Five
As was her habit, Isa left the house early to stroll through the sun-drenched grounds. This morning, however, she avoided the public path and instead headed toward the large lake. No doubt Peter would be taking his walk from the vicarage to the distant cliffs, but the fear of encountering Lord Wickton overrode her desire to speak with her dear friend.
Attired in a pale blue gown with an indigo spencer, she crossed the dew-kissed lawn. It was absurd to take such pains to avoid Barth, she acknowledged. He meant nothing to her. But since that unnerving kiss in the garden, she could not deny that she had taken great pains to avoid his presence.
Why did he not return to London?
It was common knowledge that he abhorred the placid country society. And certainly his mother would not desire him underfoot. So what could possibly be keeping him in Kent?
It was a puzzle that she found herself brooding over far too often.
Clicking her tongue in exasperation, Isa wrapped her arms about her waist. Not so very long ago she had nothing to trouble her mind. Her days were filled with lovely thoughts of Peter and how he would one day return her devotion. There were no tangled emotions that battled in the pit of her stomach. And certainly no traitorous dreams that made her blush even to recall.
Blast Lord Wickton and his troublesome presence.
Reaching the edge of the lake, Isa skirted alongside the glittering water as she attempted to clear her thoughts. It was a beautiful morning. Too beautiful to ruin with thoughts of Lord Wickton.
For nearly half an hour Isa walked through the parkland; then, as her slippers became damp from the grass, she turned to make her way back along the lake. Her mother would no doubt be waiting to review the daily menu or discuss how to purchase the best cuts of beef. She had yet to console herself with the knowledge that Isa was not about to become mistress of Graystone Manor. In fact, Isa had only to hint that she would prefer a modest cottage with Peter for her mother to indulge in a fit of the vapors. She could only hope in time that her mother would accept the fact that it was preferable for Isa to be the happy wife of a scholar than a miserable countess.
The thought brought a wry grin to her face. To her mother’s mind, being a countess was far more important than mere happiness. No amount of time could alter that.
Pausing to admire the pair of swans swimming toward the edge of the lake, Isa was startled by the sound of approaching footsteps. Presuming it must be one of the many gardeners, Isa casually turned, only to stiffen in alarm at the sight of the large, impossibly handsome gentleman regarding her with lazy amusement.
“Good morning, Isa.”
Botheration! It was little wonder her nerves were on edge. How was she supposed to be at ease when she never knew when Lord Wickton might suddenly appear?
Against her will, her gaze traveled over the decidedly male form encased in a dark gold coat and buff pantaloons. A shiver inched down her spine. He had no right to be so wickedly handsome, she decided with a flare of annoyance.
Even his voice was attractive—a low, faintly husky rasp with a hint of ready humor.
“Hello, Barth.” She forced herself to retort in cool tones.
“A lovely day.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad to meet with you.”
“Oh?”
He moved close enough for her to smell the clean scent of his male skin.
“Grandmother said that the two of you enjoyed a very nice visit.”
She rigidly refused to move away from his towering form. She would not betray just how disturbing she found his nearness.
“Yes, we did.”
“You were always a favorite of hers.”
“Lady Wickton is very kind.”
“Kind?” Barth gave a sudden laugh. “She is a cunning old fox who plays a deep game. And I should be very much surprised if she were not plotting some devious scheme as we speak.”
“Barth,” she instinctively protested.
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 something, 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.”