Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  It had been the same every morning since Barth had announced that he was leaving for London. No matter how sternly she chided herself for behaving as a nitwit and assured herself she would never go into a romantic decline over any mere man, the truth was that she found it difficult to make herself rise every morning.

  Her only hope was that this current distemper would eventually pass. After all, with Barth in London, she would not have to fear seeing him about the neighborhood. In time her pain would ease, and she would consider her future without the bleakness it currently held.

  Her mother interrupted her dark musings with impatient tones. “Isa, you must eat something.”

  Reluctantly, Isa lifted her head and met her mother’s worried gaze.

  “I am not hungry, Mother.”

  Louise gave a click of her tongue. “Well, I do not like to say this, my dear, but you are beginning to look positively haggard.”

  Isa did not need her mother’s less-than-flattering statement to assure her that she was appearing far too pale and thin.

  “Thank you.”

  “I am only saying this for your own good. I should not like to see your beauty fade at such an early age.”

  Isa’s lips twisted with a wry amusement. “You mean, before I can capture a husband.”

  Her mother allowed a martyred expression to settle on her long face.

  “Well, for that . . . I have quite given up hope that you will ever behave in a reasonable manner.”

  “I know you too well, Mother.” Isa pushed aside her plate. “You will never give up hope of unloading me onto some unsuspecting nobleman.”

  “Isa,” Louise protested at her blunt accusation.

  Isa wrinkled her nose in regret. It was grossly unfair to take her ill humor out on her mother.

  “Forgive me.” She slowly rose to her feet. “I believe I shall take a stroll in the garden.”

  Only marginally mollified, Louise gave a faint sniff. “Stay out of the sun. Becoming freckled will hardly improve your appearance.”

  “Very well, Mother.” Isa forced herself to maintain her annoyance. Leaving the breakfast room, Isa moved down the hall and into a small alcove that opened into the garden. Promptly forgetting her mother’s warning, she strolled past the garden and toward the lake. She simply wished to be away from the house and the well-intentioned but meddlesome company of her mother.

  Perhaps she should consider visiting her great-aunt in York, she told herself with a sigh. A change of scenery just might take her mind off her troubled thoughts. If nothing else, it would remove her from her mother’s desperate search for another suitable son-in-law.

  Bending down to pluck a blooming wildflower, Isa was unaware of the approaching rider. It was not until the sound of footsteps penetrated her muddled thoughts that she sharply glanced up to discover the tall, chestnut-haired gentleman standing mere feet away.

  For a crazed moment, Isa thought she might actually swoon. Barth could not be here. He was in London searching for a wealthy bride. But there was no imagining his solid frame and the chiseled beauty of his countenance.

  She pressed a hand to her racing heart. “Barth.”

  He performed a slight bow, his oddly fevered gaze never leaving her pale face.

  “Good morning, Isa.”

  “What . . .” Her voice broke, and she forced herself to take a steadying breath. Dear lord, he was so magnificent, she acknowledged with a pang of loss. And she had missed him so desperately. “I did not realize you had returned to Graystone.”

  “I returned only an hour ago.”

  That explained why her mother was not leaping for joy.

  “I see.”

  He searched her overly thin features and the unmistakable shadows beneath her eyes.

  “How are you?”

  “Quite well,” she lied. She could hardly confess she was withering with unrequited love. Predictably, he was not fooled for a moment. “You look pale. And you’ve lost weight.”

  A hint of annoyance stirred through her clinging lethargy. What right did he have to judge her appearance when he was entirely to blame?

  “I have told you I am well. What are you doing here?”

  “I have brought you something.”

  “What?”

  With oddly jerky movements, Barth pressed a thick packet into her hand. She was so startled by the unexpected motion, she did not even glance through the papers.

  “What is this?”

  “I have set up an allowance from my estate to go to Mr. Effinton.”

  An allowance for Peter? It made no sense.

  “I do not understand.”

  “It will give Mr. Effinton a yearly income so that he will be able to set up his own establishment and continue his studies.” His voice was expressionless, but Isa did not miss the tension in his jaw or the manner in which his hands clenched and unclenched. “It is not much, but with a thrifty wife, he will no doubt scrape by.”

  She slowly shook her head, feeling uncommonly dim-witted.

  “But why? Why would you do this?”

  For a moment, she thought he would refuse to answer; then, turning to gaze over the lake, he gave a restless shrug.

  “When I went to London, I was determined to forget you.” He gave a short laugh. “Indeed, I wanted nothing more than to forget you even existed.”

  Her heart twisted. “And did you?”

  “No. It did not matter how many parties I attended or how many bottles of brandy I consumed, you kept haunting my every thought.”

  Beneath her hand, her heart slammed to a painful halt. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  A shockingly bleak expression tightened his profile. “No more than me. I kept hoping one morning I would awake and you would be gone. At last, I had to face the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “That I love you.”

  “Do not fear. I shall return to London and remain out of your life.” His hand reached out to lightly stroke her cheek. “I only ask one thing.”

  Isa gave a violent shiver. “What?”

  “That you be happy.”

  She gave a choked sob, the ice in her heart beginning to thaw. Was it possible? Would he indeed go so far as to sponsor Peter so that she could wed the man she claimed to prefer?

  Could he indeed love her?

  She raised a hand to her trembling lips. “Oh, Barth . . .”

  He frowned, his hands moving to clasp her shoulders. “For God’s sake, Isa, I did not come here to make you cry.”

  “I do not want to marry Peter,” she shakily confessed, meeting the darkened hazel eyes. “It is you I love. Whom I have always loved, even when I did not wish to.”

  “Isa,” he breathed, his hands tightening on her shoulders. For a moment, their gazes locked, as if each searching for assurance that their love had returned; then Barth abruptly pulled her into his arms. “My dearest Isa, tell me you will be my wife.”

  With her head pressed to his chest, Isa listened to the racing beat of his heart.

  His wife.

  For so long she had battled to avoid such a fate. Now a smile of deep pleasure curved her lips.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.” His lips pressed to her forehead. “I did not know how I would live without you.”

  She tilted back her head, shocked by the lingering pain that smoldered in the depths of his eyes.

  “Were you really going to allow me to wed Peter?”

  His gaze slowly lowered to the brilliant smile that shimmered through her tears.

  “To see this smile, Isa, I would travel to the gates of hell. But . . .” His voice dropped to a husky pitch as he slowly lowered his head. “I would rather find heaven in your arms.”

  Definitely heaven, Isa dreamily conceded as his mouth found her lips in a kiss that made her heart trip in a most provocative manner. Tentatively, her own arms raised to encircle his neck, and she heard him give a satisfied moan deep in his throat.

  With muc
h reluctance, he at last pulled back to study the sheer happiness glowing upon her tiny face.

  “It was just as the Gypsy promised,” he softly quoted.

  A love that is true

  A heart that is steady

  A wounded soul healed

  A spirit made ready.

  Three women will come

  As the seasons will turn

  And bring true love to each

  Before the summer again burns....

  Isa offered him a shy smile. “So her blessing did work, after all.”

  He gave a satisfied smile. “Yes, indeed, and I have just forfeited a thousand pounds.”

  She gave a startled blink. “What?”

  “Nothing of importance.” A fierce heat flamed in the hazel eyes, making her knees oddly weak. “I was just about to find heaven. . . .”

  A Bride for Lord Brasleigh

  Prologue

  A warm fire dispelled the gloom of the late February weather. Not that many gentlemen throughout the discrete gambling establishment would have noticed the chill air. They were far too intent on the vast stakes exchanging hands, All except the three gentlemen who claimed a distant corner.

  With a faint smile, Philip Marrow, Lord Brasleigh, settled more comfortably in his seat as he regarded his two friends. He felt a hint of sadness at the knowledge that they would soon be parted. Simon Townsled, Earl of Challmond, had already stated his intention to travel to Devonshire, while Barth Juston, Earl of Wickton, was honor bound to make an appearance in Kent to announce his proposal.

  It seemed like only yesterday the three had been in Europe helping to exile Napoleon. It was a grim affair that had drawn the friends even closer than if they had been true brothers. In truth, it had forged a bond that would never be broken.

  Not that it had all been grim, Philip acknowledged. Thankfully, after Napoleon’s exile they had traveled to Italy together in escort of the pope. What a delightful change from the stench and horror of war. Glittering parties, luscious women, wonderful food, and such works of art he thought he must have found a bit of heaven.

  Of course, there had also been that odd encounter with the gypsies, a tiny voice from the back of his mind reminded him. Strangely enough, that memory seemed more vivid than any other, even those of the war. Not that it should have lingered in his mind. It had not been anything special. One morning, he, along with Wickton and Challmond, had happened upon an old gypsy being attacked by a gang of angry farmers. As true soldiers, they had rushed to her rescue and escorted her back to her people. In reward, she had offered them a blessing. Brushing their foreheads with a perfect red rose, she had muttered: “A love that is true, a heart that is steady, a wounded soul healed, a spirit made ready. Three women will come, as the seasons will turn, and bring true love to each, before the summer again burns. . . .”

  Ridiculous nonsense, of course. The sort of thing that gypsies offered to the gullible or desperate. But more than once he had awoken in the midst of the night to have the words echoing through his mind.

  A faint frown marred his noble features as he pondered the disturbing memory.

  As if sensing the brooding in the air, Simon, a tall gentleman with auburn hair and emerald eyes, attempted to rally his friends by lifting his glass in a sudden salute. “What shall we drink to?”

  Catching the mood, Barth lifted his own glass, his hazel eyes glittering with a boyish charm. “Lovely ladies.”

  Philip’s smile returned. He was always prepared to toast lovely ladies. And one lovely actress in particular. “The more the merrier.”

  “So much for the gypsy’s blessing.” Simon took a large drink of the amber liquid.

  “Blessing?” Barth snorted. “Curse is more like it.”

  Philip nearly choked on his brandy. So, he was not the only one to recall the strange blessing. Somehow, the thought made him even more uneasy than before. Why the devil did those words continue to haunt them? With an effort, he conjured a mocking smile. He was not about to admit that he was unnerved by the absurd encounter. “Ah, but the heat of summer has not yet come.”

  “You do not believe in such nonsense?” Barth demanded.

  Philip rolled his eyes at his friend’s accusing tone. Of the three of them, he was without a doubt the most cynical. “True love? Fah.”

  Simon gave a low chuckle. “I do not know. I loved Fiona this afternoon. Until she threw that vase at my head.”

  Barth refilled his glass. “Casanova had the right of it. Love is meant to be shared with as many willing beauties as possible.”

  Philip was in full agreement. He knew that love could be more a burden than a blessing. Far better to enjoy the delights of women who realized that a gentleman was not a stallion to be trained to the lead. With an abrupt motion he rose to his feet. “Let us make a wager.”

  “A wager?” Simon demanded.

  “Let us say . . . a thousand pounds and a red rose to be paid the first day of June by the fool who succumbs to the gypsy’s curse.”

  “A thousand pounds?” Barth growled.

  Well aware that his friend was constantly in dun territory, Philip offered him a teasing smile. “Not frightened that you might succumb to the wiles of a mere female, are you Barth?”

  “You forget, I am about to be wed. How can a gendeman find true love when he is shackled by necessity?”

  “Simon?”

  Simon shrugged. “I have no fear.”

  “Then we shall meet here the first day of June.” Philip waited for Simon and Barth to rise to their feet and touch their glass to his own. “To the Casanova Club. Long may it prosper.”

  One

  Although the discrete gambling club was renown for excessive stakes and skilled players, it was with a collective sigh of relief that the elegant crowd watched the two gentlemen call for their carriage and leave the smoky rooms.

  It was not that the tall, raven-haired Lord Brasleigh, nor the short, decidedly plump Lord Blackmar were not of the highest ton. Indeed, both were undoubtedly leaders of society. It was not that they were not admired and secretly envied among their peers. But after an entire night of being plucked like the veriest flats, they were all anxious to enjoy less-slanted odds.

  Indifferent to the jaundiced glances thrown in their direction, Lord Brasleigh and Lord Blackmar exited the club and stepped into the morning fog. Both shivered after the excessive heat of the club, and briskly moved to the waiting carriage. With the elegant grace of a natural sportsman, Lord Brasleigh vaulted into the high-sprung vehicle, while behind him, Lord Blackmar, affectionately known as Pudding, climbed in with considerable more effort. Within moments the carriage was rattling over the cobblestones toward the more fashionable area of London.

  Leaning back in his seat, Pudding, attired in a shockingly brilliant yellow coat, regarded his companion with a sardonic smile. “I do hope you are satisfied, Bras?”

  Unlike the more flamboyant Pudding, Philip preferred a more conservative attire. His fitted blue coat was without adornment as it smoothly outlined his muscular form, and the familiar Hessians were polished to a blinding glare. Still, with his elegantly handsome features and brilliant silver eyes, he managed to stand out among the more extravagant dandies.

  Now, a small smile of satisfaction curved his sensuous mouth as he thought of the numerous notes tucked into his pocket. “Reasonably satisfied,” he acknowledged.

  “You managed to fleece every paper scull willing to sit at your table.”

  “I noticed you were wily enough to pick your own share of pockets.”

  Pudding heaved a tragic sigh, his blue eyes glinting with an inner humor. “I can claim only trifling winnings. I fear my talents are far inferior to your own.”

  “Fah.” Philip snorted. His companion might enjoy the image of a rather dim-witted buffoon, but it took little time in his company to realize he possessed a cutting intelligence and sardonic wit. “You may save such nonsense for those too innocent or too foolish to realize you are as cunning as a fo
x.”

  “Really, old boy.” Pudding laughed in protest.

  Philip stretched out his legs, allowing his head to rest on the squabs. It was some time since he had last devoted an evening to testing his skills at the card table, and he felt pleasantly weary. “I must say it was a delightful way to spend the evening.”

  “Surely not more pleasant than being with the charming Miss Ravel?” Pudding demanded in sly tones.

  Philip grimaced. He had no doubt the beautiful actress was furious at his refusal to attend the theater the previous evening. Since his return from Italy, he had pursued the delectable dark-haired beauty with unwavering determination. He had been bewitched by her lusty passions and sophistication. But over the past few weeks, her tantalizing flirtations had become more and more demanding. She had clearly presumed that his attentions were an indication that she possessed the right to command his presence.

  It was an assumption that Philip was determined to correct with brutal speed. He might have to endure the continual demands of his mother and the annoying disturbances from his troublesome ward, but he would be damned if he would be led by the nose by his mistress.

  “Less wearing at any rate,” he drawled. “Tell me, Pudding, why is it that females cannot resist attempting to shackle a gentleman to their side?”

  Pudding shrugged. “I believe it is in their nature.”

  “I have noted that you manage to elude any entanglements with the fairer sex,” he accused.

  “Ah, but that is because my wits are greater than my heart, you see.”

  “Yes.” Philip chuckled. “At least I shall soon be rid of one burdensome female.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I have at last discovered a gentleman—a suitable gentleman—to wed my ward,” he announced in pleased tones.

  Pudding regarded his satisfied expression with a hint of suprise. “Who is that?”

  “Monsieur LeMont.”

  “Good lord! The tragic refugee that has sent young maidens swooning since his return to London?”

  “Yes, indeed.” Philip’s tone was a hint smug. It had taken some time to find a gentleman of suitable birth who was also in desperate enough straits to accept a settlement in exchange for a bride he had never encountered. But he had been quite pleased by LeMont. He was a shy, rather sensitive young gentleman with a pleasing countenance. Unfortunately, his mother was less commendable. She was a pushy harpy who would no doubt plague the young couple with her managing habits. Still, he would be free of Miss Bella Lowe and her outrageous antics. “The wedding shall take place in June.”