Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  “Good.”

  A small silence fell as he shifted beneath her steady regard. Then a sudden light entered his eyes.

  “I have uncovered a most fascinating manuscript. Would you like to see it?”

  Isa felt a pang of disappointment. Clearly, Peter had not been burdened too heavily with concern for her welfare if he could devote his attentions to continuing his research.

  “Not today, thank you.”

  He appeared once again at a loss.

  “Perhaps we could just sit and talk?”

  “Why, yes.”

  Together they moved toward the small bench that faced the nearby road. Itwas so narrow that they were forced to sit close together, but Isa felt none of the unnerving tingles in the pit of her stomach that Barth created.

  Of which she was quite relieved, she tried to tell herself.

  “It is a most beautiful day,” she said with a small smile.

  “Ah . . .” Peter glanced about as if noting the mild spring weather for the first time. “So it is.”

  Taking a moment to consider her words, Isa turned the conversation toward the subject that had been plaguing her for the past few days.

  Barth was wrong about Peter, and she would prove it.

  “I believe that Miss Keaton has left Kent.”

  Peter appeared unconcerned. “Has she?”

  “Did you have the opportunity to speak with her?”

  “No.” He gave a vague shrug. “Not really.”

  “You were once very close,” she prompted.

  “Well, we were both young.”

  “But you must have cared for her?”

  “I suppose.”

  Isa tried not to be disturbed by his lack of emotion. It had been long ago. And not all people allowed the pangs of first love to continually disrupt their lives.

  “It is fortunate that you did not wed.”

  “Yes, we had nothing in common.”

  She carefully regarded his pale features. “No doubt, if you do decide to marry, you will choose a lady who shares your interests?”

  A startled expression rippled over his countenance, as if the notion of marriage had never even entered his head. Then a slowly dawning smile curved his lips.

  “Yes. Yes, indeed,” he agreed. “It should be lovely to have someone to transcribe my notes and help with my research.”

  Isa’s heart faltered at the impetuous words. “That sounds more like a secretary than a wife,” she protested.

  “Well, she would also care for the house and see to the cooking.”

  “Surely that is not all you would seek in a wife?”

  His brow wrinkled with thought. “I suppose she would have to be a restful sort. I am far too busy to be bothered with a great deal of fuss. And someone who would realize the importance of my work and help tend to the daily matters so that I could concentrate on my research.”

  His tone warmed as the pleasant image of being devotedly coddled formed in his mind even as Isa felt herself grow cold. She was uncertain what she had hoped to hear. She had always known that Peter was not overly romantic or poetic in nature. She had even admired his single-minded obsession with his studies. But while she did not expect passionate confessions of what he desired in a wife, she had not thought even Peter could be quite so self-absorbed. For goodness’ sake, he could hardly expect a woman to be satisfied with keeping his notes in order and his stomach full.

  What of love?

  “That sounds lovely,” she muttered.

  Unaware of her darkened eyes and faint droop of her lips, Peter gave a decisive nod of his head.

  “My mother was a great help to my father.”

  “Was she?”

  “She helped with his sermons and visited the poor. And of course she ensured that he was not interrupted when he was occupied with his studies. That should be quite convenient for a gentleman.”

  “Yes.”

  The sound of approaching horses rumbled through the air, and it was with a decided sense of relief that Isa turned toward the road.

  She had not wanted to believe Barth’s accusation that a wife would claim but a small token of Peter’s attention. Even though she had no doubt suspected the truth all along. Instead, she had tried to convince herself that the young man would eventually grow attached to her and become the suitor she thought she wanted.

  Oddly, though, the realization that Peter would never be the husband she had envisioned caused no more than a twinge of regret. Surely she should be devastated by the truth. Mter all, she had devoted months to the dream of sharing a small cottage with the young scholar. She had even invented two children and a tiny puppy that would lie on the stoop. Why wasn’t her heart broken as it had been when Barth had betrayed her?

  Lost in her thoughts, Isa vaguely watched the approaching curricle. It was not until a lithe form vaulted onto the street and then firmly marched into the garden that she was aware of her danger.

  Her musings abruptly vanished as she met the glittering hazel gaze of Lord Wickton. Whatever her changing feelings for Peter, nothing had altered her determination not to be bullied, cajoled, or seduced into marriage with Barth. She would rather be on her own.

  “There you are.” Barth advanced at a relentless pace.

  She smiled wryly, having no doubt he had been searching the countryside for her. He was nothing if not determined.

  Peter belatedly rose to his feet and offered a bow. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Barth ignored him as he regarded Isa’s defiant expression with a narrowed gaze.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Simply enjoying a pleasant conversation with Peter,” she retorted.

  He was not appeased; indeed, there was an uncharacteristic harshness to his handsome features.

  “The doctor said you were not to overtire yourself.”

  “I am not in the least tired.”

  “He also said that you were to remain out of the wind.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Barth, there is not a hint of wind,” she exclaimed in exasperation.

  “I am certain that Mr. Effinton would agree that you should not be taking unnecessary risks with your health.”

  Predictably, Peter was swift to agree. “Certainly not.”

  “I am not tired, and there is no wind, so if that is all . . .”

  “Very well. Since you are confident there is no danger, perhaps you would join me for a drive?” he smoothly interrupted.

  She briefly wondered if anyone had ever told this man no.

  “Peter was just about to show me his latest research,” she readily lied.

  “Well, we can discuss this later,” Peter insisted.

  A sudden, worrisome smile softened Barth’s features.

  “An excellent notion,” he announced. “Perhaps over dinner. I have two guests arriving, and I hope you both will join us for dinner.”

  Isa stiffened with a flare of suspicion. “More guests, my lord?”

  That devilish glint returned to his eyes. “Yes.”

  “You have quite enlivened our dull neighborhood.”

  He gave a slight, mocking bow. “Thank you.”

  He was plotting something, she told herself. Something devious.

  “More relatives?” she demanded. His lips twitched at her direct thrust. “No. Indeed, Mr. Effinton might be familiar with one or two of my acquaintances.”

  “Me?” Peter regarded Lord Wickton in confusion. “I fear that I know few people in London.”

  “I believe that both Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield have lectured at Oxford.”

  There was a loud gasp as Peter took a stumbling step forward.

  “You . . . You cannot mean to say they will be in Kent?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that is most wonderful,” Peter breathed, a decided glow on his thin face.

  “Then you are acquainted with them?”

  “By reputation only.” Peter was nearly stammering in his excitement. Isa had never seen him s
o eager. “To think that I will meet with them . . . speak with them. But they cannot wish to meet me.”

  Isa’s suspicions deepened as she watched Barth’s lips twitch with amusement. He had obviously expected Peter’s reaction. No doubt he had even depended upon it, she realized with a flash of insight. He had failed to come between her and Peter with Miss Keaton, so now he was using a far more potent weapon.

  Scholars.

  The devious toad.

  “I assure you that they will be delighted to speak with so worthy a scholar.”

  Peter flushed with pleasure even as he gave a shake of his head.

  “No, I am lowly indeed in comparison.”

  “But you will come?” Barth pressed.

  “I should be honored.” Peter choked. “Quite, quite honored.”

  Barth smiled. “Good.”

  “I must gather my notes,” Peter abruptly announced, then, with an afterthought, offered his benefactor a deep bow. “Thank you, my lord, thank you.”

  Without so much as a glance toward Isa, Peter turned and hurried back toward the house. Isa had no doubt that in his excitement he had forgotten her very existence. Still, it was toward the gentleman currently regarding her with an annoyingly satisfied expression that she directed her anger.

  How dared he dangle respected scholars beneath Peter’s nose? It was no better than a common bribe.

  “Well, it appears that you are now free to join me for a drive,” he drawled.

  Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. “Tell me, my lord, is there nothing you will not do to achieve your desires?”

  Without warning, he stepped forward and cupped her chin in a firm grasp.

  “Nothing, Isa,” he informed her in a disturbingly relentless tone. “Nothing at all.”

  Twelve

  Although the spring was mild, a fire burned in the vast fireplace. It helped to dispel the gloom of the formal salon, and Barth glanced about the room with an unusual sense of satisfaction. Of-course, if he were perfectly honest, he would acknowledge that his contentment stemmed less from the stiff setting and more from the sight of the three gentleman standing in a far corner, deeply involved in conversation.

  Since Peter’s arrival earlier this evening, he had been thoroughly taken with Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield. He had barely acknowledged Isa’s arrival and had all but ignored her during dinner.

  Barth allowed a wry smile to curve his lips. He, on the other hand, had been unable to keep his gaze off the lovely maiden attired in an ivory satin gown with seed pearls stitched onto the hem. She appeared as fresh and innocent as a newly budded rose. A most enticing rose, he thought with a tingle of awareness.

  How any gentleman could prefer to devote his attention to the gaunt, silver-haired Sir Wilhelm and the younger, dark-haired Mr. Brockfield defied comprehension. He could only presume that Peter Effington was a bit addlepated.

  Turning slightly, Barth viewed his mother stiffly conversing with Mrs. Lawford; then, turning further, his gaze at last landed upon Isa, seated alone on a brocade sofa.

  An unconsciously possessive expression settled on his countenance as he studied her delicate profile.

  How beautiful she was, he acknowledged with an odd pang. But even as he marveled at her loveliness, he could not deny there was a hint of pallor to her skin and that she had not yet regained the weight she had lost during her illness.

  She was clearly not taking proper care of herself, he thought with a flare of disapproval. His mouth firmed with determination. Once she was his wife, he would ensure that she was kept utterly safe.

  Strangely, it never occurred to him that he had never before been so aware of another’s well-being. His mother had never encouraged him to be particularly close, and his friends were capable of seeing to their own needs. As for his mistresses, they had always been careful not to make demands upon his heart.

  Now he found his feet impulsively taking him toward the woman who had begun to dominate his every thought. Without regard to her icy glare, he settled close beside her, delighted by the revealing shiver that shook her body as his leg pressed intimately to her own.

  “Isa,” he murmured with a teasing smile. “All alone?”

  Not surprisingly, she met his gaze with a tilt of her chin. Despite his earlier imaginings, this was one woman he would never dominate.

  “It was what you wanted, was it not?”

  He attempted to appear innocent. “I merely invited my friends to enjoy a few days at Graystone.”

  “What odd friends you possess, my lord,” she gritted, not believing him for a moment. “A maiden from Dover who just happens to have been engaged to Peter and now two notable scholars whom Peter has long admired.”

  “I possess many friends,” he informed her with a small shrug of his shoulders.

  The ice melted as a flare of anger glowed in the amber eyes.

  “You brought them here to once again create trouble between me and Peter.”

  He paused for a moment to carefully consider his words.

  “I will admit that I desired you to realize that you will never come first in Mr. Effinton’s affections.”

  A strange, unreadable emotion rippled over her delicate features before she swiftly regained control of herself.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  Really, was the chit being deliberately blind? he wondered in exasperation.

  “Tell me, Isa, has Mr. Effinton spoken with you once this evening?”

  It was her turn to shrug. “He is naturally overwhelmed by meeting Sir Wilhelm and Mr. Brockfield.”

  “So overwhelmed that he has not even noted how exceptionally beautiful you appear?” He deliberately lowered his gaze to the provocative cut of her bodice. “Surely a new gown is deserving of a compliment or two?”

  She stiffened and attempted to pull away, but the confines of the sofa gave her little room.

  “Peter does not possess your sophistication or your experience with women,” she informed him in strained tones. “Which is precisely what I admire most about him.”

  He smiled with dry humor as the thrust slid home. As a well-trained fencer, he knew when he left himself open to a killing hit. Still, he refused to concede that she was as indifferent to the snubbing as she pretended. What woman would be if she truly cared about a gentleman?

  “So it does not bother you to be left neglected in the corner?”

  Her gaze dropped to the hands clenched in her lap. “I do not need to have a gentleman dancing constant attendance upon me.”

  “That is odd.”

  “What?”

  “I thought it was because you felt I had neglected you that I was thrown over.”

  Her head abruptly lifted at his accusation, her eyes stormy.

  “One evening can hardly compare with five years. And it was far more than mere neglect that convinced me that we were unsuited.”

  “Of course, you had decided I was an incurable rogue,” he·supplied in dry tones.

  She drew in a sharp breath. “Must we discuss this yet again?”

  His smile faded as he leaned forward. Only the knowledge that his mother and Mrs. Lawford were bound to be watching them with anxious concern kept him from grasping her tiny face in his hands.

  “I just wish to know if you thought that I would be unfaithful once we were married.”

  Her eyes darkened with pain at his blunt question. “Barth, now is hardly an appropriate moment—”

  “Just answer the question, Isa.”

  “Why?” Her lips trembled before she pressed them to a thin line. “You would hardly admit that you planned to keep a mistress after our marriage.”

  An unexplainable pain twisted his heart at her bitter words. Did she truly believe that he could be so lacking in character?

  “Tell me, Isa, did you expect me to stash this mistress in the village? Or perhaps you thought I would simply install her at Graystone?”

  Her cheeks reddened, but she refused to give sway.

>   “I believe most gentlemen are clever enough to maintain a separate establishment in London.”

  He refused to consider the elegant establishment he had so recently given up. It all seemed another life. One that was swiftly fading from memory.

  “Whether you choose to believe me or not, Isa, it has never been my intention to be unfaithful to my wife.”

  “As I said, you would hardly admit it if you were.”

  “I am not in the habit of lying.”

  For long moments their gazes battled as if she sought the truth deep in his eyes; then she gave a sharp shake of her head.

  “This is a ridiculous conversation.”

  Barth wisely suppressed the urge to continue the argument. He had at least made her consider the possibility that she had judged him too harshly.

  “Very well,” he conceded. “Then I shall instead tell you that I enjoyed meeting your grandfather.”

  Caught off guard by his abrupt change in conversation, her expression softened. It had taken little wit for him to realize she was decidedly attached to Mr. Brunston. And that she was highly sensitive to the least hint of insult toward his lack of social position.

  “You were very gracious to him,” she reluctantly conceded.

  “Why should I not be?”

  She gave a faint grimace as she pointedly glanced toward the coldly perfect Lady Wickton.

  “I doubt that your mother would be pleased at the notion you had made the acquaintance of a shopkeeper.”

  “My mother is a ghastly snob,” he readily admitted.

  “I am not.”

  “No,” she agreed.

  Barth pressed home his advantage. “Why should I not admire a gentleman who has managed to make such a success of his life?”

  A small smile touched her lovely countenance. “He is quite remarkable.”

  “You are a great deal like him.”

  Isa appeared startled by his comparison. “Me?”

  “Yes. Strong, honorable, and quite unable to sway once you have set your mind.”

  She could not prevent a sudden laugh. “Meaning that I am stubborn?”

  Although she was always lovely, there was a luminous beauty to her features when she laughed. Barth had a sudden desire to always see her smiling.