Well, she had to stop this at once. Before Mama started planning a wedding that would never occur. Rising from the settee, she strode across the room to her mother and grasped both her hands.

"Mama. Lord Wesley came today at Hubert's invitation. To see Hubert. To look at Hubert's latest invention. Do you understand?"

Mama sent her an exasperated look. "Well, of course I understand, Samantha. But clearly his visit with Hubert was simply a ruse to see you" A sly gleam flashed in her eyes. "I watched him very closely and caught him looking at you one time with an expression that could only be described as 'interested.'"

"I'm certain he merely had dust in his eye," Sammie said, trying to hold the desperate note creeping into her voice at bay.

"Nonsense." Mama reached out and patted Sammie's cheek. "Trust me, darling. A mother knows these things."

Sammie drew a deep, calming breath. "Mama, I assure you the earl has no interest whatsoever in making me his countess." That, at least, was the truth. "I beg you not to misinterpret what is nothing more than simple politeness on his part. If you do, he will no doubt withdraw his friendship from Hubert. I know your intentions are good, but surely you can see how embarrassing it would be for both Lord Wesley and myself if it were suggested he were a suitor."

"I see nothing of the sort. Indeed, what I see is that one of the most eligible bachelors in England has taken a fancy to my daughter. Do you not agree, Charles?" She shot her husband an annoyed glare when he did not answer. "Charles?"

Sammie's father, slumped comfortably in his favorite chair, awakened with a snort. "Eh? What's that?"

"Do you not agree that Samantha would make an admirable countess?"

"Mama, I would make an appalling countess."

"Heavens, I only dozed for a moment. Did I miss a proposal?" Papa asked, blinking behind his bifocals.

"No!" Sammie all but shouted. Dear God, this situation had gotten totally out of hand, and only served to strengthen her resolve to end things with Eric tonight-before Mama arranged to announce the banns. "There is nothing between Lord Wesley and I." Or there won't be after tonight. "Do not even consider spreading tales that the man is interested in me. I'll not have this interference."

Mama stared at her with a stunned expression. "I'm not interfering-"

"You are. And it will accomplish nothing except causing me embarrassment. Is that what you want?"

"Certainly not," Mama all but huffed. "But-"

"No 'buts', Mama. And no more matchmaking." Sammie blew out a deep breath. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have several letters to write." She left the drawing room, closing the door behind her with a smart snap.

Cordelia stared at the closed door and whooshed out a frustrated breath. She turned toward her husband and treated him to a narrow-eyed stare when he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "well done, Sammie."

Oh, what a vexing situation! Here was an earl, practically sitting on their doorstep like a gift from above, and she was the only one who recognized this golden opportunity. Well, of course recognizing such opportunities was a mother's responsibility, but how both Sammie and Charles could be so obtuse was a mystery of gargantuan proportions.

Well, she had seen that hungry look in Lord Wesley's eye when he'd thought himself unobserved. He was smitten with Samantha, she'd stake her life on it. Oooh, just the thought of lauding a proposal from an earl over Lydia's head shivered anticipation down her spine. Lord Wesley was a fine gentleman who she knew would make Samantha very happy. What woman in her right mind wouldn't find the dashing nobleman attractive? And even if he weren't terribly attractive, he was terribly wealthy. And well-connected.

Oh, it was a mother's dream come true! The possibilities were all but dizzying. Indeed, now that she thought of it, she felt rather lightheaded. She glanced over at Charles, then pursed her lips. Drat. No point having a spell when her hartshorn-fetcher was snoring.

Well, nevermind. There was no time to indulge in the vapors anyway-not when so many plans needed to be made. For regardless of her protests, Samantha had hooked one of the largest fishes in England.

Now all that was necessary was reeling him in to the shore.

Chapter Eighteen

Margaret lifted her gaze from her book and observed her brother pace the length of the paneled library. Brandy snifter in hand, he crossed from the fireplace to the floor-to-ceiling bookcases, his steps muffled by the thick Persian rug. Back and forth, again and again, pausing each time at the mantel to stare with a brooding expression into the flames, only to continue on.

After a quarter hour of watching him, she lowered her book to the chintz settee where she sat. She'd observed him carefully this afternoon, and she suspected she knew exactly what was troubling him. When next he halted by the fire, she asked, "Are you all right, Eric?"

He turned toward her, blinking with unmistakable surprise. Clearly he'd forgotten her presence. A sheepish grin pulled up one corner of his mouth. "Forgive me. I'm being a dreadful bore."

Rising, she walked to the fireplace, enjoying the warmth emanating from the low-burning fire. Large and drafty though it was, the library somehow possessed a cozy air and had always been her favorite room. Much more so than the drawing room where her father's portrait hung above the mantel. A shudder had run through her when she'd seen his cold-eyed countenance staring down from the canvas earlier today. She ruthlessly shoved the image aside. Like her husband, her father was dead. Neither one could hurt her anymore.

Looking up at Eric, she laid her hand on his sleeve, marveling at how good it felt to be able to touch someone. "Something is troubling you," she said softly. "Do you wish to talk about it?"

Tender weariness filled his gaze. "I'm fine, Margaret."

He wasn't, but clearly he did not want to burden her-a kindhearted but unnecessary gesture on his part that sparked a flare of annoyance in her. He returned his gaze to the fire, obviously considering the discussion closed. Foolish man.

Adopting a casual tone, she remarked, "I enjoyed meeting your friends today. Young Hubert is quite ingenious, and Miss Briggeham was…"

His gaze whipped back to hers so quickly she swore she heard his muscles snap. "Was what?"

Any doubts she may have harbored about the source of his preoccupation instantly vanished. "I thought her quite interesting."

"Indeed? In what way?"

"I admired her spirit in stating her opinions to Mr. Straton regarding the Bride Thief. I also could plainly see that she is devoted to her brother-a feeling I can well understand."

He acknowledged her remark with a smile. "She and Hubert are very close."

"She is not the sort of woman who normally captures your interest."

His entire body stilled for an instant. Then, with a casual air that would no doubt fool anyone except her, he asked, "What do you mean?"

"There's no point denying it to me, Eric. I know you too well. I saw the way you looked at her."

"And what way was that?"

She gently squeezed his arm. "The way every woman dreams of being looked at."

He said nothing, just stood, watching her with an unreadable expression. She wondered if she'd pushed too much, and perhaps she had, but she could not stand to see him so troubled. "She cares for you as well, you know," she said softly. "I could see it, even in those few moments we spent together."

A tortured sound rumbled in his throat, and he squeezed his eyes shut.

"Why are you not happy? You should thank God that as a man you're not trapped by the confines that dictated my fate. You have the freedom to pursue your heart's desire. To marry whom you choose."

He opened his eyes and pierced her with a look that made her wonder if she'd made a terrible error in her assessment. "You know how I feel about that. I have no intention of marrying. Ever."

His harsh reply took her aback. "I'd assumed your feelings on the subject would have changed over the years, and certainly by now, as you clearly have feelings for Miss Briggeham." When he remained silent, she felt compelled to add, "She is the sort of woman a man marries, Eric."

A muscle clenched in his jaw. "I realize that."

"Surely you want a son to inherit the title."

"I care nothing about perpetuating my title." He swept his hand in a wide arc encompassing the room. "While I cannot deny that I prefer living like this as opposed to residing in the slums of London, my title has not brought me happiness." He pinned her with a penetrating stare. "Any more than your title brought you."

His words cut through her like a steel blade. "But surely a wife, a family, would bring you happiness."

A short, humorless laugh erupted from him. "I am frankly amazed that you, of all people, would recommend marriage." He tossed back his brandy, then set the empty snifter on the mantel with a sharp click of crystal against the marble. "Our parents' union was nothing short of hell, as was yours to that bastard Darvin. Why would you wish such misery on me?"

"I want only your happiness. And I learned that marriage can be beautiful if two people care for each other as you and Miss Briggeham seem to. I knew a woman in Cornwall named Sally. She lived in the village and worked in the kitchens at Darvin Hall. She was the same age as me and married to a local shopkeeper. Oh, Eric, they were so much in love…" Her voice trailed off, and she looked into the fire. "And so incredibly happy, in a way that filled me with joy for them, but also with envy. Because I so desperately wanted what they shared."