Jacquie D’Alessandro - The Bride Thief

Except, apparently, Major Wilshire, whom Sammie could only conclude had taken leave of his senses.

Papa fitted his monocle over his left eye and peered at her. "I must say, Sammie, you don't look quite as ecstatic as your mother assured me you would be." He looked truly perplexed.

"I have no desire to marry Major Wilshire, Papa." She cleared her throat, then added very clearly, "And I will not do so ."

"Pshaw. Of course you will. Everything is already arranged, my dear."

"Arranged?"

"Why, yes. The banns will appear this Sunday. The wedding will take place next month."

"Next month! Papa, this is madness. I cannot-"

"Now don't worry, Samantha." He reached out and patted her hand. "I'm sure you'll be happy once you and the Major get to know each other a bit better." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial level. "He's planning to call on you later this week to present you with a betrothal ring. A sapphire, I believe."

"I do not want a betrothal ring-"

"Of course you do. All girls do. Your mother told me so. Now, it's terribly late and I'm exhausted. All this marriage arranging is quite wearying, and I wish to retire. Your dear mother harangued me for hours, and I'm quite incapable of talking any more. We'll discuss the plans further tomorrow."

"There are no plans to discuss, Papa. I will not marry him."

"Of course you will. Good night, my dear."

" I will not marry him !" Samantha shouted to his retreating back as he closed the door behind him. An exasperated oohh ! escaped her, and she massaged her temples, where a thumping headache was rapidly forming.

What had brought on this madness? And how on earth could she fix this tangle?

Hellfires scorched her cheeks when she imagined what Mama must have said to convince Major Wilshire he wanted to marry her. She knew all too well how determined her mother could be when she'd made up her mind about something. One often left Cordelia Briggeham's company with the sensation of having been smacked in the head with a cast-iron skillet.

Yes, Mania's good intentions were unfortunately not always tempered with tact, but Sammie couldn't help but admire-occasionally in a horrified way-how her mother could outmaneuver anyone. She had no doubt that if Mama had been allowed to serve in the Army, Napoleon would have met his Waterloo years earlier than he had.

Twisting her fingers together, she paced the floor, her footsteps muffled by the thick Axminster rug. What on earth was she going to do? The thought of spending the rest of her life with Major Wilshire, listening to him recount his every military maneuver in excruciating detail, sent a shiver akin to panic shuddering through her. And he would certainly demand that she cease her scientific work-something she most certainly would not do.

Surely she could bring Papa around. But the finality in his voice when he'd said everything is already arranged , echoed through her mind. She could usually bend Papa around to her way of thinking, but there was no swaying him once Mama embedded an idea in his head. And her marrying Major Wilshire was clearly embedded in his head.

Humiliation burned her cheeks. God in heaven, this was just like her coming-out eight years ago. She'd begged not to endure the pomp of it all-the parties where she knew people whispered about her behind their hands, pitying her because she possessed none of the beauty or grace of her younger sisters. The frilly dresses that made her feel conspicuous and awkward. Yet Mama had insisted, and Papa had fallen meekly into line. So with her head held high, she'd endured the whispering and the pitying glances that were made away from Mama's sharp eyes and ears, and buried her hurt behind countless false smiles.

She pressed her hands to her churning stomach, recalling how Mama had arranged Hermione's marriage with a tactical brilliance that would have rendered Wellington breathless. True, Hermie was happy, but the poor dear had barely known Reginald when they'd wed. She just as easily could be miserable, although Sammie couldn't imagine sweet-natured Hermie being anything but content. And Reginald worshipped the ground his beautiful wife's petite slippers tread upon.

Sammie could not imagine Major Wilshire so much as noticing whether she even wore slippers unless he could somehow relate them to military strategy.

Flopping down on the chintz-covered settee, she huffed out a frustrated breath. If she refused to honor the arrangements Papa made, her family would suffer from the ensuing gossip and scandal. She couldn't disgrace them. But neither could she marry Major Wilshire.

Heaving a tired sigh, she rose and closed the window. After extinguishing the candles burning on the mantel, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Dear God, what was she going to do?

In the flowerbed, Arthur Timstone heard the window click shut and drew his first deep breath since he'd heard the voices above him. He slowly rose from a crouch, his knees creaking in protest, then stifled a yelp when his backside found the rose hedges.

Glaring at the offending bush, he muttered, "I'm too bloody old fer this sneakin' about in the bushes in the middle o' the night. Unseemly, that's wot it is."

Stubble it. A man approaching his fiftieth year shouldn't be gallivanting about after midnight like a randy lad. Ah, but that's what love did to a bloke, made him act like a slow-witted, puppy-eyed fool.

If anyone had suggested that he'd take one look at the new cook at the Briggeham house and fall instantly in love, Arthur would have called them daft, then laughed himself into a seizure. But fall instantly in love he had. And because of it, he'd just spent the last half hour trapped beneath the Briggeham's drawing-room window, afraid to move lest Miz Sammie or her pa should hear him, and trying his best not to long for his warm bed an hour's ride away. If he'd left Sarah's quarters only a few minutes earlier… ah, but that would have been impossible.

Leaning back against the house's rough stone exterior, he paused to rub his stiff joints before dashing across the darkened lawn where he'd tethered Viking at the edge of the woods. Poor Miz Sammie. Clearly she didn't want to marry Major Wilshire, and Arthur didn't blame her for one moment. While the Major wasn't a bad sort, his nonstop talk of the War and his important role in it, could bore the feathers from a chicken. Why, he'd drive Miz Sammie straight to Bedlam. And salt of the earth Miz Sammie was. Always a kind word and a smile for him, always asking after his mother and brother in Brighton.

Emerging from the bushes, Arthur set off across the lawn at a brisk trot. Determination stiffened his spine. Something had to be done to help poor Miz Sammie.

Arthur knew only one man who could help her… the mysterious man whose name hovered on everyone's lips from London to Cornwall. The man eagerly sought after by the magistrate for his daring exploits.

The notorious, legendary Bride Thief.

Through the window of his private study, Eric Landsdowne, Earl of Wesley, watched Arthur Timstone cross the terrace lawns on his way back to the stables.

The stableman's words rang in his ears. ' Tis a terrible situation, my lord. Poor Miz Sammie wants not a thing to do with that stuffy Major Wilshire, but her pa's insistin'. Bein' forced to marry this way, why, it'll just break Miz Sammie's heart, and a kinder heart I've yet to meet .

Eric had sat behind his desk listening to his faithful servant, neither one acknowledging by so much as a nicker of an eyelash why Arthur would bring this news to him, but both knowing exactly why. The secret they shared bound them together tighter than a vise, although they rarely discussed it during the day when the servants were awake, for fear of being inadvertently overheard.