I fetch Hubert and leave now, Lord Wesley."

She was right. Things between them had gotten totally out of hand, and he accepted full responsibility. But still an acute sense of loss flooded him at the coolness in her tone. As he watched her leave the room, his hands clenched. Yes, it was best that she leave. But damn it, everything inside him wanted her to stay. He couldn't deny it.

But what the hell could he do about it?