The hazel eyes smoldered with an inner amusement. ‘’Just because I adore her does not mean that I am not well aware of her faults.”
“Well, she labeled you a spoiled, arrogant libertine.”
His head tilted as he considered her words. “I will accept the spoiled and arrogant accusation,” he conceded with a lamentable lack of apology. “Did the two of you spend the entire afternoon disparaging my beastly character?”
“Not at all,” she hurriedly denied. “We had far more interesting matters to discuss.”
A portion of his amusement faded. “Matters such as Mr. Effinton?”
Although an honorable young maiden, Isa was not above lying when it suited her purpose.
“Yes. Your grandmother quite admires Peter.”
“Who would not?” he mocked. “He is all that is worthy.”
Her lips thinned. “Was there something that you needed?”
The handsome features abruptly smoothed. “But of course. I have brought you a gift.”
“A gift?”
“Yes, I purchased it for you while I was in Italy.”
Caught off guard, she gave a shake of her head. “I could not accept a gift.”
“Of course you can.”
“Please, Barth . . .”
“It was meant for you, Isa.” He overrode her objections, holding out a hand to reveal a small figurine carefully carved in jade. Her eyes widened with pleasure at the delicate woman with her swirling gown and sweetly smiling countenance. It was not at all what she had expected, and she found herself numbly allowing him to press the object into her hand without demur. “I want you to have it.”
“Oh.”
“Do you like it?”
“How could I not?” She slowly lifted her gaze. “It is exquisite.”
“I once watched you running through the meadow with your hair flowing and your laughter echoing in the breeze. It was a lovely sight. This figurine reminded me of that moment.”
She felt that odd shiver once more trace the line of her spine as the hazel gaze probed deeply into her wide eyes.
“I do not know what to say.”
“Say thank you, Barth.”
“Thank you, Barth,” she whispered.
A slender hand rose to brush a stray curl from her cheek. “There, that was not so fearfully difficult, eh, Isa?”
She struggled to ignore the flutters of excitement deep in her stomach. “Why are you doing this?”
“What?” His expression was far too innocent to be believable. “I have already explained that I purchased the figurine while I still believed us to be betrothed.”
“I meant, why are you being so kind?”
He lifted his brows. “Does it surprise you to know I can be kind when I choose?”
“Frankly, yes.”
The lingering fingers moved to brush the stubborn jut of her jaw. “What a sad opinion you have of me, Isa. It was not always so.”
The amber eyes unknowingly darkened. “You have given me little reason to consider you kind over the past five years.”
For a ridiculous moment she thought he might have flinched.
“There was no hurt intended, I assure you.”
Isa took a sudden step from his unnerving touch. She would not be swayed by his charming gifts or his pretense of sincerity. She had grown far too wise in the past five years for such humbug.
“It is in the past.”
“Isa, just because I did not shower you with devoted missives did not indicate you were not in my thoughts.”
The unexpected flare of pain made her as angry with herself as with Barth. It was absurd. She had realized that he was not the man she had once dreamed him to be long ago.
“Indeed?”
“Of course.”
“And tell me, my lord, when did I enter your thoughts more often? When you were at the faro table or when you were entertaining the lovely Monique?”
A surge of startled annoyance rippled over the handsome features before he tilted back his head to give a sharp laugh.
“Egad, what a shrewish tongue you have acquired, my dear. I begin to wonder if I should feel a measure of pity for Mr. Effinton.” His gaze stroked over her delicate features. “Or do you take care to present him with the same sweet compliance you once offered me?”
She gave a toss of her head. “It is quite easy to be sweet as well as compliant when near Mr. Effinton.”
“Of course. Such an exceptional gentleman.”
“Yes, he is.”
“A gentleman without fault.”
“No gentleman or lady is without fault,” she countered, unknowingly stroking the graceful lines of the figurine. “Some are just more difficult to accept than others.”
“As you say.” Lord Wickton offered a sardonic bow. “Enjoy the figurine, my dear.”
Turning on his heel, Lord Wickton strolled across the parkland toward the magnificent stallion being held by a patient groom. Isa watched his retreat before angrily marching toward Cresthaven.
A pox upon the vexing man, she silently cursed.
She did not ask him to intrude upon her privacy or to bring her expensive gifts from Italy. She only wished for him to graciously accept her feelings for Peter and walk away with the proper dignity.
Surely it was not so much to request.
Entering the large garden, Isa discovered her mother awaiting her with an expectant expression. Her heart sank even lower as she realized that Mrs. Lawford had spotted the tall gentleman as he rode back down the narrow path to Graystone.
“Was that not Lord Wickton?” she inquired in coy tones.
“Yes.”
“How very kind of him to call. You are quite fortunate that he has not decided to give us the cut direct.”
Isa gave an unknowing grimace. “I wish he would.”
Her mother gave an audible gasp. “Isa.”
“I do not trust him.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
She was uncertain what she did mean. She only knew that she could not dismiss the vague suspicion that smoldered deep in her heart.
“There is more to his pretense of friendship than he would have me believe.”
“Perhaps he is still in hopes of making you his bride.”
“Then he is excessively beef-witted.”
A worrisome smile touched the older woman’s countenance. “We shall see.”
“Oh . . .” Isa gave an exasperated shake of her head. “I will be in my chambers. I have developed the most shocking headache.”
* * *
Unlike Isa, Barth was far from annoyed by the brief encounter. Indeed, he felt decidedly pleased by her reaction to his gift. He had not missed the gentle care she had used to hold the figurine or the glow of pleasure in her amber eyes. And even her sharp anger had revealed that her emotions were far from disengaged.
An unconscious smile touched his lips as he entered the great house and headed toward the private salon. How did he ever imagine that life with Isa would be a tedious affair? Since his return to Kent, she had added a much-needed spice to his days. He discovered himself inventing the flimsiest excuse to seek her company, and even when she was not near, his thoughts turned to her far more often than any other woman of his acquaintance.
A most unexpected pleasure.
Entering the long room with avocado-velvet wall coverings and walnut furnishings, Barth discovered his mother seated next to the engraved chimneypiece. Attired in a smoke-gray gown, her hair smoothed to a tight knot, she offered an image of icy perfection.
“Hello, Mother.”
She took note of his riding attire. “Where have you been?”
“To visit Miss Lawford.”
Lady Wickton gave a disapproving sniff. “I hope that you have managed to convince her that she is behaving in a most provoking manner.”
“Not as yet.”
“It is all most inconvenient.”
Barth smiled with wry amusement. “Yes.”
“You must do some
thing, Barth.”
“Do something?”
The thin face hardened at his light tone. “Just today I received a message from my dressmaker demanding payment on my bill. Have you ever heard of such impertinence?”
“A tradesman wishing payment for their services? Impertinence indeed.”
“Do be serious, Barth,” his mother snapped. “We are in a very awkward position, and it is all that disobliging Miss Lawford’s fault.”
Barth flinched at his mother’s brittle accusation. How utterly arrogant she had become. Who else would possess the audacity to blame an innocent maiden for their family’s numerous sins?
“We can hardly lay the blame at Isa’s door,” he protested with a grimace. “She did not force you to order a king’s ransom in gowns.”
“Nor did she force you to acquire a hunting lodge or a season pass to the opera.” Lady Wickton parried in frigid tones.
The thrust slid home, and Barth smothered a twinge of self-disgust. Granted he had always considered marriage to Isa as an equal trade of goods. Her fortune for his title. A fair and proper exchange. But there was something decidedly unpleasant in hearing his mother speak in such a fashion.
“True enough.” He gave a conceding bow of his head.
“What do you intend to do?”
Barth narrowed his gaze. “First I wish you to tell me which of our innumerable relatives live in Dover.”
Not surprisingly, Lady Wickton regarded him with an impending frown.
“Cousin Arlene and that horrid daughter of hers, Harriet. Why?”
“I wish you to invite them to Graystone Manor.”
“Have you taken leave of your senses?” his mother demanded in distaste. “I will not have that vulgar, encroaching woman beneath my roof.”
Barth vaguely recalled encountering the large, florid-faced Arlene and her unfortunately similar daughter in London. His most poignant memory was their mistaken belief that he would allow them to cling to his coattail and their grating laughter that even now made him shudder in horror. He would as soon invite Napoleon to his home, but unfortunately Boney could not help in his plot to wed Isa. It would have to be Cousin Arlene.
“Not only will you invite her, but you will ensure that she includes a Miss Keaton in her party,” he retorted in tones that defied argument. They all had sacrifices to make.
“Who?”
“Miss Keaton. She was once engaged to Mr. Effinton.”
Lady Wickton remained vastly unimpressed. “Why should I wish to invite her to Graystone?”
“Clearly, Mr. Effinton once felt a great deal of affection for her. Perhaps with a bit of proximity those feelings will be rekindled.”
“Really, Barth, I wish you would explain why I should be remotely concerned with the vicar,” his mother complained.
“Because Isa has convinced herself that she is in love with Peter Effinton.”
Lady Wickton recoiled with a profound expression of disbelief.
“That is foolish gossip. She could not possibly prefer that common nobody to an earl.”
Barth was not surprised that his mother had dismissed the rumors of Isa’s attachment to Peter Effinton. In her mind it was inconceivable that any maiden would not seek the highest title her beauty and dowry could capture. Choosing a husband out of the sentimental need for love would be unthinkable.
“I have no doubt that it is nothing more than a passing infatuation,” he assured her. “Still, it seems wise to remove any competition from the field. Which is why I desire you to invite Miss Keaton to visit.”
There was a long pause as Lady Wickton battled her distaste for acknowledging her unfortunate connection to Cousin Arlene and the even more distasteful fear of tradesmen appearing on her threshold.
She at last conceded defeat with ill grace. “None of this would have been necessary had you married Isa when I demanded.”
Barth smiled with wry amusement, well aware that his mother would have married him from the cradle if possible.
“Do not fear, Mother. Isa will wed me in time.”
“Let us hope you are correct. You have made our position most precarious.”
Six
Although Barth, the distinguished earl of Wickton, had never possessed the occasion to be seated in a room filled with magpies, he was quite certain it would sound remarkably similar to the squawking, chattering, and nerve-wrenching squeals that had filled his front salon for the past few hours.
Who would have suspected that two young maidens could create such a racket?
Even worse, his simple invitation to Cousin Arlene, along with Miss Keaton, had conveniently been stretched to include an elderly aunt, a grim-faced companion, an indispensable nurse, and a horde of ill-trained, ill-mannered servants.
Now he glanced about the room with a shudder of distaste. In a far corner a clutch of elderly women stitched on squares of muslin while discussing the luncheon they had just enjoyed in excruciating detail. Closer to hand, the ferret-faced Miss Keaton and decidedly rounded Harriet sat side by side on a sofa, both desperately vying for his attention. Predictably, Lady Wickton had managed to retreat to her chambers with a headache.
The guests had arrived only that morning, and already he was wishing them in Hades. Hardly an auspicious beginning to their visit.
Gritting his teeth, Barth reluctantly returned his attention to the shrill voice of Miss Keaton.
“And so, Mr. King said that he would simply die if I would not give him at least two dances at the assembly,” she chirped with a thorough lack of modesty. “Do you know what I said?”
Barth swallowed his instinctive retort. Good God, how had Mr. Effinton ever been attracted to the shallow, harebrained chit?
“I could not begin to hazard,” he forced himself to reply.
“I said, ‘Well, then, die away. I shall not give you more than one country dance.’ Is that not vastly amusing?”
“Vastly.”
* * *
Thoroughly oblivious to the irony in his tone, she batted sparse lashes that framed a pair of insipid blue eyes.
“Not that most young ladies would not be excessively delighted to offer Mr. King two dances. He is quite an eligible parti.”
“I find him a coxcomb,” Harriet pronounced in spiteful tones.
Miss Keaton turned to glare at the round, freckled countenance of her companion. Barth had already determined that the two maidens were more rivals than friends among the limited Dover society.
“Only because he refuses to pay you the least attention,” Miss Keaton countered.
“Fah. Mama says that he possesses more hair than sense and is on the search for a fortune, which means he can hardly be interested in you, Clorinda.”
Miss Keaton reddened in an unbecoming manner. “You are simply jealous.”
“Of what?” They had both momentarily forgotten Barth in an effort to best one another. Harriet gave a loud snort. “You have been out for three seasons with only one proposal. I have declined four separate suitors.”
Clorinda let loose one of her piercing laughs. “If by suitors you are referring to Georgie and his companions, I am pleased to acknowledge that I have always discouraged the advances of cits. Position is so important to a lady, do you not agree, my lord?”
The thought of one maiden in particular who was indifferent to position rose to his mind. He could only wish Isa Lawford shared her sentiments. That way he could have the lot of them tossed out of Graystone.
“To some,” he murmured.
“Pooh.” Harriet waved a pudgy hand. “What is position to a maiden in danger of becoming an antidote?”
“An antidote?” The flush darkened to a dangerous shade of crimson.
“Yes, indeed.”
“At least my callers do not smell of the shop,” Miss Keaton gritted.
“What callers?”
Barth wondered how the two maidens would react if he were to demand they take their squabble to the nursery, where it belonged. Then, with an
effort, he forced himself to take a less desperate approach.
“Perhaps you would care to inspect the gardens?”
Abruptly realizing that their behavior was far from endearing to their highly desirable host, both maidens smoothed their countenances to more properly charming lines.
“Forgive me, Cousin,” Harriet simpered. “You cannot wish to hear us prattle on in such a fashion.”
Not about to be outdone, Miss Keaton leaned forward. “No, indeed, and I particularly wished to speak with you of Lady Claymore.”
“Oh?”
“She is an aunt of mine, you know, and I believe quite a leader of society. I presume you are acquainted with her?”
Egad! Barth shuddered. It was little wonder he disliked the chit. Lady Claymore was an abominable creature who clung to the fringes of society and was renown for her encroaching manner and viscious gossip.
“We have been introduced,” he reluctantly admitted.
“I must reveal that she has·written to Mother and myself of you, Lord Wickton.” She batted her stubby lashes. “She says that you, along with Lord Brasleigh and Lord Challmond, are considered quite the most dashing gentlemen in all of London.”
“I fear she exaggerates.”
“She also claims that you are wickedly wild.”
He stiffened in distaste. Had every soul in England been informed of his private affairs?
“Such rumors should be ignored for the fribble they are.”
Miss Keaton made a poor attempt to appear coy. “Then you are not as naughty as they claim?”
“No gentleman could be so naughty.”
Both maidens appeared faintly disappointed by his adamant tone.
“At least tell me you have met Byron,” Miss Keaton pleaded.
Barth gave a faint smile. “Yes, and Shelley as well.”
“And Mr. Brummell?” Harriet chimed in.
“Yes.”
“How wonderful to live in London.” Miss Keaton sighed in envy. “You cannot conceive how wretchedly dull it is to be always in Dover.”
“Even with the eligible Mr. King?” he could not resist inquiring.
The shrill laugh returned. “Sir, what a tease you are.”
“Yes.” He cleared his throat, wondering how the devil he could possibly endure an entire afternoon with the simpering chits. Then, through the windows, he spotted the familiar golden-haired maiden strolling down the lane with Peter Effinton. He smothered his instinctive stab of annoyance at the sight of his fiancée arm in arm with another gentleman and instead abruptly rose to his feet. This was the moment he had been waiting for. “I believe I shall take a stroll. Would you care to join me?”
Here Comes the Bride Page 22