Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  But first things first, he sternly reminded himself. Isa would never be lured into marriage as long as she considered herself in love with Peter Effinton. He had to rid himself of the unwelcome distraction before he could begin to use his irresistible charms.

  With that thought in mind, Barth went in determined pursuit of his invaluable steward. He intended to learn as much about his enemy as soon as possible.

  Not surprisingly, Mr. Portswaite was discovered hunched over a desk in the study. A thin, middle aged man with a thatch of brown hair, he possessed a shrewd intelligence that had somehow managed to keep the destitute estate limping along. He also possessed a studious manner that would have naturally drawn him toward the highly esteemed Peter Effinton.

  Entering the leather-scented room, Barth smiled as the man, attired in a plain coat and breeches, hurried to his feet.

  “Good morning, Portswaite.”

  The steward blinked in surprise, far from accustomed to having his employer deliberately seek out his company.

  “My lord.”

  “How do you go on?”

  “Quite well.” A sudden glint entered the brown eyes. “Would you care to view the books, my lord?”

  “Good God, no.”

  “Oh.”

  Barth couldn’t help but laugh at the manner in which the thin face crumpled at his instinctive response.

  “Yes, a sad disappointment for an earl, eh, Portswaite?” he consoled his servant. “I unfortunately trust you inexplicably and refuse to fribble away the afternoon calculating sums that have already been perfectly calculated.”

  “Perhaps you prefer to discuss the field rotations?” he asked hopefully.

  Barth casually strolled toward the Sheraton desk.

  “Actually I prefer to discuss Mr. Effinton.”

  Not surprisingly, Portswaite blinked in bewilderment. “The vicar?”

  “Mr. Peter Effinton,” Barth clarified.

  “I see,” the young man murmured, even though it was obvious that he did not see at all.

  “What do you think of the young gentleman?”

  “I believe he is a scholar.”

  “Yes. Is he well liked about the neighborhood?”

  Portswaite gave a vague shrug. “Well enough.”

  “There has been no . . . gossip?”

  “No, my lord.” Portswaite regarded him with a faint frown. “Is something amiss?”

  Barth gave a dismissive wave of his hand, wondering how many throughout the neighborhood were aware of Isa’s preference for Peter Effinton.

  “I am interested in learning more of Peter Effinton. Surely you have spoken with him?”

  “On occasion,” Portswaite admitted.

  “Does he like to drink?”

  The brown eyes widened in shock. “Oh, no.”

  “Does he gamble?”

  “No, sir.”

  Barth tried a new attack. “Does he have a mistress?”

  A hint of color crawled up Portswaite’s neck. “Not to my knowledge, my lord.”

  Good god, was the man a saint? Barth wondered in exasperation.

  “Perhaps he does not prefer women?”

  The color deepened to a shade of scarlet. “Well, as to that, I do believe he was once engaged to be wed.”

  Ah, now they were getting somewhere.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, he spoke of a Miss Keaton from Dover whom he was briefly engaged to. I believe there was some objection from the family.”

  “Miss Keaton,” Barth murmured, his thoughts dwelling on a dozen different schemes. “I wonder if he still harbors a tendre for the young lady?”

  As if anxious to assure Barth that Mr. Effinton had no peculiar inclinations, Portswaite gave a sharp nod.

  “He did speak of her quite affectionately.”

  “Perhaps I should invite the young maiden to Kent,” he murmured, the vague thoughts beginning to form into a devious plot. “Mother must be acquainted with someone in Dover who could extend the invitation.”

  A silence descended as Barth inwardly considered the swiftest method of bringing Miss Keaton to Graystone Manor. Across the desk, Portswaite cleared his throat in a discomfited fashion.

  “Are you displeased with Mr. Effinton, my lord?”

  A decidedly sardonic smile curved Barth’s lips. “Not at all. He seems to be a gentleman above reproach.”

  “Yes,” Portswaite agreed in an uncertain tone. Realizing that his peculiar behavior was bound to rouse suspicion, Barth gave a faint nod of his head.

  “I shall let you return to your books, Portswaite. Later in the week we shall tour the estate and discuss any changes you would like to implement.”

  As he had hoped, the tempting promise immediately distracted his steward, and the thin face brightened with anticipation.

  “Very good, my lord.”

  Leaving the study, Barth was about to seek his breakfast when he caught a glimpse of a slender maiden with a halo of golden curls crossing the foyer. An unknowing smile lit his countenance as his blood quickened in anticipation.

  With an eagerness he would never have believed possible, Barth quickened his step to intercept the unexpected visitor.

  “Miss Lawford, good day.”

  Isa came to an abrupt halt at his appearance, her own expression far from pleased.

  “My lord.”

  “Barth,” he reminded as he moved close to her side and studied her rigid features. It was obvious she was still disturbed by their impassioned kiss and wished he were in Jericho. “How very remiss of Gatson. He did not inform me that you had arrived.”

  “That is because I am here to see your grandmother,” she informed him in a lofty tone.

  His lips twitched. “A pity.”

  The amber eyes became positively frosty. “Pray excuse me.”

  He shifted to block her path. “Surely there is no need to rush away? Why do you not join me in the library?”

  “Lady Wickton is expecting me.”

  “Surely she would not grudge me a few moments of your time?”

  She remained indifferent to the persuasive charm of his smile.

  “No, thank you, my—Barth.”

  “You seem upset.” He lifted his hand to tug at his ear. “Is something amiss?”

  Her lips thinned as she sensed his simmering amusement. “I simply prefer not to keep your grandmother waiting.”

  “Ah, Isa.” He gave a low chuckle. “Why do you not admit that you are angry because I kissed you?”

  She reddened but predictably refused to concede the truth. “Absurd.”

  “You can hardly hold me at fault,” he relentlessly teased, quite enjoying her obvious unease. “You might as well blame the moonlight or the irresistible temptation of your beautiful lips.”

  A hint of panic flared through Isa’s eyes before she sternly schooled her emotions. “You are mistaken. I had completely dismissed the incident from my mind.”

  The icy tone only broadened his smile. “Bravo, Isa,” he congratulated. “The only sensible thing for you to do is to stoically pretend that our . . . passionate embrace never occurred. After all, you are in love with another gentleman. I, on the hand, am free to recall our kiss with unabated pleasure.”

  “I believe you are deliberately attempting to provoke me, sir,” she said stiffly.

  “Perhaps a bit.” He briefly studied her thinned lips. “When did you become so grim, Isa? It was a harmless kiss. And certainly not our first.”

  She gave a disapproving sniff. “No doubt the ladies of London enjoy such bold advances, but I do not.”

  “Of course not. You prefer to enlarge your mind with prosy speeches of Socrates and Plato.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Tell me, Isa.” Barth reached out to grasp her other hand, fiercely pleased when he felt her tremble. “Does Mr. Effinton kiss you in the garden?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “He is fortunate.” He lifted her fingers to his lips before stepping back.
“Enjoy your visit with Grandmother.”

  * * *

  Isa swept past the laughing nobleman with her head high, but inwardly she was quivering with emotions.

  If only she were a man, she seethed, she would have planted him a facer. Of course, if she were a man, then she wouldn’t be wracked with a combination of anger, embarrassment, and self-loathing.

  How could she have made such a cake of herself?

  It was ridiculous enough that she had allowed Barth to kiss her. After all, she was a mature woman. She could have repulsed his advances. But to actually have responded . . .

  Even three days later, she shuddered at her fervent excitement. It was little wonder that Barth was so vastly amused. She had behaved as if she were once again a susceptible schoolgirl longing to be held in his arms.

  It did not even help to acknowledge that she had at last come to her senses and fled the garden. She had allowed him to realize that she was still vulnerable to his practiced seduction. It was a humiliating weakness that had haunted her for the past three days.

  Climbing the wide flight of steps, Isa entered Lady Sarah’s private wing. A waiting servant pulled open the door to the informal salon, and with an effort, Isa managed a smile as she crossed toward the silver haired dowager seated on the sofa.

  “Isa, darling, how lovely to see you,” the older woman exclaimed with a warm smile.

  Although as close to Lady Sarah as she was to her own mother, Isa felt a decided constraint as she smoothed the skirt of her pale apricot gown. Not only was she still perturbed by her encounter with the odious Lord Wickton; there was also the knowledge that her relationship with the elder woman was bound to be awkward.

  After all, Lady Sarah doted upon her only grandson and could not be pleased to discover that Isa preferred another.

  “Lady Wickton.”

  “Lady Wickton? Goodness.” Silver brows arched in surprise. “Have I displeased you?”

  “Of course not,” Isa denied.

  “Then my name is Sarah,” she insisted. “Have a seat, my dear. It has been far too long since we were together.”

  Perching on the edge of a cushioned chair, Isa gave a faint shrug.

  “I have been rather occupied.”

  A knowing smile touched the lined countenance. “Yes, so I have heard.”

  Blast the local rattles, Isa silently cursed as she shifted uneasily beneath the piercing gaze. She should have suspected that Lady Sarah would be aware of the rumors of her and Mr. Effinton even in her splendid seclusion.

  “I suppose you have called me here to convince me that I should marry your grandson.”

  “Good lord, no,” Lady Sarah surprised her by retorting. “I am delighted you have cried off.”

  “You are?”

  “Of course. I have always strongly opposed my daughter-in-law’s determination to barter my grandson for her own comfort.” Lady Sarah glanced toward the large portrait over the mantel. Isa did not bother to turn her head. She had always found the darkly handsome features of the third earl far too similar to the current earl’s for comfort. “Having married for love myself, I would wish the same for Barth.”

  “Oh.”

  “You seem surprised.”

  Isa was more than surprised; she was stunned. And oddly hurt that the dowager appeared so pleased she was not to become a member of the Wickton clan.

  “You never mentioned your objection to our marriage before,” she pointed out in stiff tones.

  Lady Sarah gave a tinkling laugh. “It would hardly have been kind when you thought yourself so desperately in love.”

  A hint of color crawled beneath her cheeks. Desperately in love? Really, she had been a mere child.

  “I fear few others are as pleased as you by my refusal to wed Lord Wickton.”

  “No. Isobella is desperate for a means to pay her outstanding bills, and your own dear mother is quite determined to see you a countess. They will not concede defeat easily.”

  Isa grimaced. “No.”

  “They cannot force you to wed,” Lady Sarah retorted in firm tones.

  “That is what I tell myself.”

  “And what of Barth?”

  Isa caught her breath. “What do you mean?”

  “Is he pleased at your decision?”

  For no reason at all, the memory of the searing kiss in the garden rose to her mind. She abruptly dropped her gaze to study the clenched fists in her lap.

  “I haven’t the least notion.”

  “Has something occurred, Isa?”

  Isa paused; then, abruptly, her expression hardened. “I realize that he is your grandson, but he is the most . . . aggravating of gentlemen.”

  “Oh, I fully agree. He was abominably spoiled as a child, and of-course, his undoubted success among the ton has only ensured his arrogance. What has he done?”

  “He kissed me,” Isa breathed.

  Unbelievably, Lady Sarah gave a laugh. “Is that all? I should have been very surprised to learn that he hadn’t attempted to kiss you.”

  The amber gaze abruptly lifted. “He has no right to such intimacies.”

  “Did he harm you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And did you enjoy his kiss?”

  Isa stiffened. Did Lady Sarah not realize how improper it was for her grandson to be treating her like a common flirt?

  “He is very accomplished in the art of seducing a woman.”

  Far from disapproving, a secretive smile curved the old lady’s lips.

  “Yes, it is a talent that all the Wickton men inherit.”

  And a talent they were anxious to share with every available female, Isa thought with a flare of distaste.

  “I unfortunately cannot admire such skills,” she retorted in disapproving tones.

  “No?” The silver head tilted to one side. “How very odd. I must say that I very much appreciated such talent.”

  Isa refused to blush at the teasing words. “Lord Wickton will no doubt find it an advantage in his search for a new bride.”

  “No doubt,” Lady Sarah agreed in light tones. “And you shall discover a nice gentleman who is very poor at seducing a maiden, and you both shall be quite happy.” The door opened, revealing an aged servant with a large tray. “Ah . . . tea.”

  Five

  As was her habit, Isa left the house early to stroll through the sun-drenched grounds. This morning, however, she avoided the public path and instead headed toward the large lake. No doubt Peter would be taking his walk from the vicarage to the distant cliffs, but the fear of encountering Lord Wickton overrode her desire to speak with her dear friend.

  Attired in a pale blue gown with an indigo spencer, she crossed the dew-kissed lawn. It was absurd to take such pains to avoid Barth, she acknowledged. He meant nothing to her. But since that unnerving kiss in the garden, she could not deny that she had taken great pains to avoid his presence.

  Why did he not return to London?

  It was common knowledge that he abhorred the placid country society. And certainly his mother would not desire him underfoot. So what could possibly be keeping him in Kent?

  It was a puzzle that she found herself brooding over far too often.

  Clicking her tongue in exasperation, Isa wrapped her arms about her waist. Not so very long ago she had nothing to trouble her mind. Her days were filled with lovely thoughts of Peter and how he would one day return her devotion. There were no tangled emotions that battled in the pit of her stomach. And certainly no traitorous dreams that made her blush even to recall.

  Blast Lord Wickton and his troublesome presence.

  Reaching the edge of the lake, Isa skirted alongside the glittering water as she attempted to clear her thoughts. It was a beautiful morning. Too beautiful to ruin with thoughts of Lord Wickton.

  For nearly half an hour Isa walked through the parkland; then, as her slippers became damp from the grass, she turned to make her way back along the lake. Her mother would no doubt be waiting to review t
he daily menu or discuss how to purchase the best cuts of beef. She had yet to console herself with the knowledge that Isa was not about to become mistress of Graystone Manor. In fact, Isa had only to hint that she would prefer a modest cottage with Peter for her mother to indulge in a fit of the vapors. She could only hope in time that her mother would accept the fact that it was preferable for Isa to be the happy wife of a scholar than a miserable countess.

  The thought brought a wry grin to her face. To her mother’s mind, being a countess was far more important than mere happiness. No amount of time could alter that.

  Pausing to admire the pair of swans swimming toward the edge of the lake, Isa was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Presuming it must be one of the many gardeners, Isa casually turned, only to stiffen in alarm at the sight of the large, impossibly handsome gentleman regarding her with lazy amusement.

  “Good morning, Isa.”

  Botheration! It was little wonder her nerves were on edge. How was she supposed to be at ease when she never knew when Lord Wickton might suddenly appear?

  Against her will, her gaze traveled over the decidedly male form encased in a dark gold coat and buff pantaloons. A shiver inched down her spine. He had no right to be so wickedly handsome, she decided with a flare of annoyance.

  Even his voice was attractive—a low, faintly husky rasp with a hint of ready humor.

  “Hello, Barth.” She forced herself to retort in cool tones.

  “A lovely day.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad to meet with you.”

  “Oh?”

  He moved close enough for her to smell the clean scent of his male skin.

  “Grandmother said that the two of you enjoyed a very nice visit.”

  She rigidly refused to move away from his towering form. She would not betray just how disturbing she found his nearness.

  “Yes, we did.”

  “You were always a favorite of hers.”

  “Lady Wickton is very kind.”

  “Kind?” Barth gave a sudden laugh. “She is a cunning old fox who plays a deep game. And I should be very much surprised if she were not plotting some devious scheme as we speak.”

  “Barth,” she instinctively protested.