The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  He saw Emma.

  How could he have forgotten about the dollhouse? Emma had spent hours playing with it as a child, fussing with the furniture in each room, rocking the tiny baby in its tiny cradle, and telling herself fanciful stories about the family who lived there.

  Maybe he hadn’t wanted to remember. Sometimes it was easier for him not to think of Emma. But the memories came, whether he wished for them or not, and now they crashed over him like an ocean wave, robbing him of breath.

  He shouldn’t have come up here. He’d buy Grace new toys, better ones—

  “Oh, how your sister must have adored this lovely house!” Isla put the doll family around the dining table and stood back to study the effect, sighing with delight. “It looks a bit like Hazelwood. Was it meant to be a replica?”

  Hugh didn’t reply, but Isla didn’t seem to notice. She went on murmuring to herself, admiring each piece of furniture and cooing over the dolls, just as Emma had done when she was a child.

  I can’t bear it…

  Hugh turned his back on Isla and strode across the room. A pile of dusty primers and chapbooks was stacked in a corner of one of the shelves against the back wall. A row of children’s books lined another.

  He didn’t remember much about his mother—he’d only been seven years old when she died—but he did recall her reading books to him and Emma every afternoon, once they’d finished their lessons for the day.

  He ran a finger down the cracked spines, pausing next to a familiar title.

  The History of Little Goody Two-Shoes.

  Ah, he remembered this book. It had been one of Emma’s favorites. For his own part, he’d had little patience for the story of Margery the virtuous orphan. He’d preferred more fantastical tales, with adventurous characters.

  Hugh studied the shelves until he came across one of his old favorites, A Description of Three Hundred Animals. He’d been fascinated with this book as a child, especially all the drawings of birds and beasts and insects. He took it down and leafed through it, and the tightness in his chest began to ease as he turned over the pages.

  He’d been grief-stricken when Emma died. They’d been close even as children, then closer still after their parents passed away. He and Emma had been the only remaining members of their family then, and when she died he’d keenly felt how alone he was. He’d been plunged into darkness with her loss, and it had been a terrible struggle for him to crawl back out of it. Eventually, though, he’d made his peace with Emma’s death. His heart had healed around the tear, and now his only concern was his niece, Grace.

  He’d found a way to bring her to Hazelwood for good, where she belonged.

  But it had come at a cost…

  Hugh closed his book and placed it back on the shelf. There was no use in entertaining regrets now. The storm, these strange, stolen moments with Isla—they changed nothing. He’d made a promise to Juliana, and one to himself, as well. He intended to keep them both.

  “Look at the wee piano in the music room! And is that a…oh, my goodness, it is! A harp, with proper strings!”

  Hugh turned to glance at Isla, a smile lifting the corners of his lips at the girlish flush on her cheeks. “One would think you’d never seen a dollhouse before, Miss Ramsey.” He crossed the room to her, took the tiny harp out of her hand, and ran a gentle finger over the strings. “You must have had dolls as a child.”

  “Dolls!” Her brow creased, as if she could hardly comprehend such dimness. “I had dolls, yes. The sort of dolls every little girl has, but they were nothing like this.” She plucked the fair-haired matron from her place at the dining table and gazed at her admiringly. “If they had been, perhaps I would have played with them more often.”

  Hugh handed the harp back to her and peeked into the dollhouse, memories of Emma washing over him again. “Didn’t you care for dolls?”

  “Not much, no, but then I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I have two older brothers, my lord, neither of whom wanted to play dolls with me. Perhaps if I’d had a sister, or a girl cousin…” She put the harp back into the music room with a sigh. “As it was, I was too busy chasing after my scapegrace brothers to have much time for dolls. They were both, ah…spirited children.”

  “Spirited?” Hugh chuckled. Lachlan and Ciaran Ramsey must have been regular demons as children.

  “Well, yes, among other things, but never mind them. How fortunate it is we came to the schoolroom, Lord Pierce, and found your sister’s dollhouse! I’m sure your niece will be delighted with it. It might be best to bring it downstairs for her, though.”

  “I don’t think so. It’s filthy, and the paint is flaking off. Some of the pieces are cracked, and the front door and chimneys are loose.” Hugh poked at one of the chimney stacks, and the crown broke off. “Grace won’t want such a shabby, worn-out toy.”

  Isla gaped at him in disbelief. “But of course, she will! Why, it only needs a bit of fixing up, and a thorough cleaning. It’s easily done.”

  Hugh shook his head. “You needn’t worry about Grace, Miss Ramsey. I’ll buy her other toys.”

  “Other toys? There are no other toys like this. Lord Pierce, please don’t say you mean to keep Grace from playing with her mother’s dollhouse!”

  Hugh’s gaze darted between the dollhouse and Isla’s outraged face, and his conscience pricked at him. He knew she was right. His niece should have her mother’s dollhouse, but he wasn’t sure his heart could bear to watch Grace play with it without Emma by her side. It was just a toy, made of wood and paint and cloth. It could never take the place of the mother Grace had lost.

  Hugh looked at Isla for another moment, then turned for the stairs. “Come. It’s cold up here. Let’s go down and have tea.”

  But before he could take a step, Isla stopped him. “Hugh.”

  He froze, stunned. She’d never used his Christian name before, and when he heard the pleading note in her voice, her turned back to her at once.

  She took a step toward him and held out her hand, as if to keep him from turning away again. “I don’t think you understand. The dollhouse isn’t just a toy. It’s a part of Grace’s history. You can buy her dozens of toys, but you can’t ever buy her such a meaningful connection to her mother. Emma loved this dollhouse, and Grace will grow to love it, too, for her mother’s sake.”

  Hugh stared at Isla, his heart in his throat. All the wariness he’d seen in her face since she’d come to Hazelwood was gone. The shadow of hurt he saw in her eyes whenever she looked at him had disappeared. All he saw in those blue depths now was a plea.

  She was begging him to hear her, and she wasn’t doing it for herself. For now, for this moment, she’d put aside the resentment between them, the pain, the unspoken questions, and the shattered hopes and dreams.

  She was doing this for him, and Grace, for their happiness.

  When he looked at her now, he didn’t see the woman who’d tossed him aside for another man. He looked into her beautiful eyes and he saw her open, generous heart.

  He saw the woman he’d fallen in love with.

  She took another step toward him, her hands clasped together as if in prayer. “When Grace plays with the dollhouse, you can tell her all about her mother—what she loved about the house, how she played with it when she was a girl. Don’t you see, Lord Pierce? Grace won’t remember her mother at all unless you help her. This is a way for you to give that child her mother back.”

  Hugh didn’t speak or move. He simply stood there, staring at Isla Ramsey. How could he have ever believed for a single moment he could fall out of love with her? She’d crept into his blood, settled into his bones. He couldn’t remember who he’d been before he’d been hers.

  Nothing would ever change that. Not an argument at the breakfast table, or a chess game, or a tour of the house—he’d been a fool to think any of that would make any difference. No matter wh
at he did, where he went, who he married, he would always belong to her.

  And she…she would belong to someone else.

  “I’ll help you with it, if you like. The dollhouse, I mean. I could—”

  “No. I don’t want your help.” Hugh’s tone was harsh, and her wince made his chest tighten in protest, but he had no choice in this. He’d done a poor job of protecting his heart from her, and it had to end here.

  They stood in silence for a tense moment before Hugh cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I’ve fatigued you this afternoon. I’ll ask Mrs. Babcock to see a tea tray is sent to your room.” He bowed, avoiding her eyes. “I’ll see you at dinner, Miss Ramsey.”

  Chapter Ten

  The tumbler Hugh was cradling in his palm wasn’t full. He’d poured just enough brandy so the dark amber liquor grazed the pointed base of the Pierce crest that was etched into the crystal. He never allowed himself to fill it higher than that, and he hadn’t tonight.

  The difference was, he’d filled and emptied the glass four times instead of one.

  He’d discarded his cravat after the second glass. His coat and waistcoat had followed after the third, and now they all sat in an untidy pile on the floor beside his desk. He was a sip or two into his fourth glass when he threw his booted feet onto the polished surface of the desk, sending half the papers scattering. Hugh shoved the other half off the edge of the desk with the heel of his boot.

  His father would be scandalized.

  What had Isla said this afternoon in the portrait gallery? Something about the striking resemblance between him and his father. They did look very much alike, but the similarity between them went deeper than the skin.

  His father had been a good man—a worthy man. Hugh had admired him greatly, and his sire had taken great care to raise his son in his own image as a proper gentleman. Even as a young boy Hugh had been expected to behave as befitted a future marquess.

  There were certain things future marquesses simply didn’t do. Slide down bannisters, for one, but the restrictions didn’t end there. A future marquess didn’t wager to excess, drink to excess, or fornicate to excess. Pretty much any sort of excess was frowned upon, really.

  He didn’t love to excess…

  Hugh had loved his father, but for all his flawlessness, the seventh Marquess Pierce hadn’t been a warm, affectionate sort of man. His mother had been the one who’d showered Hugh with affection, and then, after she died, it had been Emma.

  He’d said his sister’s name today more times than he had since the day they’d buried her. He rarely spoke about Emma to anyone, but it had only taken one look into Isla Ramsey’s eyes, and the words had come pouring from his lips.

  He hadn’t meant to take Isla to the portrait gallery at all. Now every time he wandered there he’d see her as she’d been today, looking up at the portraits, her face alight with curiosity. He’d remember her eyes when he told her of Emma’s death—how they’d darkened with compassion.

  He’d never get that memory out of his head.

  It wasn’t just a distant glimpse of her from his study window this time. This was his home, and he couldn’t bear to have Isla haunting every corner of it. He didn’t want to be thinking of her when he set foot in the schoolroom, or wandered through the portrait gallery, or replaced a book on the library shelf.

  This house, these rooms, his family’s portraits, the painted glass windows…

  These things had to belong only to him, and to his family.

  The wind still howled, rattling the windowpane at Hugh’s back, but he’d listened to it for a long time this evening, and he was certain this was its last gasp of fury. It would be calmer tomorrow. Light snow still fell from the sky, but the bitter cold had abated, and the ice was already melting.

  The storm was nearly over, and there was no reason for Isla to remain at Hazelwood any longer. He’d take her back to Huntington Lodge after breakfast tomorrow, and his life would go on as before, as if she’d never been here at all.

  Hugh raised his glass to his lips, swallowed the last of the brandy, and then placed the empty tumbler on the corner of his desk. He was in no condition for anything other than his bed, and he’d do well to go there before he was tempted to indulge in a fifth glass, but just as he rose, a soft knock sounded on his study door.

  “Lord Pierce? May I come in? I’ve brought you a tray.”

  Hugh sighed. It was his housekeeper, no doubt in a fret over his having missed dinner. She was a motherly sort and couldn’t bear the idea of anyone going hungry under her watch, least of all the marquess himself. “Yes, Mrs. Babcock. Please come in.”

  He didn’t make a habit of drinking through dinner, but the prospect of facing Isla across the table tonight had been unbearable, with both of them forced to make wretched small talk as they struggled through each course. So he’d skipped dinner, without a word of explanation to anyone, and without sending his apologies to Isla.

  It was better this way, for both of them.

  “Now then, my lord, here we are.” Mrs. Babcock bustled in, a tray in her hands. “Just a bite of something for you to eat, seeing as how you missed…” She trailed off, her eyes widening as she took in the half-empty decanter of brandy, the clothing and papers scattered across the floor, and finally Hugh himself, sprawled in his chair in his shirtsleeves, befuddled with drink. “Oh, dear.”

  “Just set the tray on the desk here, Mrs. Babcock.”

  Mrs. Babcock glanced askance at the liquor decanter once again, but she ventured to his desk and placed the tray carefully on a far corner, well out of reach of his boots. “Can I get you anything else, my lord?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Very well, my lord.”

  Mrs. Babcock hurried back toward the door, but before she could leave, the question Hugh had been trying not to ask spilled from his lips. “How does Miss Ramsey do? Did she dine?”

  “Yes, my lord. An hour or so ago.”

  “I suppose she’s in the library now? Or has she retired for the evening?” He only asked, of course, so he knew how best to avoid her.

  “Now you ask, it’s rather curious. She hasn’t retired. One of the housemaids just came from building the fire in her bedchamber, and she said Miss Ramsey wasn’t there. I peeked into the library—she didn’t eat much dinner, you see, so I thought perhaps a tray would be welcome—but she wasn’t there, either. I’m not sure where she’s got off to, my lord.”

  Hugh knew at once where she’d gone, and a slow, liquor-fueled fury began to spread through his chest. “Thank you, Mrs. Babcock. That will be all.”

  He managed to hold on to his temper until the housekeeper was gone, but then he shot to his feet and bounded up the three flights of stairs to the schoolroom. When he reached the landing, he saw the door at the end of the long hallway was cracked open, and a faint beam of light was spilling out from inside.

  Don’t do this. Go to bed.

  As always when it came to Isla, however, impulse defeated logic. In the next breath he’d thrown open the door, and there she was, in the very place he’d told her he didn’t want her to be.

  Hugh stared at her, at her face bathed in the glow of the lamp, and something inside his chest snapped. He’d had too much to drink, and she was too beautiful and too close, and it made him wild to want her so badly and know he could never have her.

  Hugh stumbled into the room and slammed the door closed behind him. “Damn it, Isla, what are you doing up here?”

  “Oh!” She leapt to her feet, her hand flying to her throat. “Lord Pierce, I—”

  “I asked you a question.” He stalked toward her. “I told you I didn’t want your help with the dollhouse, so what the devil do you think you’re doing?”

  She bit her lip, her throat working nervously. “I just…” She gestured toward the dollhouse. She’d spread all the tiny furniture over the top of
the table beside it, and there were a few soft cloths lying about, as if she’d been cleaning off the dust. “I hoped you might change your mind about Grace having the dollhouse, so I—”

  A low, angry growl left his chest. “Don’t you understand? This room, the dollhouse—when I’m up here with Grace, she’s all I want to think about, and all I want to see. But it’s too late for that now, isn’t it? You’re already in every corner of this house. Do you think I’ll ever sit in the library, or play chess, or stroll through the portrait gallery without seeing you now?”

  Her mouth fell open. “You… What do you mean, you see me? I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do.” In some hazy part of his brain, Hugh understood he was saying too much, that he’d lost control, but the liquor had loosened his tongue, and he couldn’t seem to make himself stop. “I think you understand perfectly.”

  She set aside her dusting cloth and the tiny harp she’d been admiring earlier and met his gaze, her arms crossed defensively over her chest. “I beg your pardon, Lord Pierce, but I don’t understand in the least. It doesn’t matter, however. I’ll be gone by tomorrow, and until then, I think we’d both prefer it if I remain in my bedchamber.”

  With that, she began to sweep toward the door, but he caught her elbow before she’d gone three steps. “No. It’s too late for that now.”

  Her face flushed, and she tugged at her arm. “I don’t understand this, Lord Pierce. Why are you so angry? I only came up here to—”

  She didn’t get any farther.

  He jerked her against his chest, and his mouth came down on hers.

  * * * *

  Isla already knew how soft Hugh’s lips were. He’d kissed her once before, in a darkened library during a ball, just before her season ended. Later that same night, after their kiss, Isla had confessed to Hyacinth that she was in love with him.