Here Comes the Bride

by Alexandra Ivy

  The sound of Rushton’s voice echoed through the open door,

  making Isa stiffen with alarm. No. Surely not even Barth would be so

  bold as to follow her after their unpleasant encounter this morning.

  But there was no mistaking Lord Wickton’s stern tone. “I must see her.”

  “My lord, I must insist that you leave.”

  “I will stay here all day if need be.”

  “Lord Wickton . . .”

  Without even realizing that she was moving, Isa was across the room and standing in the doorway to regard the anxious servant and the towering lord. A pang twisted her heart at the sight of the lean features and well-molded frame, but none of her inner weakness was allowed to be revealed on her stern countenance.

  “For goodness’ sake, let him in, Rushton,” she called.

  At the sound of her voice, Barth instantly thrust his way past the disapproving servant.

  “Isa.”

  With a stiff back, she returned to the center of the salon. She waited until she heard the sound of the door closing; then, willing herself to maintain her composure, she turned around to face the gentleman who had once again disrupted her life.

  “What is it that you wanted, my lord?”

  He stepped toward her, his gaze closely studying her pale features.

  “I have come to speak with you.”

  “Once again ignoring my own desires in the matter,” she pointed out.

  Something that might have been annoyance flashed over his face before he had swiftly dampened the emotion.

  “I want to apologize.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes.”

  “For what?” she demanded in cold tones.

  “For interfering in Mr. Effinton’s life. As you said, I had no right.”

  The words were said with a smooth ease, but Isa was not swayed for a moment. He was not sorry for his actions, merely that they had not succeeded.

  “Fine.” She gave a faint nod of her head. “You have apologized. Now you can leave.”

  He frowned. “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have admitted that I was wrong.”

  Her lips twisted. She wondered what it cost his pride to make such an admission.

  “And that is supposed to make everything all right?”

  The hazel eyes flashed. “What more do you want from me?”

  Your love. The betraying words flashed through her mind before she angrily thrust them aside.

  She would no longer hope for what never could be hers.

  “Tell me, Barth, why are you so determined to marry me?”

  “I have told you.” He carefully watched her reaction, as if determining how best to convince her of his sincerity. “I think we should suit very well.”

  “You did not think so when you fled five years ago,” she reminded him in dry tones.

  “I was young, and I resented the thought of having my future determined for me. Is that so difficult to understand?”

  “No, but I do not believe that it is because you have suddenly realized that we are suited that you have changed your mind.”

  “What do you mean?” he demanded.

  Her chin tilted. “You could not bear the thought of losing to another gentleman.”

  An unexpected hint of color stained his cheeks. “Absurd.”

  “Is it? You had no interest in me beyond my dowry until you realized I might love another.”

  His mouth opened as if to deny the accusation; then, meeting the glitter in her amber eyes, he gave a reluctant shrug.

  “I will admit that I was angered by your interest in Mr. Effinton.”

  “You saw me as your possession, and you were determined no one else would have me.”

  His hands clenched at his sides. He was clearly unaccustomed to having his will countered.

  “I have done everything possible to prove I will make you a good husband.”

  “No, you have done everything possible to take me from Peter.” She gave a shake of her head. “It is just like that ghost story you are so fond of telling me—about the knight and his stolen bride. Perhaps if that knight had not been so intent on revenge, he would not have killed his bride.”

  He stilled, his expression becoming grim. “And you believe that I care more about revenge than you? You think I am that shallow?”

  A darkness entered the hazel eyes, and for an absurd moment Isa dared to believe that more than his pride was wounded at her determined resistance. Then, with a silent chastisement of her susceptible heart, she determinedly turned and blindly gazed out the window.

  “Yes,” she murmured.

  He heaved an exasperated sigh. “So what do you want from me?”

  It took a pained moment before she could force the words through her dry throat.

  “I told you earlier.”

  “You never wish to see me again?” he demanded in disbelief.

  “Precisely.”

  She heard him scrape in a sharp breath. “And what will you do?”

  “Do?”

  “Do you intend to wed Peter Effinton?”

  She gave an unsteady laugh. “That is hardly possible now.”

  He was silent for so long that Isa began to wonder if he had simply walked out on her. Then, just as she prepared to turn about, she heard his soft words.

  “No, I suppose not.”

  She closed her eyes as a pain ripped through her body. How desperately she desired to admit that it did not matter why he wished her to be his bride, that she only longed to be at his side. It was only the bleak image of belonging to him and yet never being a part of his life that kept her determination intact.

  “I believe that we have said everything that there is to say.”

  “Yes. Indeed, I shall make it easy for you.”

  That did have her turning back, and with a sense of shock, she discovered that he appeared as wounded as she felt.

  Odd considering his own heart was not being torn in two.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I am returning to London,” he pronounced in grim tones.

  Unbelievably, her pain managed to deepen.

  “Of course,” she said through white lips. “You must find a bride.”

  His features twisted with a stark anger. “I assure you I have lost all interest in brides.” He gave a stiff bow. “Good-bye, Isa.”

  Caught off guard by the bitterness in his tone, Isa watched in silence as he stalked from the room.

  Then, pressing a hand to her trembling lips, she sank onto the window seat.

  “Good-bye . . . my love,” she whispered.

  Fifteen

  Staggering down the street in a decidedly inebriated state, Barth attempted to keep his head from spinning.

  London was precisely as he remembered.

  Within hours of returning to his town house, he had been flooded with invitations to routs, balls, and every social event imaginable. He had also received several suggestive notes from the lovely Monique, who had swiftly discovered his return. But while Barth forced himself to spend his evenings with the elegant ton and devoted the late evenings to the various gaming halls, he felt nothing beyond an aching wish to be back in Kent.

  It was ludicrous. He should be delighted at being back among civilized society. This was how he had once thought he wished to devote the rest of his life. Yet night after night he had to force himself to enter his waiting carriage, and night after night he drank himself into a stupor in the hopes it would end the aching dreams of Isa.

  Of course, it was a wasted effort. There was not a moment that he did not search his surroundings for a futile sight of her golden hair or a night he did not wake with tortured dreams of holding her in his arms.

  Not even the knowledge that he should be searching for an heiress could penetrate his dark mood. He was done with duty. If he could not have Isa, he would not have any bride.

  “The devil take all women . . . ,” he mutter
ed as he shoved past the servant who was attempting to block his way into his favorite club.

  He needed a place to rest before hailing a cab and being returned home. He had long since dismissed his own carriage with the assurance that he intended to gamble away the night.

  Ignoring the insistent entreaties from the servant that he halt a moment, Barth weaved his way up the steps and into a large room. It was not until an older, far more commanding servant stepped into his path that he came to an abrupt halt.

  “My lord, perhaps you should come with me. I have some fresh coffee in the back.”

  Barth frowned in an ominous manner. By gads, all he wished was a place to sit and a large decanter of brandy.

  “Stand aside, Huber,” he commanded in loud tones.

  The servant held up his hands in a pleading motion. “My lord, please.”

  Barth swayed unsteadily. “Stand aside or be prepared to defend yourself.”

  Intent on the servant, Barth was taken off guard as a large, raven-haired gentleman abruptly put his arm about his shoulders.

  “Wickton, come along,” Lord Brasleigh commanded.

  Thoroughly startled to be confronted by his friend, Barth allowed himself to be led across the room, not even protesting as Lord Challmond stepped forward and pressed him into the wing chair.

  “Challmond? Brasleigh?” He blinked in muddled surprise. “What the devil are you doing here?”

  “Clearly the same thing you have been doing for quite some time,” Simon retorted in dry tones.

  Barth turned toward him, his fuzzy gaze landing on the decanter beside the chair.

  “Ah . . . brandy. Just what I need.”

  “Coffee,” Philip corrected as he whisked the spirits out of reach and handed it to the hovering Huber. “Now, why are you not in Kent with your new bride?”

  An unnaturally bitter expression twisted Barth’s countenance.

  “There is no bride.”

  Simon regarded his friend in surprise. “I thought the marriage was arranged?”

  “As did I.” Barth’s head flopped onto the soft leather, his lids fluttering shut in weary pain. “Unfortunately, the bride has decided that she prefers another. And I must say I do not blame her. He is an absolutely brilliant gentleman without a fault to be discovered. And believe me, I have tried.”

  He missed the knowing glance between his friends.

  “That is rather a bad break, but she is not the only maiden in England. You will soon find another bride,” Philip drawled.

  Barth slowly raised his gaze, not surprised when the two gentlemen winced at his darkened eyes and pain-lined countenance. He was well aware that he appeared like those poor wounded soldiers who knew beyond a doubt they were not making it home.

  “Yes, there are no doubt any number of maidens willing to become the countess of Wickton.” He grimaced. “A pity I do not bloody well want them.”

  Philip gave another humorless laugh. “Well, are we not a sad trio? What happened to the ‘Casanova Club’? Love them and leave them wishing for more?”

  “It is all that Gypsy’s fault,” Barth muttered. “She and her devil’s curse.”

  “Absurd.” Simon gave a shake of his head.

  Barth stabbed him with a jaundiced glare. “Then you have not tumbled into the stormy seas of love?”

  “Love?” Simon grimaced.

  “My lord.”

  With a startled blink, Simon turned to discover a servant hovering at his side with an anxious expression.

  “Yes?”

  “A message has been delivered for you.”

  “Thank you.” Simon accepted the sealed note and broke it open with a faint frown.

  Scanning the neatly scrawled message, Simon abruptly crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the fire.

  “Damnation.”

  “Troubles?” Philip demanded in concern.

  “It is from Locky.”

  “Locky?” Barth hiccuped. He recalled the solid, utterly dependable gentleman with a sense of pleasure. He had always enjoyed Locky’s company. “Where the devil is he?”

  “Devonshire.” Simon clenched his fists. “I have to leave.”

  “Wait.” Philip placed a hand on his shoulder, his expression somber. “Is there something that we can do to help?”

  Simon met the silver gaze with a determined smile. “As a matter of fact, you can wish me luck,” he said as he came to a sudden decision. “I am off to win the heart of the woman I love.”

  Barth watched his friend’s determined retreat with a dark frown.

  “The woman he loves?” he slurred, grimacing at the now-familiar stab of pain. Surely he could not be jealous of Simon? “Poor sod. Where is that brandy?”

  “I believe you have indulged enough for one evening.” Philip regarded him in a searching manner as he slowly returned to his seat.

  Barth gave a bitter laugh. “I have not indulged nearly enough.”

  Philip frowned. “What troubles you?”

  “Isa Lawford troubles me,” Barth muttered.

  “I thought you did not wish to wed the chit?”

  He briefly recalled his selfish regrets at being forced down the aisle and his arrogant confidence that Isa was desperate to become his countess.

  “I was a bloody fool.”

  “Then you wish her to be your wife?”

  Barth did not hesitate. “Yes.”

  The silver eyes seemed to bore straight to his very heart.

  “Do you love her?”

  “Love?” Barth closed his weary eyes. “What is that?”

  “How do you feel when you are near her?”

  “As if my guts are being twisted into a knot,” he retorted with brutal honesty. “Is that love?”

  “I certainly hope not,” Philip retorted in a shockingly harsh voice.

  Barth was too enwrapped in his own misery to take notice of his friend’s peculiar manner, and slowly opening his eyes, he banged a fist on the arm of his chair.

  “But the beastly thing is that I can not get her out of my mind,” he gritted in anger. “I came to London to enjoy my freedom. After all, I have spent a lifetime being smothered by the knowledge I would have to wed Isa Lawford to save the Wickton family from disgrace. I should be relieved at the thought she has refused to become my wife.”

  “But you are not relieved?” Philip demanded.

  Barth shuddered at the long days and even longer nights he had endured since his return to London.

  “I have never been so bloody miserable in all my life,” he confessed. “Isa may no longer be my fiancée, but she refuses to leave me in peace.”

  “Do not tell me,” Philip commanded, his elegant features twisting with an inner pain. “She is there every time you close your eyes. You smell her scent in the air, and when you awake in the morning, your arms ache because she is not lying beside you.”

  Barth suddenly leaned forward, his expression one of disbelief.

  “How did you know?” he demanded.

  Philip’s features abruptly settled into their more familiar sardonic lines as he shrugged aside the question.

  “What will you do?”

  Barth clenched his hands. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I have been informed that a true gentleman should bow out with as much grace as possible.”

  Philip narrowed his silver gaze. “I have never known you to give up, Wickton. Remember when we were surrounded by those damned Frenchies and our commander wanted to retreat? You pulled out your sword and demanded that we fight our way through.”

  Of course Barth remembered. He had been so arrogantly confident that he could best any foe. It had taken a golden-haired maiden to prove he was vulnerable.

  “I would rather face a regiment of Frenchies than a devious woman. At least I knew what was expected of me.”

  Philip offered a sharp laugh. “Here. Here.”

  Barth shook his head at his own stupidity. “You were wise not to become entangl
ed in the dangerous lures of a female.”

  “Yes, I am all that is wise,” Philip retorted in mocking tones. “What will you do?”

  It was a question that Barth had refused to consider. Even with the knowledge that he was in debt and that Graystone would soon tumble into disrepair, he could not summon the energy to care.

  “I do not know.”

  “What do you want?”

  Want? He wanted Isa as his wife. He wanted her in his arms, where she belonged. He wanted her to fill his nursery with children.

  He wanted . . . he wanted . . . he wanted . . .

  Bloody hell. He sounded as selfish and self-absorbed as Isa had branded him.

  Lord, what had he done?

  The sudden vision of her as he had last seen her rose to mind— her tiny face white with loss and her haunted amber eyes. A knifing pain ripped through his heart.

  With all his determination to win, he had never thought what he was doing to Isa. He had convinced himself that it was for her own good, that he would make her a far better husband than Peter Effinton. But now, recalling that heartrending expression of loss on her face, he abruptly realized he had never truly thought of her at all.

  It was just as his grandmother had accused.

  It had only been his own needs that he had considered.

  He had been a thorough blackguard.

  “Barth?”

  With a blink, Barth realized that his companion was regarding him with mounting concern.

  “What do I want?” Barth rasped. “I want to see Isa smile.”

  A thick silence fell as the two men regarded each other for a long moment, then Philip slowly gave a nod of his head.

  “Yes.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  With an unsteady motion, Barth rose to his feet. Despite the brandy still muddling his thoughts, he was sharply conscious of what he had to do.

  Regardless of the cost to himself.

  Philip also rose, laying a hand on his shoulder.

  “Where are you going?”

  Barth gave a short laugh. “To do the one good thing I may ever do in my miserable, self-indulgent life.”

  * * *

  Unaware she was being closely watched, Isa pushed the piece of egg from one side of her plate to the other. She then absently offered the slice of ham the same treatment. It was not that she particularly enjoyed toying with her food, but it was certainly preferable to attempting to eat the now-cold breakfast.