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.