Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  “And now?”

  “Now I begin to wonder what true love is.” He leaned forward, close enough so that he could capture her hand in a firm grip. “Perhaps you will enlighten me.”

  Warmth flooded from his slender fingers through her skin and into her very blood.

  “Me?”

  “You must love Mr. Effinton,” he retorted.

  Her lashes swiftly fluttered downward to hide her all too expressive eyes.

  “My feelings are private.”

  His thumb stroked a disturbing path over her knuckles.

  “At least tell me what such a grand love entails. Does your heart stop when he enters the room? Do you long to hear the sound of his voice?” His own voice suddenly lowered. “Do you awake in the night aching for the feel of his arms about you?”

  She roughly bit her bottom lip. Such sensations were not love. They were deceitful pleasures that lured a woman to behave as a perfect fool.

  “That is enough.”

  “What is amiss, Isa?”

  “I do not wish to discuss this.”

  “Very well,” he surprisingly agreed, his tone edged with amusement. “Shall I tell you another ghost story?”

  She abruptly lifted her gaze to stab him with an unwavering intensity.

  “Why are you here?”

  His free hand lifted, lightly brushing her pale cheek.

  “Where else would I be?”

  She trembled but refused to allow her gaze to falter. “London.”

  “I am in no hurry to return.” His fingers firmly cupped her chin. “Besides, I could not leave while you were ill.”

  Those delicious tingles once more raced through her body. Dangerous, unwelcome tingles.

  “I am no concern of yours.”

  “I believe that we have already established that I am your friend.”

  She did not believe him for a moment. She was all too aware of his necessity to wed a large dowry and to do so swiftly.

  “And you still believe that I will marry you?”

  He abruptly pulled away and regarded her with a narrowed gaze. Ridiculously, Isa felt a pang of regret at the loss of his warm touch.

  “You think I am only pretending concern out of some devious hope to acquire your dowry?”

  There was an edge in his tone that warned her that she had somehow managed to stir his normally placid temper. She discovered herself reluctant to openly confront him with her inner suspicions.

  “I do not know what I think.”

  “My concern for you is very real, Isa.”

  It would be easy to believe him, she conceded. No one could have been more attentive to her needs or more patient as she slowly convalesced. Indeed, he had been her most faithful visitor. Unlike Peter, who had not even bothered to call.

  Still, it was all so very convenient. Would he be at her side if he had no need of her dowry?

  “I have no reason to trust you.”

  There was a short pause before Barth heaved an audible sigh.

  “Perhaps not. I have behaved as a selfish boor and treated you with an indifference you did not deserve,” he slowly admitted, making her lift her gaze in startled disbelief. “But that was only because I resented being forced into marriage. I desired to forget my obligations for a short time.”

  She gave an unconscious flinch. Forced into marriage? The devil take him. Did he think any maiden would wish a bridegroom who was being forced to the altar?

  “Very flattering,” she muttered.

  “I am attempting to be honest with you.”

  “There is no need.”

  “There is every need.” He once again reached out to grasp her hand. “I believe we could deal quite well together.”

  “Absurd.”

  “Why?” He leaned forward, the scent of his soap mixing with the budding daffodils. “We have much in common. We were once great friends. And not even you can deny that there is a potent attraction between us.”

  Her eyes abruptly darkened. No, she could not deny the attraction. How could she when she trembled at his every touch? She had been attracted to the gentleman for as long as she could recall. But that was not enough.

  “I do not love you,” she denied in tones perhaps a bit more fierce than necessary.

  His hand tightened on her fingers, his lean features determined.

  “But you desire me.”

  “No.”

  A sudden tension entered the garden as a flare of heat glittered in the hazel eyes. It was obvious she had challenged his pride. Her own heart faltered as he slowly leaned forward.

  “Shall I prove it, Isa?” he demanded, his gaze deliberately lowering to her parted lips.

  “Barth.”

  With breathless anticipation, she awaited the persuasive seduction of his kiss, only to abruptly freeze as the sound of raised voices floated through the air.

  “Sir, I beg of you . . .” her butler protested in outrage.

  Cursing the flare of regret at the interruption, Isa drew away from Barth. Was she forever doomed to react like a moonling whenever he was near?

  With an effort, she smoothed her curls and straightened her shoulders. She should be deeply relieved at the timely interruption, she sternly assured herself.

  “Out of my way, you starched-up peacock,” a familiar male voice rumbled in annoyance.

  Isa felt a surge of pleased surprise as she recognized the voice of her grandfather. In all her days she could not recall his visiting Cresthaven. She could not imagine what had brought him at such an opportune moment. “But Miss Lawford is entertaining,” Rushton said, futily attempting to halt the determined gentleman.

  The servant might as well have saved his breath.

  “Aye, and I not be good enough for the likes of the local nobs,” Edward Brunston charged. “Well, I ain’t leaving until I’ve seen my granddaughter, so you might as well step aside.”

  “Sir . . .” Rushton gave a last protest before Edward was sweeping past him and into the garden.

  Both Isa and Barth rose to their feet as the large, florid-faced man with silver hair and piercing blue eyes came into view.

  “Grandfather.” Isa smiled, and stepping forward, she was pulled into a strong embrace.

  Edward at last stepped back, regarding her pleased expression with a frown.

  “Why did you miss our appointment?” he demanded bluntly.

  Appointment? Isa gave a sudden gasp. How could she possibly have forgotten what day it was? She had been meeting her grandfather on this date every month since she was a child. It was his way of being a part of her life without intruding into what he termed her “proper” world.

  She had always looked forward to their luncheon at the local inn, their long drives through the countryside, or pots of tea in a private parlor when the weather was bad.

  Good lord, she must be growing soft in the noodle to have lost track of her days, she chastised herself in disgust.

  “Forgive me, Grandfather,” she murmured with genuine regret. “I completely forgot.”

  A speculative glint entered the blue eyes. “I feared something had happened to you.”

  Knowing that the wily old man was bound to be suspicious of her odd lapse, Isa readily grasped onto the most convenient excuse.

  “I was ill, but I am much improved now.”

  Predictably, the speculative glance became one of concern. “You are pale.”

  “I am fine.”

  “She is still in need of rest,” a darkly masculine voice intruded as Barth moved to stand close at her side.

  Isa swallowed a sigh. She should have suspected that he would not remain meekly in the background.

  “Grandfather, may I introduce Lord Wickton? Lord Wickton, my grandfather, Mr. Brunston.”

  The bushy gray brows lowered another notch as her grandfather subjected Barth to a thorough survey.

  “Wickton, eh?”

  With a natural elegance, Barth gave a slight bow. “A pleasure, Mr. Brunston.”


  “No, it ain’t,” Edward retorted in his blunt style. “A gentleman can’t wish to be encroached upon. Wouldn’t have come if I hadn’t been worried about my favorite lass.”

  Isa tilted her chin. When it came to her beloved grandfather, she did not care a whit what others might think. Including Barth.

  “I am glad you did come,” she insisted.

  “No, no. Your mother is right. Wouldn’t do to have me popping up. Much better to meet at the inn.”

  “Nonsense,” Isa denied. “What do I care what the neighbors may say? You are far more important than any gossip.”

  “You are a good lass.” Her grandfather patted her cheek with a smile. “Now, what has made you look so pale?”

  Isa shrugged. “A mere chill.”

  Barth once again intruded. “She was quite ill.”

  She flashed him an exasperated frown. “I am much improved.”

  “Has a doctor been sent for?” Edward demanded.

  “Yes,” Isa hurriedly agreed, knowing her grandfather was quite capable of calling in every doctor throughout England.

  “He insisted that she must rest.” Barth met her glittering gaze squarely. “And that she keep warm.”

  “I am fine,” Isa insisted.

  Barth turned to the older man, who was regarding them closely.

  “Has she always been so stubborn?”

  “Aye.” Edward gave a chuckle. “A heart of gold and a will of iron.”

  Traitor, Isa thought with a stab of annoyance.

  “Do you mind?”

  Edward patted her cheek again. “I should be on my way.”

  “Could you not stay?” Barth surprisingly insisted.

  “I only came to see about Isa.”

  “She would no doubt feel much happier after a visit with her grandfather. And she is still too weak to travel to the inn.”

  A hint of pleased color crept beneath Edward’s cheeks as Barth wove his potent charm. It seemed not even the hardheaded businessman was immune.

  “I should not like to intrude.”

  “I assure you that I am the intruder, eh, Isa?” Barth teased with a knowing smile.

  With a wry grimace, she turned her attention to her grandfather.

  “Please stay, Grandfather.”

  “Well . . .”

  With a firm stride, Barth crossed toward the open French doors, where the butler still anxiously hovered.

  “Rushton, see to tea, will you? And tell Mr. Brunston’s groom to take the horses to the stables.”

  Keeping his dismay well hidden, the butler offered a stiff bow.

  “At once, my lord.”

  Edward regarded the younger gentleman with a stern eye before giving a sharp laugh.

  “By gad, Isa, I do believe you have at last met your match.”

  Eleven

  It was several hours later when Isa walked her grandfather back to his waiting carriage. Surprisingly, the afternoon had been a success. Due in most part to Barth’s gracious manners, she reluctantly acknowledged. He had treated Edward Brunston with genuine respect. Not once had he displayed any airs of condescension or patronage.

  Indeed, he had even revealed a shrewd interest in the numerous businesses that Edward owned throughout England. Within a few moments, her grandfather had lost his self-conscious unease at being in the company of an aristocrat and conversed with an open friendliness that revealed his own regard for the nobleman.

  Isa had found herself quietly amazed at the mutual affinity. Her grandfather had always professed a cynical disregard for worthless dandies, while Barth’s position demanded he treat a mere businessman with a measure of distaste. But neither had revealed any hint of their differing stations. Isa had also been amazed by Barth’s seeming ability to sense that she wished for time alone with her grandfather. After sharing tea, he had risen and offered them wishes for a pleasant visit before making his farewell.

  For the remainder of the afternoon, Isa had chatted inanely, determinedly keeping her grandfather from probing too deeply into her private affairs.

  Of course, it was a wasted effort. As they reached the glossy black carriage, her grandfather firmly tilted her countenance upward for a piercing inspection.

  “What is it, lass?” he demanded.

  “What do you mean?”

  “There is more than a lingering chill that is making you so pale and drawn.”

  Isa grimaced, realizing that she could not deceive Edward Brunston.

  “I have told Mother that I will not wed Lord Wickton,” she reluctantly confessed.

  “Ah. And that is what is causing your sleepless nights?”

  “Of course not,” she hastily denied. Botheration. Did he have to be so perceptive? She did not wish anyone to know the restless hours she laid awake, struggling to deny the empty ache in the middle of her heart. “I am quite satisfied with my decision.”

  There was a pause before a rather mysterious smile curved his lips.

  “He is a fine gentleman. I liked him.”

  Of course, Isa concurred wryly. There was no one in all of England who did not like Barth Juston, earl of Wickton.

  “He is a shameless rake,” she informed him in stern tones.

  “Is he?” The shaggy brows raised.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you certain that you do not mistake being a hardened rake with the natural curiosities of youth?”

  Her tiny features settled in lines of distaste. She doubted that Barth’s beautiful and sophisticated mistress would wish to be considered no more than a curiosity of youth.

  “He is just like Father.”

  “No.” Edward gave a decisive shake of his head. “Your father is a weak man with a deplorable lack of morals. Lord Wickton is certainly not weak, and from all accounts he is considered an honorable gentleman.”

  An unconscious pain flared through her amber eyes. “Hardly honorable.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He has a beautiful mistress in London.”

  “Does he?” Edward shrugged, his smile widening. “It is hardly uncommon, my dear. Most young gentlemen acquire a mistress before they wed. Besides, I would wager that he does not gaze at her with such longing.”

  “What?”

  “I may be old, but I am not without eyes.”

  Her breath caught somewhere in her throat. Barth gazed at her with longing? No. It was too ridiculous.

  “Lord Wickton has no interest in me beyond my dowry,” she said stiffly.

  Edward gave a soft laugh. “It is not a dowry he is thinking of when he looks upon you.”

  “Absurd.”

  “You are a good lass. Do not let your stubborn pride steal your chance for happiness.”

  Had he not listened to a word she had been saying?

  “This has nothing to do with my pride.”

  “Does it not?” her grandfather demanded. “Are you certain that you are not trying to convince yourself that Lord Wickton is like your father rather than admit he wounded your heart by leaving Kent?”

  Her face paled at the accusation.

  “That is ridiculous.”

  “Is it? When you were young, you placed him on a very high pedestal, my love. He was bound to topple off someday. Don’t be too hard on him. He is just a man.”

  “A man I no longer trust.”

  “Perhaps it is your heart that you no longer trust.” He reached up to lightly tap her nose. “Think upon what I have said. We will meet again next month.”

  * * *

  After yet another fitful night, Isa rose early and determinedly dressed in a sturdy gown of mint green and golden pelisse. Then, avoiding the breakfast room where her mother was certain to be enjoying her coffee, she slipped out through the door and into the courtyard.

  She had no desire to explain her need for the fresh spring air or her determination to avoid Barth’s daily visit. She did not even wish to dwell on the reasons herself. All she allowed herself to ponder was a sudden urge to speak with Pete
r Effinton.

  With a brisk step, she crossed the cobblestones and entered the narrow path that wound its way toward the vicarage and into the nearby village. About her, the smell of sweet clover hung in the air, and in the distance the sound of water rushing over the rocks echoed from the cliffs.

  She slowed her step and forced herself to enjoy the warmth of the sun and the play of butterflies over the newly budded wildflowers. It was the first occasion she had left the estate since her tumble into the lake. She should at least make the effort to enjoy her newfound freedom.

  Long minutes later, she skirted the small stone church and entered the gardens surrounding the vicarage. As expected, Peter was just leaving for his morning stroll as she approached. He was nearly upon her before he noticed her presence, and with a muffled exclamation, the young gentleman stumbled to a surprised halt.

  “Oh.”

  Isa allowed her gaze to drift over the ill-fitted coat and breeches stained with spots of ink. A familiar stab of amused fondness rushed through her heart. She did care a great deal for this man. He was kind, intelligent, and utterly predictable. Precisely the qualities she desired in a gentleman.

  So why, then, had a dark cloud of doubt begun to hang about her head?

  Blast Lord Wickton and his disturbing insinuations, she inwardly sighed.

  “Good morning, Peter.”

  “Isa. How are you?”

  “I am well.”

  “Good. I had heard . . .” He gave a rather awkward cough. “It was said that Lord Wickton sent to Canterbury for a doctor.”

  Isa tried not to consider the realization that Peter would never have gone to such an effort.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “I was quite concerned.”

  She stepped closer, an unconscious frown marring her brow. “Were you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I thought you might call,” she said softly.

  “Well . . .” He gave another awkward cough. “I did not wish to disturb you.”

  A treacherous suspicion that it was more a dislike at being near an invalid than fear of disturbing her was swiftly banished.

  Blast Lord Wickton.

  “You are always welcome at Cresthaven.”

  A faint blush touched his cheeks. “Very kind of you, Isa.”

  “I trust that you did not suffer from our dunking?”

  “No.” He gave a shake of his head. “Never sick, you know.”