"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."