The Wayward Bride

by Anna Bradley

  “That’s it, sweetheart. Let me hold you.” He pressed a chaste kiss to her forehead.

  She hesitated, but then she sighed. Her arms went around his neck, and she buried her face against his chest. “They…they said I was—”

  “What they said, the names they called you—those were lies, Isla. Lies told by weak, vicious people. They don’t matter.”

  She shook her head, her face still hidden in his chest. “How can they not matter?”

  Her voice was muffled by his shirt, so Hugh took her shoulders and gently eased her away from him. “The only way they can matter is if you believe they’re true. Do you?”

  Hugh already knew the answer, but he wasn’t sure Isla realized how much the tragedies from her past were still hurting her.

  The color drained from her face, and her hands closed into tight fists against his chest. “I don’t want to. I try not to, but sometimes…sometimes I do believe them.”

  She tried to blink away the tears glittering on her dark lashes, but Hugh saw them, and they felt like a vicious blow to his chest. “Don’t cry over them, sweetheart. They don’t deserve your tears.” He took her face in his hands, caught her tears on his thumbs, and wiped them away. Then he leaned over her and brushed his mouth over one of her damp eyes, then the other.

  Her lashes fluttered against his lips. “If you’d heard my story from someone other than me—if one of the ton had discovered my secret and put it about London—would you have believed the worst of me then?”

  Hugh drew in a sharp breath. It hurt that she would think him so low that he’d listen to such malicious gossip. “No, Isla. Of course not. What have I ever done to make you think me so cruel I’d credit such vicious rumors?” His voice was quiet. “You can’t truly believe I’d abandon you because of some idle gossip. I would never…”

  The words died in Hugh’s throat, because her stricken look said more clearly than words that she had believed it. Perhaps she still did, even now.

  “That note you sent me,” she whispered. “Dear God. A single scrawled line. So few words, and yet an utter dismissal, just the same. I’ve tried to forget it, but I had nightmares about it. If it wasn’t about the gossip, then why did you send me that note asking me never to contact you again?”

  Hugh grabbed her waist and jerked her toward him. “Damn it, Isla, listen to me. I’m telling you the truth. I didn’t send you that note because of the scandal in Lady Entwhistle’s library. I sent it because of what Lord Sydney told me that night.”

  Her fingers curled into his shirt. “Tell me what he said.”

  Hugh dragged a hand down his face. “After your brothers took you home that night, I caught up to Lord Sydney when he was on the way out. He was with Lord Dixon, and he was harried and distracted, but by then the gossip about the encounter in the library had already made it to the ballroom, and I was worried for you.”

  She looked dazed. “Sydney never told me he spoke to you that night.”

  “It was quick. He wasn’t in the best humor, but Lord Sydney’s a gentleman, and when I asked for a word, he obliged me, despite his haste. It wasn’t until I began to quiz him about you that he turned defiant. He told me…”

  “What? He told you what?” She was clutching at him now, her fingers digging into his shirt.

  Hugh grabbed her hands and jerked them away from him. As he spoke, it was all coming back to him—what Lord Sydney had said to him that night, and how it had felt as if his heart were being ripped still beating from his chest.

  How it still felt that way.

  “He told me I needn’t concern myself with your reputation, because he’d made you an offer already, and you’d accepted it. He told me you were betrothed to him and had been for several weeks.”

  “Betrothed?” Isla asked faintly. Her face had gone dead white, and her voice had dropped to a shaky whisper. She was gazing up at him with wild, dark blue eyes, her chest heaving.

  The disbelief in her voice caught his attention, and doubt began to creep through the fog of hurt and anger. “Look at me, Isla.”

  When she met his gaze, her lower lip was trembling. He stared down at her, at the pallor in her cheeks, the stunned disbelief in her eyes, and a stab of uncertainly pierced his chest.

  She was looking at him as if…

  As if she hadn’t known, until now, that she’d broken his heart.

  * * * *

  Betrothed. It felt as if the floor had been yanked out from underneath her.

  Why would Sydney have told Hugh they were betrothed when they hadn’t been? It was true Sydney had offered for her several weeks earlier, but she hadn’t accepted him until the day after the scandal, after she’d received Hugh’s note asking her never to contact him again.

  She couldn’t believe Sydney would lie about such a thing, and yet…

  Mightn’t he have done so, to try to salvage her reputation? It was already well on the way to ruin by the time she left Lady Entwhistle’s ball that night. It was the only thing that made sense—the only reason she could think of that explained why Sydney would have told Hugh they were betrothed when they hadn’t been.

  Sydney wouldn’t lie on a whim, but he would lie to protect her.

  “The note you sent that night. You sent it after you spoke to Lord Sydney?” She knew the answer already—knew it instinctively, in the deepest part of her heart—but she needed to hear him say it.

  As soon as she mentioned the note, Hugh’s face went tight with misery. “Yes. You were betrothed to another man, Isla, after weeks of encouraging my attentions. I didn’t think there was anything more to say.”

  Isla didn’t reply, but inside her chest, her heart was breaking.

  There’d been so much more to say. A world of things…

  Now it was too late to say any of them.

  Hugh’s dark eyes met hers, and there was no mistaking the pain there. “Your betrothal was formally announced just two days later. What was I supposed to think, other than that you must have been toying with me? There’s only one thing about it I don’t understand. If you wanted Lord Sydney all along, why did you bother with me? Was I your second choice, in case you couldn’t bring him up to scratch?”

  Isla stared at him, the pain in her chest so excruciating she was sure her heart had just cracked open. Was this what he thought of her? That she’d be so cruel and calculating as to encourage two gentlemen at once?

  But as he said, what was he supposed to think? What other explanation was there? Given the circumstances, he’d drawn the only logical conclusion. A bitter laugh rose in Isla’s throat—a sharp, ugly sound, edged with hysteria. If it wasn’t all so awful, she might be able to laugh at the absurdity of it. The gossips insisted she’d led Sydney into an indiscretion in order to trap him into marriage. How ironic that it wasn’t true, and yet because of the scandal, she’d ended up betrothed to Sydney, just the same.

  And Hugh, the man she’d been madly in love with—was still madly in love with—he’d never turned his back on her. Not for the reasons she’d thought. He’d simply gotten caught in the web of well-meaning lies, and his heart had been broken, just as surely as hers had.

  She’d told herself over and over again it was for the best Hugh had cast her aside after the Lady Entwhistle scandal—that he would have done so anyway, as soon as she told him about James Baird. She’d told herself a man who could believe one scandal would surely believe another and think the worst of her. She’d convinced herself she and Hugh could never have had a future, and that he’d never really loved her.

  Tonight, she’d told him her secret, and what had he done?

  Held her while she wept. Stroked her hair and kissed her tears away.

  You’re so good, Isla, so strong and honest and good…

  Dear God, it was unbearable.

  “Isla.” Hugh’s sharp voice cut into her thoughts. “I
asked you a question. Why did you toss me aside for Sydney? Did you ever care about me, or were you in love with him all along?”

  “I do love Sydney,” she whispered, because it was the truth. She loved him dearly, just as she did her three brothers. “I love him, but not in the same way I lo—”

  She broke off. She wanted to howl at the unfairness of it, but she might rage all she liked, and it wouldn’t change the fact that it was too late for her and Hugh. She was betrothed to Sydney now, and she cared too much for him to take back her promise to marry him. He’d told her how difficult it had been for him to find a lady he could marry, and she wouldn’t allow him to be left alone.

  “Forgive me. I, ah…I don’t feel well.” Isla rested her palm against her forehead. “I beg your pardon, but I’d like to go to my bedchamber now.”

  “No. I need to know the truth, Isla.” Hugh still held one of her hands, and he didn’t let it go. “After everything that’s passed between us, I deserve to know.”

  He did deserve to know, but this truth wouldn’t bring him any relief. It would only lead to more heartbreak for him to know their happiness had been ruined by a single, innocent lie. It would torment him, just as it was now tormenting her.

  “Isla. Answer me.”

  Panic churned in Isla’s mind, making her dizzy. She needed time alone, to think what was best to do. “Please, Hugh. Can we talk about this tomorrow, when we’re both calmer? It’s late, and I…I’m not well.”

  Hugh looked down at her with blazing eyes. “No. Damn it, what happened that night? I need you to tell me everything, starting with the encounter between you and Lord Sydney in Lady Entwhistle’s library.”

  But she had no answers for him. She didn’t have them tonight, and she wouldn’t have them tomorrow. She wouldn’t ever have them. How could she explain to him why fate had let them get so close to love and then snatched it away again, just as they reached their hands out for it? How could she explain to him something as insignificant as a few casual words had destroyed any hope they had of a future together?

  “I will. Of course, I’ll tell you.” The lie burned the tip of Isla’s tongue. “But not tonight. Tomorrow.”

  “No.” Hugh closed his hands around her upper arms. “Not tomorrow, Isla. Now. I’ve been driven half-mad, wondering how you could have thrown me over without a backward glance. I can’t go another night without knowing the truth.”

  I wish I could hate you…

  If she let him believe she’d thrown him aside, he would hate her. Maybe not tonight, but it wouldn’t be long before he convinced himself she wasn’t worth his regrets. He’d forget all about her then, and eventually he’d give some other lady the honor of his name and his love, and he’d be happy with her.

  A simple lie now could save him years of heartache. Didn’t she owe him that?

  His fingers tightened around her arms, and he stared down at her with dark, wild eyes. “Were you betrothed to Lord Sydney the night of Lady Entwhistle’s ball, or not? Tell me, Isla.”

  Yes.

  It was one word—just a tiny lie. Isla opened her mouth to speak the word, to tell the lie… and then closed it again and buried her face in her hands.

  She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t lie to him. Not about this.

  A low, strangled sound broke from Hugh’s chest, and he jerked his hands away from her. He didn’t speak, but turned his back on her and strode across the room as if he couldn’t stand to be near her. He rested his hands on the windowsill and let his head drop down between his shoulders.

  Isla had never seen him so broken, so utterly defeated, and she couldn’t bear to witness it.

  She whirled around and fled from the schoolroom, and when she reached the hallway, she ran. She didn’t think about where she was going, or what she was going to do. She didn’t think at all. She gripped the railing as if it were a lifeline and flew down the stairs, expecting every moment that she’d fall.

  But she didn’t. She made it to the landing below without mishap. By then Hugh had realized she’d fled, and he was chasing after her.

  “Isla! Come back!”

  She cast a fearful look over her shoulder. He’d paused on the landing above her, and when she met his gaze, he held out his hand to her. “Isla, it’s all right. I’m sorry. I won’t push you again. Please, just come and talk to me.”

  But it wasn’t all right, and no amount of talking would ever make it right again.

  She glanced over the edge of the railing, her heart pounding. From here she could see the entryway, and there wasn’t a servant in sight. There wasn’t a single person standing between her and the massive front door.

  Grief swelled in her breast, so thick and dark it threatened to suffocate her, and in the next moment she was running, her skirts caught in her fists, her panicked gaze locked on the front door two floors below.

  It’s madness…

  The wind was still howling, and it was cold, so cold. There would be ice still, lurking under the snow, and it was dark…so dark, with the silver moon hidden behind thick layers of black clouds.

  She was wearing only shoes and a thin muslin day dress. She had no coat, and no boots, and still she ran. She ran as if her very life depended on it.

  Because in that moment, it did.

  “Isla, no!”

  She’d reached the first landing, but she turned at the sound of Hugh’s shout echoing in the empty entryway. He was two floors above her, but even from here she could see the panic on his face.

  His gaze shot to the door, then back to her. He held out his hands again, as if he could stop her. “Isla, don’t!”

  But she had to. Didn’t he see that? She had to leave at once and go back to Huntington Lodge. Once she was there, she wouldn’t ride by Hazelwood again, because it would hurt him to see her, and she couldn’t bear to hurt him any more than she already had—

  “Isla, no!” Hugh was charging down the stairs after her now, shouting something, his tone frantic, but Isla couldn’t make out his words. She was running again. The cold marble floor of the entryway was under her feet, and her fingers were wrapped around the huge iron door handle…

  Behind her, she could hear Hugh’s footsteps pounding on the stairs.

  She wrenched the door open, then gasped as the cold knocked her backward. For a moment she was too stunned to move, but then she swallowed a deep breath of the frigid air and fled.

  The servants had cleared the ice and snow away from the steps leading up to the door, but as soon as she ventured off the pathway she slipped and fell, her knees striking the hard ice hidden under the drifts of snow.

  Her heavy skirts tangled around her legs and weighed her down, but Isla managed to struggle to her feet, and she pressed on toward the stables. If she could make it to Sophie, then she could make it back to Huntington Lodge. Sophie knew the way even in the dark, and she was a sure-footed horse, able to pick her way slowly through the snow…

  But she never made it as far as the stables.

  She heard Hugh come up behind her, and she felt his hands close around her waist. He hauled her roughly against him, her back to his chest. His heaving breaths were hot against her neck as he grasped her chin in his hand, stilling her to whisper in her ear. “You can’t run away from me this time, Isla. I won’t let you go that easily.”

  She kicked and thrashed to escape him, but his arms tightened around her. “Shhh,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I frightened you. You must know I’d never hurt you, Isla.” He buried his face against her neck and inhaled, his breaths quick and desperate.

  She went still in his arms, all the fight draining out of her at his words. There was no fighting this—no escaping it. No matter how much pain it caused, the truth would come to light.

  It would happen here, tonight. Now.

  She sagged against him, as if her secret had been the only thing holding h
er up, and his chest moved against her back as he drew in a long, shuddering breath. He held her against him for a moment longer, then he lifted her into his arms, cradled her tightly against his chest, and carried her back to the house.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucas spent most of the afternoon picking his way over patches of ice in the west field, assessing the damage done by the recent freeze. It was an hour or so before sunset when Burke appeared to say he was headed off to the stables and that he’d left Brute to watch over Lord Sydney.

  The earl was no longer in any danger of succumbing to his injuries, but Lucas found himself heading back to the farmhouse, just the same. He didn’t like to leave Sydney alone. Lord Sydney had grown more restless as his condition improved. He was impatient to be out of the bed, and Lucas was half-afraid he’d return to find an unsteady earl stumbling about his bedchamber, or worse, fallen down the stairs.

  He needn’t have worried. When he entered the bedchamber, he found Lord Sydney safely tucked into his bed, fast asleep on his back, just as he should be.

  There was one other tiny problem, however. Lord Sydney’s bedpartner.

  Lucas stopped short, his brow lowering. “For God’s sake, Brute. What the devil are you doing up there?”

  Brute was draped over the end of the bed like some Turkish prince, his dark, furry bulk resting atop Lord Sydney’s legs and his head lying on the earl’s stomach. Lord Sydney’s limp hand cradled Brute’s head, as if he’d fallen asleep while stroking the dog.

  “You know you’re not allowed on the bed,” Lucas hissed.

  Once Brute was splayed out across a bed, there was no room for anyone else. Poor Lord Sydney looked as if he was about to topple to the floor. Lucas crossed his arms over his chest and gave the dog a scolding look, but Brute didn’t look at all ashamed of himself. He let out a contented little grunt and nuzzled closer to Lord Sydney.