“Do you recall when we were young and you realized that the schoolmaster refused to teach the girls in the village to read?” he asked gently.
“He said it would make them think that they were above their station.” She gave a disgusted shake of her head. “Ridiculous man.”
Barth recalled the golden-haired child that had resolutely faced the furious schoolmaster with a calm dignity.
“You threatened to have your father use his influence to have him removed from his position.”
“He could have not known that my father would never have made the effort,” she said dryly.
“You also sat in the school every morning to ensure that he did not frighten the girls away.”
“I fear that few came.”
He studied her for a long moment, recognizing that he had never encountered another woman who would have done what Isa had done. It had taken more than mere courage. It had taken a heart kind enough to risk gossip and ridicule rather than turn a blind eye, as everyone else had done.
“But you refused to be intimidated, and you did not care that the boys laughed at your efforts. You knew what was right and were willing to fight for your beliefs.”
She appeared thrown off guard by the sincerity in his tone.
“It was hardly a fight.”
His gaze stroked over her pale features. “It was quite heroic.”
She frowned in discomfort, uneasy at his compliments. “I am surprised you even recall such a trivial incident.”
He grimaced with a stab of remorse—an unwelcome sensation that occurred all too frequently in Isa’s company.
“I remember a great deal, although I am just beginning to realize that I have too long taken your special qualities for granted.”
“Nonsense,” she protested in embarrassment.
He refused to be put off. “It is not nonsense. You have always been kind and brave and trustworthy. Precisely the qualities any gentleman would seek in a bride.”
She seemed to catch her breath at his low words; then her long lashes were fluttering downward to hide her expressive eyes.
“You are very good at this,” she muttered.
“At what?”
“Seducing a woman.”
A swift, fiercely pleasurable flame of heat flicked through his blood. Damn but he wanted this woman. What would she do if he were to lift her in his arms and carry her upstairs to his bed?
“I should very much like to seduce you, Isa,” he murmured in husky tones.
He watched with delight as the color rushed to, then faded from, her tiny countenance.” She was far from indifferent to him, as much as she might wish to deny the truth.
Briefly wondering if he could convince her to take a stroll through the garden so that he could at least pull her into his arms and relieve his growing desire with a kiss, Barth was distracted by the determined wave of Andrew Brockfield from across the room.
“Wickton,” he called in imperious tones.
Barth smothered the instinctive stab of annoyance at the interruption. There was already a speculative expression on Andrew’s handsome features as he noted Barth’s intimate seclusion with Isa. Instead, he smoothed his countenance to an unreadable mask.
“Yes?”
“We are having an argument on the import of Greek culture on Roman civilization. You must come and settle the issue.”
Realizing that he had no choice but to join his guests, Barth reluctantly rose to his feet, but as Isa raised her head with obvious relief, he flashed her a warning gaze.
“We will continue this later.”
* * *
Several hours later, Barth poured a brandy for himself and Andrew. Crossing the library, he handed the glass to the seated gentleman and tossed his own frame into the matching wing chair flanking the smoldering fireplace.
His mother and Sir Wilhelm had excused themselves after the guests had taken their leave, but with a determined air, Barth had requested that Andrew join him for a last drink.
Now he regarded his companion with a narrowed gaze. “Well?”
Sipping the amber liquid, Andrew raised his brows. “Yes?”
“What do you think?”
“I think that she is lovely.”
Barth gave a sharp laugh at his friend’s perception. “I am not speaking of Miss Lawford.”
Andrew gave a mock sigh. “A pity. She has a most engaging smile.”
Barth steered the conversation toward his goal. “I am referring to Mr. Effinton.”
“Ah.”
“He is reputed to be a budding scholar.”
“I should have suspected that I was not invited here to simply enjoy the fine Kent countryside.”
Barth smiled. “You are always welcome at Graystone, Andrew.”
“Does that include becoming better acquainted with the beautiful Miss Lawford?” Andrew demanded in sly tones.
Although Barth’s smile remained intact, there was no missing the sudden flare in his eyes.
“Absolutely not.”
Andrew gave a small laugh. “Very well, Wickton, what is it that you wish to know?”
“Just your impression of Mr. Effinton.”
Andrew settled himself more comfortably in the chair. “Actually, I have read a paper of his.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I was lecturing at Oxford, and his teacher requested that I review his work.”
It had been at Oxford when Barth had first met Andrew. Although Andrew was older and considerably more studious than Barth, they had struck up a close friendship. He had also introduced Sir Wilhelm, who had once harbored a violent tendre for Lady Sarah. Barth had known he could depend upon the two of them to aid him in his plot.
“And?”
“And I found his research to be near brilliant.”
“How intriguing,” Barth murmured.
“Unfortunately, he was without the funds or necessary connections to continue his education. I always considered it a great pity.”
“Yes,” Barth agreed. “A great pity.”
Andrew slowly set aside his glass. “What is your interest in the young gentleman?”
“Ah . . . that is rather a delicate situation.”
“I do not suppose this delicate situation has anything to do with Miss Lawford?”
Barth’s lips twitched. “Now, why would you suppose that?”
“Because I could not help but notice the particular attention you were paying her this evening. Or the fact that she seemed less than delighted by such attentions.”
Barth abruptly drained the brandy, grimacing as the fiery spirit slid down his throat.
“You are very observant.”
“Yes, I am,” Andrew agreed with a piercing gaze.
It was obvious he would have to confess the truth, he reluctantly allowed. Despite his pride he needed this man’s help.
“It has long been expected that Miss Lawford and I would wed. Unfortunately, while I was absent from Kent, she convinced herself that I am not to be trusted.”
Andrew seemed unsurprised. “And?”
“And that Mr. Effinton would be a far more dependable husband.”
“Ah.”
“A ridiculous notion, of course.”
“Is it?”
Barth’s features hardened. “Yes.”
Andrew paused for a long moment. “What is it that you want from me?”
“I wish you to use your influence to find an appropriate post where his brilliant mind will not be wasted.”
“And one that is far from Kent?” Andrew concluded, swift to grasp Barth’s meaning.
“But of course.”
“It seems rather devious,” Andrew pointed out in soft tones.
Barth gave a small shrug. “You said yourself that it would be a shame to waste such talents.”
“Yes. Although Mr. Effinton may not be eager to leave Kent if he possesses feelings for Miss Lawford.”
“At the moment, Mr. Effinton possesses feelings for nothing beyond his
own studies. Something I very much intend to encourage.”
Andrew pursed his lips. “I suppose if he does not desire to pursue a career away from Kent, then he could always refuse my offer. After all, he is not in desperate need of employment.”
“Then you will help?”
There was another pause as Andrew considered the request. Barth remained silent, unwilling to press his friend. At last, Andrew gave a slow nod of his head.
“Very well. When we leave, I will ask Mr. Effinton to accompany me as my secretary. He will no doubt be anxious to travel with me to Brussels.”
Barth breathed out a sigh of relief. At last he was to be rid of the pesky young man.
“I knew you would not fail me,” he congratulated his companion.
Andrew lifted his brows. “That does not assure you Miss Lawford will become your wife.”
A slow, decidedly predatory smile touched Barth’s mouth.
“You can safely leave Miss Lawford in my hands.”
Thirteen
Isa was in a decided muddle.
The man was impossible, of course.
Utterly impossible.
First, he had deliberately attempted to lure Peter away with the annoying Miss Keaton. And then, when that had not succeeded, he had invited Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield to Kent knowing that they would thoroughly overwhelm Peter with their presence.
And yet, through the long, restless night it was not Barth’s outrageous behavior that had haunted her but the memory of his husky words.
It has never been my intention to be unfaithful to my wife.
He sounded so sincere, as if he truly cared that she believe his vow. And the way he had gazed deep in her eyes had stolen her very breath.
Was her grandfather right? Had she allowed her wounded pride at being abandoned in Kent while he enjoyed the pleasures of London to sway her judgment? Had she been too harsh? Too unforgiving?
Isa, what a fool you are, she chastised herself.
What did she care if Barth vowed to become a virtual saint once he wed? She had already decided she was not to be his bride.
Had she not?
Gazing out the window, Isa felt a shiver race through her body. She wished that Barth had not returned to Kent. With him far away, it had been easy to convince herself that her feelings for him had been childish fantasies and that she had matured enough to recognize substance from charm.
But since his return . . .
Botheration.
She did not want to admit that her heart still halted the moment he walked into the room or that the day seemed a bit dull until she knew that she would be in his company.
No, she was worse than a fool, she assured herself. She was clearly noddy.
Lost in her brooding thoughts, Isa had nearly forgotten her mother, seated in a far chair, stitching on a sampler, until her voice echoed through the vast salon.
“Really, Isa, is something the matter?”
She instinctively stiffened at the accusation. She had no intention of confessing her troubled thoughts to her mother. Louise Lawford would have her halfway to the altar before she knew what was occurring.
“Of course not.”
“You have been peering out the window all morning.“ Mrs. Lawford favored her daughter with a coy smile. “Are you expecting a visitor?”
Of course she was, she granted with a pang of disgust. She waited every day for the sight of Lord Wickton.
“I am merely admiring the fine weather,” she answered, forcing herself to lie. “I believe the lilacs are coming into bloom.”
Her mother refused to be put off. “I thought perhaps you were awaiting Lord Wickton.”
Isa battled the betraying blush. “Why should you suppose any such thing?”
“Why should I not?” Louise smiled in a decidedly smug manner. “He has called every day since your illness.”
“I am well now,” Isa pointed out, uncertain whom she was attempting to convince. “Besides, he is entertaining guests.”
The older woman merely laughed. “Silly goose. I witnessed Lord Wickton’s conduct last evening. He could not stray from your side. Mark my words, he will be calling.”
Isa regarded her mother with a faint frown.
“I hope that you are not still harboring the belief that I will wed Lord Wickton.”
“But of course,” Louise retorted. “Even you must admit that he has proven to be all that is proper in a gentleman since his return to Kent.”
“He could hardly be otherwise in such a rural community.”
Her mother gave a disapproving sniff at her stubborn expression.
“And what of his devotion during your illness?” she demanded. “I must tell you that it warmed my heart to witness him tend to your slightest need. What other gentleman would have been so thoughtful?”
Isa caught her breath. The truth was that no one could have been more patient or more caring. He had known precisely how to ease her discomfort and bring a smile to her face.
“He was very kind,” she murmured.
“Far more kind than the vicar’s son.”
Isa swallowed a weary sigh, turning back toward the window.
“Please, Mother.”
“What? I am speaking no less than the truth. You could find no better husband than Lord Wickton.”
“I . . .” Isa’s protest was cut short as she glimpsed the slender form of Peter Effinton scurrying across the courtyard. Her eyes widened at the uncharacteristic haste. As a rule, Peter shuffled through the countryside, barely aware of his surroundings. She could only wonder at his odd haste.
“What is it?” her mother demanded.
“It is Peter, and he appears to be in an uncommon hurry.”
“Fah. Ridiculous boy.”
Isa turned back with a warning frown. “Please be polite, Mother.”
Mrs. Lawford merely shifted so that her back was toward the door. It was obvious she had no intention of even greeting their unexpected guest. With a grimace, Isa moved across the room. Did everything have to be so complicated?
Within moments, the butler was pulling open the door with a slight bow.
“Mr. Effinton is here to see you.”
“Please show him in, Rushton.”
“Very good.”
The servant disappeared, only to be swiftly replaced by a flushed Peter. Isa blinked in mild surprise as she noted his disarrayed hair and rumpled shirt.
“Good morning, Peter. This is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it is frightfully early for a call, but I simply had to speak with you.”
She raised her brows, her curiosity thoroughly roused. “Has something occurred?”
“Yes, I should say so.”
Wondering what could possibly have roused the placid scholar to such enthusiasm, Isa waved a hand toward the window seat.
“Why do we not make ourselves comfortable?” Moving to the seat, Isa settled herself on the cushion; then, waiting for Peter to join her, she offered him an encouraging smile. “Now, what has happened?”
Quite astonishingly, Peter reached out to grasp her hands in a strong grip.
“You will never guess who called on me this morning.”
She gave a soft laugh. From Peter’s tone it might have been the prince regent himself.
“I fear I haven’t the faintest notion.”
“Mr. Brockfield,” he pronounced in awed tones.
“How wonderful,” Isa congratulated with genuine pleasure. “You must have impressed him last evening.”
His thin face flushed with excitement. “That is precisely what he said. Can you imagine?”
“I am not at all surprised.”
His grip on her hands tightened to a near-painful level. “Not only that, but Isa, he has offered me a post.”
Isa forgot her crushed fingers as her smile slowly faded. “What?”
“He wishes me to be his secretary,” Peter elaborated, oblivious as always to Isa’s reaction. “
To assist him in his studies and even his lectures.”
A cold, hard ball settled in the pit of her stomach.
“He wishes you to leave Kent?”
“Well, of course I will travel with him,” Peter retorted, as if surprised she would even ask such an obvious question. “He said that we shall be leaving for Brussels within the month. Is that not the most glorious news?”
Glorious was not the word Isa would have used. She pulled her hands free as she allowed her budding suspicion to flower.
She did not believe for a moment that Mr. Brockfield had been so taken with Peter that he had rushed to the vicarage this morning to offer him a position. No matter how brilliant Peter might be, a gentleman such as Mr. Brockfield could have his choice of willing scholars throughout England. Why would he travel to the midst of the country and suddenly conclude he was in dire need of a secretary?
No, this had the Machiavellian hand of Lord Wickton written all over it.
A sharp, nearly unbearable pain lanced through her heart. Would Barth go to such lengths? After all, it was one thing to dangle temptations or offer distractions, but to actually intrude into an innocent man’s life, to manipulate his very future.
Was anyone that arrogant?
“Isa.”
With a blink, Isa realized that Peter was regarding her with a gathering frown.
“Yes?” she murmured, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts.
“Is something the matter?”
She could hardly confess the truth. Still, she felt the need to offer some hint of warning.
“This is all rather sudden, is it not?” she cautiously pointed out. “You did just meet last evening. He knows little about you.”
Peter happily shrugged. “He remembers a paper he read of mine at Oxford. He said that it had convinced him I was worthy of such an extraordinary opportunity.”
“How very convenient.”
“I cannot believe my good fortune.”
“Yes, it is remarkably unbelievable,” she muttered. “What do you suppose is the likelihood of Mr. Brockfield arriving in Kent and meeting you precisely when he is in need of a secretary?”
“I must thank.God for my blessings.”
Isa gave a sharp, humorless laugh. “I believe there is someone nearer at hand you can thank.”
Peter gave a bemused blink. “What?”
Isa bit back her impetuous words. Whatever the reason for Mr. Brockfield’s offer, it truly was an extraordinary opportunity for Peter. She could not steal his moment of glory.
Here Comes the Bride Page 29
