“Did you?”
“Of course.” He raised his hand and ran a slender finger down her cheek. “I might have teased you, but I always cared for you.”
A ridiculous tingle of excitement raced through her body. With an abrupt movement, she stepped from his unnerving touch.
“If you say so.”
For no reason she could imagine, a hint of satisfaction settled upon his chiseled features.
“Tell me, Isa, do you still sketch?”
She was caught off guard by his sudden question. “On occasion.”
“I still possess the portrait you did of me before leaving Kent.”
She couldn’t hide her shock. “You kept it?”
“Of course. I had it framed while I was in London, and it hangs in the front drawing room of my town house. I have had several guests inquire if it was drawn by a professional.” The hazel gaze warmly stroked over her disbelieving countenance. “I took great pleasure in informing them that the exquisite talent belonged to my intended bride.”
“I think that you must be roasting me, my lord,” she protested in embarrassment.
“Not in the least. You possess great talent.” He tilted his head to one side. “And I do have a name, Isa. You once called me Barth.”
What the devil was he up to? she wondered in wary unease.
He was acting as if he were thoroughly indifferent to the fact she that had rejected his offer of marriage. Or that she preferred another. She did not trust this pretense of companionship. Barth Juston, earl of Wickton, was as harmless as one of those snakes in India Lady Sarah spoke of.
“It does not seem proper under the circumstances,” she hedged.
“As I said, we are still friends.”
“Indeed?”
He studied her suspicious frown. “What?”
Isa shrugged. “I am simply surprised.”
“Why?”
She met his gaze squarely. “I thought you would be angry.”
“I must admit I was caught off guard and naturally disappointed. But as you pointed out, no one can force you to wed me.”
“I will not change my mind,” she warned.
His charming smile never faltered. “Certainly not.”
“So . . . what will you do?”
His brows lifted in mild bewilderment. “Do?”
Isa was quite certain he was being deliberately obtuse. “Will you wed another?” she demanded bluntly.
“Ah.” Comprehension dawned. “Undoubtedly.”
“Do you have a lady in mind?”
“Oh, yes, I most certainly have a lady in mind.”
“Good,” Isa forced herself to retort, although she couldn’t deny a stab of annoyance at his ready response. Clearly, one bride was as good as another as long as she possessed the necessary fortune. “I hope you shall be very happy.”
“As do I.” At the sound of approaching footsteps, he turned to glance down the path. “Ah, I believe our privacy is about to come to an end.”
Isa felt her heart lift at the sight of the slender, brown-haired gentleman rambling toward them. As always, Mr. Effinton held a large book in his hand that he read from even as he stumbled over the uneven ground.
Isa stepped forward with a wide smile, all too conscious of Barth’s narrowed gaze studying her every expression.
“Good morning, Peter.”
Belatedly realizing he was no longer alone, Mr. Effinton raised his head and regarded Isa with distracted brown eyes.
“Oh, Isa. Good morning.”
With a deliberate motion, Isa firmly wrapped her arm through Peter’s and turned to meet Lord Wickton’s gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin.
“Peter, may I introduce Lord Wickton? Lord Wickton, this is Mr. Effinton, our new vicar’s son.”
Peter performed an awkward bow. “My lord, a pleasure.”
Lord Wickton studied Isa’s intimate grasp of the young gentleman with a disturbing intensity.
“How do you find Kent, Mr. Effinton?”
“Quite restful, my lord.”
His gaze shifted to the large book in Peter’s hand. “Are you also a member of the clergy?”
“No.”
“Peter is a scholar,” Isa informed him in proud tones.
“Indeed?”
“No, no,” Peter protested with a faint blush. “A mere admirer of the great philosophers.”
“Peter is too modest.” Isa conjured up a brilliant smile. “He has written a fascinating essay on William of Ockham and his ordeal during the papal court in 1324.”
Lord Wickton’s full lips twitched in amusement. “How extraordinary.”
Unaware of the tension in the air, Peter leaned forward. “Are you interested in such studies?”
Isa couldn’t prevent her sharp laugh. “I fear Lord Wickton prefers to devote his time to less serious pursuits.” She deliberately met the glittering hazel gaze. “What are the teachers of philosophy when compared to the lure of lavish balls and the gendeman clubs?”
“Isa, you forget that Lord Wickton has been performing the greatest of duties.” Peter smiled in his gentle manner. “He has had little time for leisure or study. I am a great admirer of all our brave soldiers and deeply regret that I was unable to join the batde.”
The hazel eyes momentarily narrowed as if Lord Wickton had been caught off guard by the compliment. Then he was suddenly offering them a bow.
“Thank you, Mr. Effinton. Now I fear I must hurry away. Mother is expecting me for lunch.”
Although Isa had waited all morning to be with Peter, her gaze followed the tall form of Lord Wickton as he strode down the path. And even as Peter eagerly launched into his latest research of Ockham’s flight from Avignon to Munich under the protection of Emperor Louis IV, her renegade thoughts strayed to Lord Wickton’s strange behavior.
She would bet her dowry he was plotting something devious. What the devil was it?
* * *
Three days later, Isa dressed for dinner with great care. More than once she had considered crying off from the invitation to Graystone Manor. After all, Lady Wickton could not wish to entertain the young maiden who had tossed aside her son. And certainly she had never bothered to hide her sense of superiority over Mrs. Lawford. But the inward suspicion that Lord Wickton might conclude she was avoiding him out of fear made her resist the urge to plead a headache. If he wished to pretend that nothing was amiss, she could do the same.
Attired in a blue silk gown with silver thread embroidered along the hem, she appeared elegantly composed as she arrived at the great house. For once, even her unruly golden curls had been tamed to a smooth knot and held in place by sapphire-studded combs.
Still, she discovered her nerves fluttering as the stiff-faced butler led them down the massive hall to the formal salon. A vast room with Gothic windows and heavy family shields from the past three centuries, it was as rigidly pompous as its mistress, Lady Wickton.
Stepping into the room, Isa unconsciously grimaced as the slender woman with icily perfect features and an exquisite cambric gown floated forward. As always, her expression held a hint of comfortable superiority as she gazed down her long nose. Lady Wickton never bothered to hide the fact that she considered herself and her son well above the ordinary, and those foolish enough to presume that her air of fragility indicated a weak nature were soon taught she possessed a tongue that could wound at a hundred paces.
In Lady Wickton’s mind nothing was important beyond her own grand needs.
Now Isa felt a decided twinge of unease as the woman warmly clasped her hand.
“Isa, my dear. What a charming gown.”
“Thank you, Lady Wickton.”
“And Mrs. Lawford.” Lady Wickton’s smile thinned in a patronizing manner. “Welcome.”
“Thank you, Lady Wickton,” Mrs. Lawford rushed to enthuse. “So kind of you to invite us.”
“Of course I wished Isa to dine with us,” Lady Wickton insisted. “We have much to discuss.”
/> Isa’s eyes widened even as Lord Wickton stepped out of the shadows with a warning frown. She told herself that it was anger that made her heart tremble at the sight of his magnificent form, outlined by the fitted black coat and silver pantaloons. What did she care if he was breathtakingly handsome, with the candlelight dancing off his noble features and glossy chestnut locks? Her only concern was that Lady Wickton was clearly laboring under the mistaken notion that Isa was still going to be her daughter-in-law.
“Mother,” Lord Wickton protested in low tones.
Lady Wickton waved a thin hand in a dismissive motion. “I know that you asked me not to mention the wedding, Barth, but really, I do not believe that Isa comprehends the vast amount ofdetails that must be settled before June. We do not have time for such childish fancies.”
“I assure you, Lady Wickton, this is no childish fancy,” Isa retorted in a firm tone.
A pair of cold brown eyes settled upon her mutinous expression.
“Nonsense. All young maidens endure bouts with their nerves before they wed. It is only natural. Soon you will be happily established at Graystone and will not even recall your absurd doubts.”
Isa shivered at the mere thought of living in the gloomy mausoleum, but Mrs. Lawford gave her no opportunity to respond.
“That is preciselywhat I have attemptted to tell her, Lady Wickton.”
“You should have been more forceful, Mrs. Lawford,” Lady Wickton chastised. “Young ladies nowaday possess entirely too much freedom, in my opinion. When I was young, we accepted that our parents knew what was best for us.”
Mrs. Lawford flushed at the criticism. “Yes.”
Lady Wickton gave a faint sniff. “Family duty should be taught at a young age.”
A flare of anger rushed through Isa at the woman’s attack on her mother. Really, she was an arrogant bully, Isa seethed.
“Please do not blame my mother, Lady Wickton. She has been most insistent that I wed your son.”
The brown eyes became positively frigid. “Clearly not insistent enough.”
“Mother, we shall discuss this subject at a later date. For now I prefer we enjoy our evening.”
Isa gave a small blink at the unwavering authority in Lord Wickton’s tone. As a rule, he preferred charm to force, but she had to admit that it was quite effective, as Lady Wickton gave a grudging nod of her head.
“Very well.”
An uncomfortable silence descended that was at last broken as the stiff-faced butler returned.
“Dinner is served.”
Barely acknowledging Isa or her mother, Lady Wickton took her son’s arm and led the way to the ponderously grand dining room. Following with sharp reluctance, Isa heaved a sigh. The evening promised to be long indeed.
Her prediction proved correct. After an extended dinner that included soup, poached trout, pheasant, tarts, and a labored conversation about the weather, the women at last retreated to the drawing room. Not surprisingly, Lady Wickton was swift to take advantage of being away from her commanding son to ensure that both Isa and Mrs. Lawford were sternly reminded of the very great honor of being invited to Graystone Manor. At last, using the pretense a curl had come loose, Isa slipped out of the drawing room. One more of Lady Wickton’s spiteful remarks directed at her mother and she feared she might launch one of the hideous figures, which inhabited the room, at her head.
One day, she promised herself, she would inform the self-conceited countess precisely what she thought of her and her patronizing airs.
Slipping down the hall, Isa was at the point of sneaking into the garden when the door to the dining room opened, revealing Lord Wickton. Her breath caught at the sight of his tall, elegant frame. It was the first occasion they had been alone all evening, and Isa felt an odd shiver race down her spine.
“My lord.”
A smile touched the dark features as he strolled toward her, towering over her tiny frame.
“Barth,” he insisted.
She hesitated, then gave a small shrug. It was hardly worth fighting over.
“Very well, Barth.”
His gaze lingered on the color in her cheeks and the stormy darkness of her amber eyes.
“Where are you sneaking off to?”
She was not about to admit to such a cowardly act. “I am not sneaking off to anywhere. I merely wished for a few moments alone.”
“Ah.” A wry smile touched his lips. “I fear I must apologize for Mother. She has not thoroughly accepted the notion we are not to wed.”
“So I had noticed.” Isa’s tone was dry.
“She will eventually be brought round.”
“I do hope so,” Isa retorted, even as she realized she was indifferent to Lady Wickton’s opinion. That woman would never consider any maiden worthy of acquiring the precious Wickton name. Her only regret was the knowledge that her friendship with Lady Sarah was bound to suffer.
As if sensing her simmering annoyance, Barth tilted his head to one side.
“Would you enjoy a stroll through the garden?”
“With you?”
He gave a chuckle at her impetuous words. “Yes, with me.”
“What of our mothers?”
“They can surely keep one another entertained for a few moments.”
Although she had no desire to spend more time alone with Barth than absolutely necessary, it was preferable to the veiled malice filling the drawing room. She gave a decisive nod of her head.
“Yes, thank you.”
Opening the side door, Barth held out his arm and lead her into the shadowed darkness. Together they moved toward the lanterns set beside the marble fountain. It was Barth who at last broke the silence.
“I suppose I do not need to mention how mild a spring we are enjoying.”
Isa couldn’t prevent a wry smile. “No, indeed. I believe we covered the weather quite thoroughly over dinner.”
“And, of course, we spent a great deal of time discussing the merits of Mother’s chef, although I still contend that my own chef’s method of preparing trout is far preferable.”
“No doubt.”
“So what, then, shall we discuss? The latest rumors of Napoleon in exile? The Corn Laws? The current fashions in London?”
“Whatever you prefer.”
Her tone was deliberately light, but at her words he suddenly moved closer to her slender form.
“Very well, then, I prefer to discuss how lovely you look tonight.”
Isa stiffened, suddenly aware ofthe heat of his body and the musky male scent of his skin.
“That can hardly be a stimulating source of conversation.”
He came to a halt and slowly turned her to face him, his hands lingering on her shoulders.
“On the contrary. I find it . . . inordinately stimulating. I particularly like that shade of blue.”
“My . . . Barth,” she breathed.
“Yes?”
It was ridiculously difficult to concentrate with him so close.
“Will you be returning to London?”
A mysterious smile touched his handsome features as his fingers lightly stroked down the bare skin of her arms.
“I daresay in time. For now I am content to remain in Kent.”
She sucked in an unsteady breath. “I see.”
He chuckled at her bewildered awareness of his touch. “You are not hoping to rid yourself of my presence, are you, Isa?”
“Certainly not.” Her brave words were ruined as a tremor shook through her slender body. “I doubt that I shall even notice you are about.”
“Is that so?”
“Absolutely.”
He stilled as he gazed for a long moment at her upturned face. “Then perhaps I shall take steps to ensure I am noticed.”
“What?”
His hands abruptly moved to press firmly into her lower back. Isa gave a strangled gasp at the intimate contact.
“No man likes to be forgotten, Isa,” he warned in husky tones. “Especially not by
the woman who cast him aside. It gives him the oddest desire to do this.”
Still shaken off guard by the heat of his fingers through her silk gown, Isa was thoroughly unprepared as Barth determinedly lowered his head and claimed her mouth in a possessive kiss.
She froze in shocked outrage as the warm lips pressed to her own; then that horribly familiar thrill of pleasure she had thought long forgotten began to tremble in the pit of her stomach.
It was a thrill that had once occurred whenever Barth walked into the room or glanced in her direction.
A moan was wrenched from deep in her throat as her mouth instinctively softened in invitation.
No, she told herself in dismay.
It could not be possible.
She could not still desire this man.
Four
Despite being far more experienced than Isa in the art of seduction, Barth discovered himself equally startled by the passionate kiss. Unlike Isa, however, Barth was anything but displeased by the searing delight that raced through his body.
Indeed, three days later, his thoughts still lingered with pleasure over the memory of holding the tiny woman in his arms. He had not expected to feel such a fierce stirring of desire at a mere kiss. After all, he was not a greenhorn who considered himself fortunate after a few fumbled caresses in the darkness of the garden. He had seduced the most beautiful women in the world. A kiss was just another kiss.
But quite to his amazement, he had felt a shock of need clench deep within him at the yielding softness of her lips. And for a wild moment he had battled the urge to lead her even deeper into the garden and further explore her tempting innocence.
A sudden smile curved his chiseled lips. How the devil did he ever presume that his intimate relationship would be more a duty than a pleasure?
Now he eagerly looked forward to the moment he could claim Isa Lawford as his own.
Of course, first he had to convince the stubborn chit that she was destined to become the next countess of Wickton.
His smile dimmed as he recalled the fierce panic that had abruptly attacked Isa and the manner in which she had fled the garden as if he were Lucifer himself. She had clearly convinced herself that he was unworthy of love; it would take more than practiced kisses to convince her otherwise.
Here Comes the Bride Page 20