Kent, 1820

Samantha Briggeham turned from the opened window where the cool night breeze drifted into the drawing room, and faced her beloved but clearly addle-brained father. "I cannot believe you're suggesting this, Papa. Why would you think I'd consider marrying Major Wilshire? I barely know him."

"Pshaw. He's been a family friend for years," Charles Briggeham said, crossing the drawing room to join her near the window.

"Yes, but most of those years have been spent in the Army," she pointed out, striving to keep her voice calm and suppress a shudder. She couldn't imagine any woman entertaining romantic thoughts of the dour Major Wilshire. Heavens, the man sported a puckered frown that made him look as if he'd just tasted a lemon. She strongly suspected this conversation was the result of Mama's well-intentioned, but unwelcome matchmaking machinations.

Papa stroked his chin. "You're nearly six and twenty, Sammie. 'Tis time you married."

Sammie fought a strong urge to look heavenward. Papa was the dearest, sweetest man alive, but in spite of having a wife and four daughters, he was as thick as a plank when it came to understanding females-especially her.

"Papa, I'm well beyond marriageable age. I'm perfectly content as I am."

"Nonsense. All girls wish to marry. Your mother told me so."

His words confirmed her suspicion that Mama was at the root of this mess. "Not all girls, Papa." The shudder she could no longer suppress edged down her spine at the thought of being leg-shackled to any of the men with whom she was acquainted.