She swallowed. "I… I hadn't thought of it that way, but of course you are correct. No one would credit that a woman like me would refuse a man like you."

Eric looked down at her, at her stricken eyes behind her glasses, and his anger withered. Damn it, a man like me would give every last bloody thing he owned for a woman like you. Including his heart. He knew what she was trying to do for him, and he loved her for it, but her solution was impossible.

Taking her hands, he squeezed them gently. "Samantha, we've no choice but to marry. Gossip is already spreading about our scandalous behavior and upcoming nuptials."

"Surely not."

"My butler congratulated me this morning on my upcoming marriage," he said in a dust-dry tone.

Her shoulders slumped, and she looked down at the floor. "Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. I never meant for something like this to happen to you. To me. To us."

He tipped her chin up until she looked at him. The defeat and sadness swimming in her eyes nearly brought him to his knees. He brushed a wayward chestnut curl off her pale cheek, then cradled her face between his hands. "Samantha. Everything will be all right, you have my word. Will you trust me?"

She gazed at him with solemn eyes glittering with unshed tears. "Yes, I will trust you."

"And you will agree to be my wife?"

The reluctance flashing through her eyes slapped his ego, and an inexplicable urge to laugh at his own conceit hit him. Bloody hell, granted he'd never planned to marry, but he certainly hadn't ever considered that he'd encounter such difficulty getting a woman to agree to become his countess.

She finally jerked her head in a nod. "I will marry you."

A breath he hadn't realized he held pushed from his lungs. He gathered her into his arms, then brushed a kiss against her head. "I promise you," he whispered against her soft, honey-scented hair, "that all your dreams will come true."


Eric had nearly reached the Briggeham's stables to collect Emperor and head for home, when Hubert's breathless voice halted him.

"Lord Wesley, may I speak to you, please?" Turning, Eric waited for the lad racing across the lawns toward him. "What is it, Hubert?" he asked when the panting boy reached his side.

"Mama just told me that you and Samantha are going to be married. Is that true?"

"Your sister has agreed to be my wife, yes," he said carefully, not wanting to lie to him.

A frown creased Hubert's thin face. "Does she know?"

Erie didn't pretend to misunderstand. "No."

"You must tell her, my lord. Before you're married. 'Tis only fair that she know the truth."

After studying his flushed countenance for several seconds, Eric asked, "And what if, once she knew, she refused to be my wife?"

Hubert seriously pondered the question. "I don't think that will happen. I believe that she will initially be upset, but after considering the matter, she would understand why you hadn't told her previously and appreciate that you trusted her enough to share your secret before you married."

A shudder ran through Eric as a life-size image of Sammie accepting his role as the Bride Thief, rose in his mind. Good God, she'd want to help him, share in his every adventure. No doubt she'd want a mask and cape of her own.

Hubert pushed his glasses higher on his nose. "I would be happy to put in a good word for you should the need arise, my lord." Scuffing his booted toe against the grass, he added, "You'd make an admirable husband for Sammie, and, well, I'd be honored to have you as a brother. But you must tell her."

A rush of affection for the loyal lad swept through Eric, tightening his throat. Reaching out, he clapped his hand on the boy's shoulder.

"Do not worry, Hubert. I promise I shall take care of everything."

Chapter Twenty

From the London Times:

The search for the Bride Thief is intensifying, as the reward for his capture has grown to eleven thousand pounds. The Bride Thief Posse boasts nearly six hundred members, and it has been reported that wagers are flying fast and furious in White's betting book that the Thief will be apprehended before the week is out, even sooner should he attempt another rescue.


Two days later, Sammie stood still as a statue in her sunlit bedchamber while the seamstress tucked and pinned, making final adjustments to her wedding gown. The hum of female voices floated toward her from where her sisters and Mama sat perched along the edge of her bed, resembling a quartet of pastel-hued doves. They alternately discussed the plans for the wedding, pointed out places where the hem appeared uneven-earning them reproving glares from the seamstress-and beamed at Sammie with a pride that would indicate she'd done something wonderful, when in actuality, she'd trapped an unwilling earl into marriage.

Sammie turned a deaf ear to their excited chattering, an art form she'd perfected long ago, and stifled a sigh. She glanced in the cheval glass, and a lump lodged in her throat. The gown was beautiful, a simple creation of cream silk with short, puffed sleeves. A delicate satin ivory ribbon tied beneath the bust, trailing down the unadorned skirt. Mama had wanted a much fancier dress, covered with lace and flounces, but Sammie had adamantly refused.

She wondered if Eric would like the gown, and a blush immediately heated her cheeks. The day after tomorrow she would be his wife. Sadness washed over her when she considered how different, how joyous this occasion would be if he loved her and actually wanted to marry her, instead of being forced to do so. But over the past two days, since her last conversation with him in the drawing room, she'd realized that while their situation was perhaps not heaven-made, it was not completely hellish either. She loved him. They were friends and shared common interests. He was kind and generous, patient and intelligent. Surely many marriages were based on less. And the way he kissed her, touched her…

A breathy sigh puffed from her lips. Good heavens, sharing his bed would be no hardship. He did not love her, but she would try her very best to be a good wife to him. Of course being a good wife to him entailed becoming a countess, and her stomach knotted at the daunting prospect. Trying to fit into his social world would be like attempting to shove a square peg into a round hole.

She cringed at the thought of all the blunders she knew awaited her, and offered up a prayer that she wouldn't bring shame upon him. Hopefully her sisters and Mama could instruct her, thus enabling her to sidestep total disaster. Eric deserved happiness and a wife he could be proud of, yet she seriously questioned her ability to be that woman. But she would try. For him. And perhaps, given time and a very large miracle, the friendship he felt for her would blossom into something deeper.

Hugging that hope close to her heart, she glanced toward her escritoire. Her pulse leapt as she thought of the note hidden in the top drawer. The missive had arrived this morning, containing a single line scripted in an elegant, yet obviously masculine hand: Please come to the lake tonight at midnight.

Her pulse involuntarily jumped at the thought of seeing Eric, and she shifted her gaze toward her mantel clock. Only ten more hours to wait. Looking toward the bed, she encountered four beaming, proud smiles and knew it was going to be a very long ten hours.


Early that afternoon, Lady Darvin called on Sammie. As they settled themselves in the drawing room, Sammie hoped her unease did not show. Although Eric's sister appeared perfectly pleasant, Sammie wondered about the purpose behind this visit. Did Lady Darvin know the truth behind Eric's proposal? Would she accuse Sammie of trapping Eric into marriage?

Once they were seated on the settee, Lady Darvin reached out and squeezed Sammie's hand. "I know you are busy preparing for the wedding, so I won't take much of your time. I just came to extend my best wishes to you. I realize we barely know each other, but I'm hoping that will change. I've always wanted a sister."

Relief flooded Sammie, and she offered Eric's sister a smile. "Thank you, Lady Darvin."

"Please, call me Margaret. And may I call you Samantha?"

"Of course. And I am honored I shall soon be your sister."

"Thank you. Although, I know nothing about being a sister to a sister, I'm afraid. But since you already have three, I'm certain you can teach me everything I need to know."

"I shall do my utmost." Then, determined to allay any concerns Margaret might harbor, Sammie said, "I want you to know I shall also do my utmost to be a good wife to Eric and make him happy and proud of me."

A gentle smile curved Margaret's lips. "You've already succeeded in making him happy, and I know he's proud of you. He told me in glowing terms about your experiments, and your hopes to develop a warming cream. I think that such a pursuit is fascinating. And very commendable." Sadness clouded her expression. "I wish I'd had something useful like that to occupy my time when I lived in Cornwall. Oh, I tended my garden and embroidered countless handkerchiefs, but nothing of any importance."

Sympathy washed over Sammie. Hoping she was not overstepping, she clasped one of Margaret's hands between both of her own. "Would you like to learn how to make the honey cream?"

A combination of uncertainty and pleased surprise shimmered in Margaret's eyes. "Do you suppose I could learn?"

"But of course. If you have the fortitude to embroider, you can master making hand cream in no time. In my experience, science is not nearly as complicated as working with a needle and thread."

There was no mistaking the gratitude in the half-smile Margaret offered her. "I shall look forward to our first lesson." She studied Sammie for several seconds, then said, "I cannot tell you how pleased I am that Eric took my advice."

"What advice is that?"

Margaret hesitated, then instead of answering, she asked, "Has Eric spoken to you about our parents?"

"No. I only know that your mother died when Eric was fifteen."

"Yes. She was very beautiful. And desperately unhappy." Her gaze bore into Sammie's. "Our father was a greedy, selfish man. He humiliated our mother with his indiscreet liaisons and gambling debts. He set impossibly high standards for Eric, yet would fly into rages when Eric exceeded his expectations. As for me, I was a useless girl, and therefore Father roundly ignored me… until he decided I was to marry Viscount Darvin, another greedy, selfish man whom I disliked from the moment I met him."

Sammie squeezed Margaret's hands. "I'm so very sorry."

"As am I. But because the two marriages Eric was most exposed to-our parents' and mine-were both unhappy, he'd convinced himself he did not ever want to marry. Even as a young boy, he found the idea of marriage distasteful, and when our mother died, he swore he would never enter into matrimony.

"Still, when I saw the way he looked at you, saw that he cared for you, I told him not to allow those two miserable marriages to destroy his future happiness." A smile curved her lips. "He took my advice, and I'm so very glad he did. He brought joy into what otherwise would have been a miserable childhood for me, and he deserves every happiness. He has always been a wonderful, caring brother. I'm certain he'll be the same sort of husband. And father."

Sammie forced herself to return Margaret's smile, but her insides churned with turmoil and guilt. Margaret clearly thought Eric had proposed out of an actual desire to have a wife. How horribly wrong she was. And only now did Sammie understand exactly how horribly wrong.

Dear God, he'd hated the idea of marriage his entire life! His deep-seated honor would bring him to the altar, yet the idea of marrying had to be torturous for him.

Now more than ever, she loathed the thought of trapping him.

But there was nothing she could do to free him.


Dressed for his final rescue in his black cape and mask, Eric sat astride Champion, concealed behind a wild thicket of bushes. Crickets chirped all around him, and an occasional owl's hoot sounded. He kept his gaze steadfastly trained on the path, refusing to look at the lake, unwilling to relive the memories the sight induced. He'd have the rest of his life for those memories… after she was gone.

At that instant, a figure rounded the bend. He could not distinguish the features, but he'd recognize that purposeful stride anywhere. As she drew closer, he noted her nondescript dark-colored gown with a wry half-smile. Only his Samantha would dress so plainly for an illicit rendezvous.