Grasping her shoulders, he looked into her eyes and resisted the urge to shake her. "Samantha. Listen to me. You must leave this matter of the Bride Thief alone. The man is dangerous."

Blue fire flared in her eyes. "He is not."

"He is. His very life is dangerous, in ways you do not understand. There is an enormous price on his head, and anyone around him, anyone who might try to help him could find themselves in danger as well. I want your promise that you shall do nothing to aid him."

"I am not trying to aid him. I am merely asking that you not assist in capturing him."

"Do you not see that is helping him, however indirectly?" He tightened his hold on her shoulders. "Promise me you will leave this matter alone."

She studied him for several seconds, her gaze searching and serious. "Will you promise me not to assist the magistrate any further?"

"I cannot make such a promise."

The hurt and disappointment shimmering from her eyes nearly undid him. "Then I'm afraid I cannot make any promises to you."

The trembling finality in her voice struck him like a blow. She attempted to step away from him, but he held on to her shoulders. He couldn't let her go. Not like this.

"Don't you see," he said, fighting the desperation gnawing at him, "that I'm concerned for your safety? I cannot stand the thought of you in danger."

Before she could reply, a distant call came from outside. "Samantha… where are you?"

Her eyes widened. "Good heavens, that's Mama. Come quickly." Pulling from his grasp, she walked swiftly to the door. He followed her outside, closing the Chamber door softly behind him. Samantha led him toward the gardens. They'd barely set foot on the path when Cordelia Briggeham came upon them.

"There you are, dear! And Lord Wesley, too." She dropped into a curtsy in front of Eric. "The instant Hubert mentioned you'd stopped by with your sister, I knew I had to find you. You both simply must stay for tea, especially since you begged off during your last visit." She craned her neck around. "Where is Lady Darvin?"

"I'm afraid you just missed her," Eric said, injecting just the right amount of regret into his voice. "She was fatigued from her long journey and returned home to rest." Knowing he was trapped into staying, he commanded his mouth to smile and extended his elbow. "I, however, would be delighted to take tea with you."

Mrs. Briggeham's sharp gaze bounced swiftly between him and Samantha, then she smiled. "Well, that would be lovely, wouldn't it?"

If the heaviness dragging on his heart was any indication, he suspected that "lovely" was most likely not going to be the case.


Adam's curricle moved slowly along the tree-lined path. Sunlight dappled through the leaves, casting shadows that cooled the afternoon warmth. The only sound breaking the silence was the twittering of birds and the faint squeak of the leather seat. From the corner of his eye, he stole a glance at his passenger, trying his damnedest to think of something, anything, to say to her, but his tongue remained as tied as a knotted string.

By God, she was lovely. He had not laid eyes on her in five years. Five years, two months, and sixteen days. He wouldn't have believed it possible that she could be more beautiful than the image he held in his heart, but she was. Yet he could easily see that the carefree young girl he'd fallen so deeply in love with was gone. Losing her husband had clearly left her bereft.

He inhaled, then pressed his lips tightly together. Damn, she still smelled of roses. In his foolish youth, when he'd tortured himself with useless dreams that an untitled man like him could court an earl's daughter, he'd planted a dozen rosebushes in the corner of his mother's garden. Every year he'd wait impatiently for them to bloom, then he'd sit on the stone garden bench with his eyes closed, breathing in their delicate scent, picturing Lady Margaret's smiling face. After he'd learned she was to marry Lord Darvin, he'd never visited that part of the garden again.

"It is good to be home," she said, her soft voice breaking through his thoughts.

Relieved that she'd started a conversation, he seized the opportunity to ask, "How long are you planning to visit?"

"I'm here to stay."

His heart slammed against his ribs at those four simple words. Elation pumped through him, only to be instantly replaced by dread. He turned toward her and their eyes met. Feelings he'd thought he'd successfully buried rushed through him like a brushfire. Want. Need. And a love so fierce and hopeless it nearly choked him. He hadn't managed to forget her, even after she'd moved to her husband's estate in Cornwall. How could he possibly hope to function normally when she was here? Close enough to see. To touch. Yet never to claim as his own.

Tearing his gaze from hers, he returned his attention to the road. Having her return to Tunbridge Wells would only mean torture for him. The years had changed nothing. He was still a commoner, she a lady. A viscountess.

Realizing the silence between them had grown heavy, he asked, "Did you enjoy living in Cornwall?"

"I hated it," she said in such an implacable tone, he turned back to her in surprise, not quite certain how to respond. She stared straight ahead, her face pale, her gloved hands fisted in her lap. "I used to spend time on the cliffs, looking out at the sea. Wondering…"

"Wondering what?"

She turned and looked directly into his eyes with a bleak expression that sent a chill through him. "How it would feel to jump from the cliff. To fall into that churning, frigid water."

Shocked, he pulled the horses to a halt. He searched her face, looking for any indication she might be speaking in jest, but there was no mistaking the horrible truth to her words.

He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said, inwardly cringing at the inadequacy of his words. "I had no idea. All these years… I thought you were happy."

"The only thing that brought me happiness was thoughts of home. Of one day being able to return here."

Questions buzzed through his mind. What had happened in Cornwall to make her so unhappy? Clearly the separation from her home and her brother had greatly affected her. He cursed his own stupidity for not considering such a possibility, but he'd just assumed she would flourish in her new surroundings. He'd pictured her presiding over elegant soirees, being feted and admired by all of Society. And even if he had considered that she might not be happy, what could he possibly have done? Nothing.

Although her marriage had broken his heart, she had to marry in accordance with her father's wishes. 'Twas only right that she do so. He'd wished her well, secure in the knowledge that she would be pampered by a wealthy nobleman who would worship the ground she walked upon.

Yet she'd been unhappy. Had Lord Darvin not showered her with affection? It seemed impossible to credit. What man would not love her to distraction? No, it must be something else-

The answer hit him like a punch in the gut. No doubt the fact that she had not borne a child was the source of her unhappiness. He recalled her saying on more than one occasion how she longed for a large family some day, and how he'd hidden his misery behind a smile, knowing he could never marry her and therefore be the one to provide her with the children she wanted.

Pity gripped him, and without thinking, he reached out and covered her clenched hands with one of his own. Her eyes widened slightly, but she made no move to pull away from his touch. With his heart pounding as if he'd run a mile, he said, "I hope being home brings you the happiness you deserve, Lady Darvin."

She studied him for several seconds with an expression he could not decipher, then murmured, "Thank you." She then returned her gaze back to the path in front of them. "I'd like to go home now."

"Of course." He reluctantly withdrew his hand from atop hers, knowing he'd never have another opportunity to touch her so intimately again. Filled with a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, he grasped the reins, then set the horses in motion toward Wesley Manor.


Sammie thought the hour Eric spent drinking tea with her and her parents in the drawing room had passed innocently enough. The moment he departed, however, she realized her naivete.

"Oh, did you see that, Charles?" Mama asked breathlessly.

Papa looked at her over the top of his bifocals. "See what?"

"Why, Lord Wesley, courting our daughter."

Sammie nearly choked on a mouthful of tea. While she attempted to catch her breath, Papa frowned and said, "Well of course I saw Wesley. Impossible to miss the fellow, especially since he sat directly across from me. But all I saw him doing was drinking tea and enjoying these biscuits. Very good biscuits, by the way."

Mama waved an impatient hand at him. "Lord Wesley would not take tea with us for no reason. He was courting, I tell you. Oh, I cannot wait to tell Lydia-"

"Mama," Sammie gasped out. She coughed several times, finally managing to catch her breath. "Lord Wesley is not courting me."

"Of course he is." She clapped her hands in front of her, and her face took on a rapturous expression. "Oh my word, Charles, our darling Samantha shall be a countess!"

Alarm raced through Sammie. Good heavens, why hadn't she anticipated such a reaction from Mama? No doubt because the magistrate's visit, coupled with her disturbing conversation with Eric in the Chamber, had interrupted her logical thought processes. Besides, she'd dismissed the possibility of anyone believing Eric would court her as completely illogical-yet here it was, staring her in the face. Something was horribly wrong with her logic of late, and the timing could not have been worse.