The Bride Thief

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 help 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."

"Don't be ridiculous, Miss Briggeham," he said more sharply than he'd meant to. "The man and his outrageous escapades are dangerous. It is preposterous for you to consider involving yourself with him."

The frigid look she leveled at him clearly indicated that he'd said the wrong thing and that their earlier companion-ability was severed. All vestiges of warmth disappeared from her eyes, and an acute sense of loss washed over him. "I'm only thinking of your welfare," he said.

"Do not concern yourself, my lord." Her frosty tone matched the chill in her gaze. "I am quite capable of looking after myself. And allow me to congratulate you. Your method of questioning me was much more clever than most." She performed an awkward curtsy. "I bid you good evening."

He stood, rooted to the spot, watching her hurry by several wandering couples on her way from the gallery. He could not recall ever having been so summarily dismissed. And if he had, it certainly wasn't by a woman. And he certainly couldn't remember anyone, save his father, looking at him with such disdain. Clearly, in her opinion, he was no better-albeit more clever-than all the other people who had sought her company solely to glean information about the Bride Thief, a fact that filled his chest with an odd, hollow ache.

Her pledge to help the Bride Thief echoed through his mind, and his hands fisted at his sides. Bloody hell, she couldn't possibly be contemplating trying to find the Bride Thief and offer him her assistance… Could she? While he didn't fear that any efforts on her part to locate the Thief would prove successful, he did worry that she might do something that could prove potentially dangerous to herself. He well knew the dangers involved in what he did.

He raked his hands through his hair and blew out a frustrated breath in an attempt to calm the unease coursing through him. On the bright side, Miss Briggeham had clearly not suffered any social repercussions as a result of his kidnapping blunder. Indeed, she was experiencing her first taste of popularity-which, although she may not like it, was certainly preferable to being ostracized.

Yes, all had worked out well for Miss Briggeham, and he'd been fully prepared to cease worrying about her… until she'd voiced her ridiculous pledge. He gave himself a mental shake. What could she possibly do? Nothing. She was simply making a statement, the way many women did.

Only instead of declaring that she'd dearly love to own a twenty-carat diamond, Miss Briggeham wished to help the Bride Thief. They were just words spoken in the heat of the moment. They meant nothing.

Precisely. Now he could stop thinking about her. About her huge aqua eyes that reflected a fascinating combination of intelligence, innocence, seriousness, mischief, and vulnerability. The fact that those eyes had last looked at him with chilled disdain instead of warmth unsettled him in a way he could not name… but he could forget that.

Just as he could forget those incredible lips, along with her curvaceous figure, both more suited to a practiced courtesan than a country miss.

Exiting the gallery, he caught sight of her heading toward the foyer, her mother at her heels.

Still, perhaps he should see Miss Briggeham one more time. Just to ascertain that she'd meant nothing by her comment. Yes, that was an excellent idea. He'd make a point to call on her within the next week.

Maybe even tomorrow.