The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  Even he couldn’t deny this was a perfectly plausible explanation, and he seemed to know it, because he didn’t reply. He simply stared at her, his long fingers toying with his bread knife and his dark eyes glittering.

  But if Isla thought they’d reached an end to their argument, she was mistaken.

  “You never said why you rode out at all yesterday, Miss Ramsey. I know you’re fond of riding, of course. I believe you ride out every day, don’t you?”

  A prickle of warning shot down Isla’s back. It was a simple question, but the way he was looking at her made her hesitate. He was very still, and he was watching her closely, almost as if he were challenging her.

  All at once it dawned on Isla what he was getting at.

  He’d seen her riding by his house. There was no other explanation for his strange, fixed attention.

  She pictured him standing at one of those blank, staring windows, watching her ride by below. A peculiar emotion washed over her, but it wasn’t the emotion she expected.

  What she had expected, she couldn’t have said in that moment.

  Pleasure, or triumph? She felt neither of those things.

  Instead, she felt ashamed.

  I wanted him to see me.

  She hadn’t realized it until that moment, but that was why she’d gone. Day after day she’d saddled Sophie and gone galloping across the fields between Huntington Lodge and Hazelwood because she’d hoped he’d see her, and that once he did, he’d…he’d… He’d what? What had she imagined would happen? He’d see her and realize he’d made a terrible mistake? That he’d ride out after her, his horse’s hooves flying across the field, his black coat soaring out behind him in the wind, and he’d beg her to be his?

  It took every bit of Isla’s resolve not to cover her face with her hands. Dear God, how could she have been such a fool? How many times would she be obliged to learn the same lesson? If fate had ever been her friend, she’d long since abandoned her. Hadn’t she seen over and over that for her, there wouldn’t be a happy ending? The mistakes she’d made in Scotland had cost her brothers their friends, their home.

  Happy endings were for heroines, not for—

  “You haven’t answered my question, Miss Ramsey. Why did you ride out yesterday? Despite your denials, you knew damn well it wasn’t safe to go out in that storm. So why did you?”

  “I went out to look for Lord Sydney.” It wasn’t a lie. It wasn’t the entire truth, either.

  Lord Pierce’s face shifted, his expression hardening. “I see. Lord Sydney is coming to Huntington Lodge, then?”

  Isla’s hands were trembling, and she lowered them to her lap. “Yes. He should have arrived yesterday, but he didn’t come, so I thought I’d ride out to see if I could see him on the main road.”

  “And did you?” Lord Pierce asked, his voice cool.

  “No.” Isla twisted a fold of her skirts between her fingers. She’d gone quite a way down the road, but she didn’t say so to Lord Pierce. “My brothers said he must have stopped to wait out the weather, but I—”

  “But you were so worried for your betrothed you went out in a storm to look for him anyway. Is that right, Miss Ramsey?”

  Something in his voice made her raise her chin and meet his eyes. “Yes.”

  Lord Pierce’s lips twisted into something that might have been intended as a smile, but wasn’t. “How touching. I hope Lord Sydney realizes how fortunate he is to have inspired such loyalty and devotion in his betrothed.”

  There was a bitter edge to his voice, and Isla felt her shoulders jerk back and her spine stiffen. What right had he to be bitter? The night of Lady Entwhistle’s ball—the night that had ended in Sydney’s and Isla’s spectacular scandal—she’d written to Lord Pierce and begged him to let her explain herself, and he’d refused. He’d turned his back on her, just as the rest of London had, and now he’d begrudge her the one bit of happiness she’d managed to salvage for herself?

  Sydney deserved everything she offered him, and more. She might have despaired of ever having the sort of true love Hyacinth and Lachlan or Iris and Finn had, but in every other way a person could love, she loved Sydney. She was tremendously grateful for him.

  “He does realize it.” Isla’s chin jerked up another notch. “It’s quite simple, really. Lord Sydney inspires loyalty and devotion because he offers it in return.”

  Lord Pierce went still. There was a long silence—so long Isla thought he didn’t intend to respond—but then he said in a low, hard voice, “Yes, I assumed he must have inspired something in you, Miss Ramsey, given that you announced your betrothal not two days after you left London.”

  Isla stared at him, her eyes wide. Left London? She hadn’t left, she’d been dragged away, with the ton’s ugly rumors echoing in her ears. She’d been hurried back to Huntington Lodge to explain her part in the scandal to Finn.

  “Lord Sydney is a gentleman.” Isla didn’t say anything more, but there was no way Lord Pierce could mistake her meaning. Sydney had announced their betrothal at once because he hadn’t had a choice. It was the only way to quell the gossip and save Isla’s reputation.

  After all, by then Lord Pierce had made it clear he didn’t want her anymore.

  If he ever had.

  “You won’t get any argument from me, Miss Ramsey. I wish you and Lord Sydney joy.” He tossed his napkin onto his plate and rose from the table. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to amuse yourself today. Mrs. Babcock will give you a tour of the house, if you like. The library is an extensive one. Perhaps you can start there.”

  Isla blew out a relieved breath. The idea of spending an entire day with Lord Pierce made her pulse quicken with alarm. She’d be a nervous wreck by the end of it. “Thank you, my lord. I’m certain I’ll find something in the library to amuse me.”

  “Very well, then.” Lord Pierce offered her a cool, impersonal smile, every trace of his earlier anger gone. “Enjoy your day. Oh, and Miss Ramsey?”

  “Yes?” Isla had reached for her teacup to take one last, bracing sip, but something in his voice made her hesitate with the cup poised at her lips.

  “The storm is certain to break soon, but I…” A dull flush covered his cheeks. “In the event you’re obliged to stay for a few days, I think it best if we…that is, I intend to spend most of the time in my study.”

  Isla’s fingertips tightened around her teacup. Well, that was plain enough. For as long as she was forced to remain at Hazelwood, Lord Pierce meant to stay out of her way, and he wished for her to stay out of his.

  “I didn’t expect you to spend your time entertaining me, Lord Pierce.” She waved a hand around her. “Hazelwood is a large house. There’s no reason for our paths to cross.”

  His brow creased, and he looked as if he had more to say, but then he nodded once. “No reason at all. I will, of course, escort you back to Huntington Lodge, once the weather allows it.”

  Isla fought against the peculiar sinking sensation in her chest. What had she expected? Not three weeks ago he’d asked her never to contact him again. Did she think he’d offer to read poetry to her all day, then tuck her into her bed at night?

  “You’re very kind, my lord.” She gave him a polite smile and forced herself to keep it fixed to her lips until he’d bowed and left the room.

  Once he was gone, she rose from the table and wandered over to the window. The sky remained a steely gray, but what little light there was glinted dully off the sheer coating of ice. Perhaps she would have been better off if Lord Pierce had tossed her out this morning, after all.

  It might be bitterly cold outside, but it was far colder within.

  Chapter Five

  The troublesome thing about mistakes was you never knew you’d made one until it was too late.

  A day ago, Hugh would never have guessed he’d be obliged to sit down to breakfast with Isla Ramsey thi
s morning. If he had guessed it, he wouldn’t have imagined that breakfast would end with him stomping his feet and shouting like a bedlamite.

  But that was what had happened.

  Gentlemen didn’t shout at ladies. They didn’t shout at all. They didn’t curse at the table, or toss their napkin and utensils about like a savage. It was a damn good thing his father was already dead, because if he’d witnessed Hugh’s performance just now, it would have killed him.

  Hugh threw himself into the chair behind his desk and tried to think of any other way to describe his behavior other than a complete loss of control. Nothing came to mind. No, the truth was, this morning’s disaster was just the latest in a long string of mistakes he’d made when it came to Isla Ramsey.

  Talking to her, dancing with her, falling in love with her…

  Hugh slammed a fist down on his desk, and a few of the unread letters he’d stacked in a tidy pile on the side of it drifted to the floor.

  Dear God, the woman drives me mad.

  He couldn’t work. He hardly slept. He couldn’t even think anymore. He certainly couldn’t recall ever losing his temper with a lady as he’d just done with her, but she seemed to drive him toward every sort of excess. Even now he wasn’t quite sure what had gone wrong this morning. He’d begun innocently enough, but the more he thought about the danger she’d put herself in yesterday, the more agitated he’d become, and then…

  Then she’d said the one word guaranteed to light the spark of anger and desire he still felt for her leaping into flames.

  Sydney.

  He hardly remembered what he’d said after that. Some nonsense about a tour of the estate. Or had it been the library? He couldn’t be certain, but he clearly recalled warning her to stay out of his way while she was at Hazelwood. Then he’d stormed down the hallway to his study and slammed the door behind him.

  Very good, that. Very marquess-like behavior, indeed.

  Hugh balanced his elbows on his desk and let his forehead rest in his palm. He should have simply accepted her apology and acknowledged her thanks. It wasn’t any of his damn business what Isla Ramsey did. She could cause as many scandals as she liked—so many her name would be on the lips of every gossip in London—and it didn’t have a thing to do with him. If she wanted to marry Lord Sydney, he didn’t have a word to say about it. If she was reckless enough to risk her neck riding like a hellion through dark and dangerous woods, he had no right to stop her.

  He had no right to her at all.

  He sighed, then leaned over and scooped up the letters that had fallen to the floor. He stacked them neatly on top of the pile, then he went through the whole lot one by one, arranging them by date and stacking them in the middle of his desk.

  Right, then. This was much better. He had enough work to do to chase Isla Ramsey from his head for the rest of the afternoon. He bent over his desk and read through each of the letters. It took the better part of the afternoon to get through all of them, but at last he placed the final letter on the top of the stack and leaned back in his chair.

  He stared blankly at the tidy pile.

  Dozens of letters, and he couldn’t remember a single word of any of them.

  Hugh swept the letters aside in a fury, scattering them in every direction, then took a deep breath and dragged a hand through his hair. This obsession he had with Isla had to stop. Within weeks she’d be the Countess of Sydney.

  He should have seen at once how it would be between them. He and Isla had been doomed from the start. Mere moments after he’d been introduced to her, they’d gotten into an argument—about St. James’s Street, of all foolish things. Isla had maintained it was ridiculous the ladies weren’t permitted to walk or drive there, and she’d insisted the gentlemen had banished them so they could indulge in wicked behavior without being held to account for it.

  Utter nonsense, of course, and Hugh hadn’t hesitated to say so, but Isla hadn’t backed down. On the contrary, it had led to a rather heated row between them about the antics that took place in the bow window at White’s, the shameless wagers placed in the infamous betting book, and the absurd restrictions placed on ladies in general.

  In retrospect, it wasn’t surprising her season had ended in a disastrous scandal.

  Not that he’d ever credited any of the ugly rumors he’d heard about that night. He had no idea what had really happened between Isla and Lord Sydney in the library at Lady Entwhistle’s ball, and he didn’t believe the gossips did, either. All he knew for certain was a week before the scandal with Sydney, he’d kissed Isla himself, and she’d responded with a sweet passion that had made his knees weak.

  Then the next thing he knew, she was betrothed to Sydney, and he was left with a shattered heart and the memory of a single, devastating kiss.

  He never should have kissed her. He never should have danced with her, or laughed with her, or taken her for walks in the moonlight, but damn it, that was what the season was for, wasn’t it? To force together two people who hadn’t a thing in common aside from a mutual attraction to each other and persuade them to believe they should be together forever. Marriage was the very foundation of English society, and as long as the aristocracy continued to produce legitimate heirs, everyone was satisfied. No one much cared if those heirs were the product of happy marriages or miserable ones.

  If he hadn’t met Isla during the season, he never would have fallen in love with her in the first place. He might have admired her if they’d met at Huntington Lodge, yes, but even something as inconsequential as seeing her astride a horse would have put a quick end to his infatuation. Isla rode as if a demon were chasing her. If he’d witnessed that, he would have known at once she wasn’t meant for him. He’d always imagined he’d marry a calm, sensible sort of lady, not the sort who rode like a hellion or ventured into the woods in the midst of an ice storm.

  Under different circumstances, he would have recognized they wouldn’t suit—

  Hugh bolted upright in his chair, the hair on his arms rising.

  Different circumstances…

  The sort of circumstances just like the one they found themselves in now, for instance.

  They were confined at Hazelwood, thrown together like a couple of spitting cats in a burlap sack. There was a storm raging outside, they were trapped for an indeterminate amount of time, and the air between them was thick with resentment and unanswered questions. Questions that had no answers—at least, none Hugh cared to hear. As soon as he’d discovered she was betrothed to Lord Sydney, he and Isla had moved well beyond the point of explanations.

  He rose from his chair and turned to look out the window, his heart suddenly pounding. The ice was pouring from the sky again, the hard pellets striking the window like dozens of tiny, vicious fists. The wind was shrieking as well, making the trees list to the side like a row of dominoes about to topple.

  They weren’t going anywhere today, and very likely not tomorrow, either.

  He’d been cursing fate all morning, but perhaps he was looking at this the wrong way—as a punishment, when he should be looking at it as an opportunity. After all, he and Isla couldn’t even get through a simple breakfast without both of them falling into a fury. How long could it possibly be before they couldn’t stand the sight of each other?

  Not long, he’d wager. A day, perhaps two? No more than that.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder…

  That was how the poets had put it, but surely the opposite was also true? No doubt some poet or other had gone on about presence making the heart grow weary, or something similar…

  Familiarity breeds contempt.

  Ah, yes. There it was. Who was he to argue with Chaucer?

  Hugh dropped back down into his chair, and for the first time since he’d found out Isla and Sydney were betrothed, a smile lifted the corners of his lips.

  He could sit here in his study for the
next two days, throwing letters about and reducing everything around him to mayhem, or he could take advantage of the situation and put the time he’d been given to good use.

  To fall out of love with Isla Ramsey.

  * * * *

  “A game of chess?” Isla asked, staring blankly at him. “With who?”

  Hugh blew out an impatient breath. “With me, of course. Did you think I was suggesting you play with Mrs. Babcock?”

  “You?” She blinked at him. “But you said you had work to do.”

  I do. Falling out of love with you.

  In order for that to happen, however, he needed for her to annoy him, and a game of chess seemed as likely an activity as any for that to happen.

  “I don’t have any work that can’t wait, Miss Ramsey. That is, nothing so pressing it would excuse my rudeness in leaving you on your own for the entire day.” Of course, he’d been perfectly willing to leave her on her own earlier, but that was before he came up with his brilliant plan.

  “I couldn’t ask you to—”

  “You didn’t ask. I offered. Come now, Miss Ramsey,” he prodded, when she continued to look doubtful. “It’s a game of chess, not a one-way trip to the executioner’s block.”

  “I think I might prefer the executioner’s block,” she muttered.

  Hugh couldn’t argue with that. At least when one lost their head it put an end to their misery. Not so when one lost their heart.

  “But perhaps you don’t play chess.” He took care to add just the faintest hint of dismissiveness to his tone. “Forgive me. That never occurred to me.”

  She met his gaze with a cool one of her own. “I do play, my lord. Indeed, I’m rather clever at chess. My brother Ciaran and I have played together since we were old enough to wrap our fingers around the pieces.”

  Hugh didn’t doubt she was clever, but she was also impatient, impulsive, and reckless, and her game would undoubtedly reflect that. He was a cautious, methodical player, and it would annoy him to no end to watch her flinging her pieces about.