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?”
Both women blinked at his sudden announcement, but clearly unwilling to allow the other to gain the upper hand, they both surged to their feet.
“A most delightful notion,” Harriet cooed.
“Most delightful,” Miss Keaton echoed.
Barth offered an arm to each of his guests, then determinedly marched them toward a narrow door that led to the garden. Once across the terrace, he maintained a steady pace toward the far path.
“What a pretty garden,” Miss Keaton said as she was hurried past the Italian marble fountain and Repton-designed beddings.
“Thank you, but I believe you will prefer that wooded patch ahead,” he hastily improvised. “It is situated nicely and possesses a fine view of the parkland.”
“So far?” Harriet demanded in dismay.
“It is such a fine morning for walking, do you not agree, Miss Keaton?” Barth deliberately inquired.
“Indeed,” Miss Keaton predictably gushed. “I am a great walker.”
“You?” Harriet squawked in disbelief.
“Yes.”
“Fah.”
“What do you know of my walking habits?”
“I . . .”
Unable to bear yet another childish squabble, Barth conjured up his most charming smile.
“Tell me, Cousin, did you attend the theater while in London?”
Thankfully, Harriet was anxious to take his bait and with great pleasure dominated the conversation with highly embellished tales of her triumphant season in London. Her droning voice echoed through the spring-scented air, but Barth paid her no attention as he relentlessly marched the pair up the path and then at last to the dappled shadows of the trees.
It took only a few more moments to round the sharp curve and encounter the startled Miss Lawford and Mr. Effinton. Absurdly, Barth experienced a stab of relief that they appeared to be occupied with nothing more scandalous than discussing Mr. Effinton’s latest research.
Perhaps not so absurd, he hastily assured himself. What man would wish to view his prospective bride enjoying the company of another gentleman?
Offering a polite bow, he watched Isa’s countenance harden with annoyance before turning to carefully scrutinize Peter’s thin features.
“Ah, Mr. Effinton and Miss Lawford. What a delightful surprise. May I introduce my cousin Harriet and Miss Keaton?”
“Peter?” Miss Keaton breathed in shock.
Mr. Effinton blinked in mild bewilderment. “Clorinda?”
Barth managed a credible expression of surprise. “Are you two acquainted?”
“I . . . we were once engaged,” Miss Keaton blurted in strained tones.
“Truly? How extraordinary.”
“What are you doing here?” Peter inquired.
“Lord Wickton was kind enough to invite me for a visit.”
Peter’s vague befuddlement only deepened. “I had no notion you were acquainted with Lord Wickton.”
Miss Keaton shifted in an awkward manner. “How is your father?”
“He is well, thank you. And your mother?”
“She is well.”
Barth could not prevent a rather wry. grimace. It was hardly the greeting of unrequited lovers, he acknowledged. The two appeared more embarrassed than overjoyed by their reunion. Still, they had surely cared for one another once upon a time. Perhaps being thrown into each other’s company would rekindle those old emotions.
In the meantime, he was in sore need of companionship that did not include fluttering lashes and shrill giggles. With a flare of anticipation, he moved to where Isa stood away from the tiny group.
“How delightful you look this fine day, Isa,” he commended, running an appreciative glance over the cambric gown in primrose yellow with a deep shade of green spencer.
She appeared thoroughly unimpressed by his compliment. Instead, she regarded him with a suspicious frown.
“I suppose this is your doing?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The amber eyes glittered with annoyance at his seeming innocence.
“You deliberately invited Miss Keaton to Graystone.”
“Me?” He lifted a hand to his heart in a wounded fashion. “Oh, no, it was my mother who extended an invitation to her dear cousin Arlene and Harriet, as well as to Miss Keaton.”
She gave a disbelieving shake of her head. “Lady Wickton has never once mentioned her dear cousin and certainly has never desired her companionship.”
He shrugged. “We all alter in our thinking as we grow older.”
“And you expect me to believe that it is simple coincidence that her invitation also extended to a young lady who was once engaged to Peter?” she demanded.
“But of course.” A slow, decidedly wicked smile curved his lips. “Quite a happy coincidence, do you not think?”
Her delicate features hardened. “I think you must consider me a fool.”
“Not at all.” He allowed his gaze to linger on her upturned countenance. How beautiful she had grown over the past few years, he thought with an odd twinge. The childish features had smoothed to fragile lines that would rival the London Incomparables. And while her form was more slender than lush, it possessed an innate grace that would capture the most exacting gentleman’s attention. He had never expected to find her so desirable. Or so elusive. “Tell me, Isa, why would you suspect me of deliberately wishing to invite Mr. Effinton’s former fiancée?”
“I presume in the hopes he will realize he is still in love with her.”
The hazel eyes shimmered with amusement. “Why, Miss Lawford, you are not concerned that your beloved Peter might still harbor emotions for another woman?”
A flood of color warmed her cheeks. “Certainly not.”
“No, I suppose not.” He deliberately brushed a casual finger over her heated cheek. “You are far more attractive and possess greater address, not to mention the fact you do not prattle on like the veriest gabster. Still”—he paused as his finger moved to lightly trace her trembling lips—“there is something magical about first love, do you not agree?”
She abruptly stepped from his touch, her expression wary. “What do you want from me?”
What did he want? he suddenly wondered. Certainly he wanted her as his bride. She had been chosen as his countess years ago. And he was beginning to suspect he wanted her innocent passions. Why else would his heart quicken when she was near?
But was there more to his determination to be at her side at every possible moment?
He abruptly thrust the ludicrous thought aside. He had enough troubles without cluttering his mind with foolish fancies.
“Nothing more demanding than your presence at a small gathering tomorrow night,” he assured her in smooth tones.
She cast him a sour glance. “Surely you have guests enough.”
“Yes, but since I intend to invite the good vicar and his son, I thought perhaps you would also wish to be present.” His smile widened. “I would not like you to think that I was attempting to cut you out and leave Peter alone with the temptation of two young and lovely maidens.”
Her gaze unwillingly shifted toward Peter and his former love.
“This is absurd.”
Sensing her unease, Barth was swift to press his advantage. “But you will come?”
There was a pause before she gave an impatient click of her tongue.
“Very well.”
“Good.” Wise enough not to give Isa the opportunity to change her mind, Barth gave a swift bow. “We shall meet again tomorrow.”
* * *
“How excessively dull it must be to be always in the country, Miss Lawford,” Miss Keaton cooed with a poisonous smile.
Isa shrugged with cool indifference. She had endured an entire evening of spiteful barbs and condescending setdowns from the two young maidens. Even Cousin Arlene seemed determined to consider her an unwelcome threat. But much to their annoyance, Isa was impervious to their comments. What did she care of their childish display of ill manners?
Of course, she had to admit that she had been furious when Lord Wickton had calmly announced he had invited Peter’s former fiancée to Graystone. She did not believe for a moment that it had not been a devious scheme to separate her from Peter. Whether out of pique that she would dare to prefer another or simple determination to get his hands on her dowry, she was uncertain, but she was determined that he would not succeed.
In an uncommonly defiant mood, she had chosen a silk gown in a pale champagne with a Brussels lace overskirt. Her hair was allowed to frame her face in a cascade of golden curls, and about her neck glittered a necklace of square cut amber gems that perfectly matched her eyes. She would not be outdone by the two Dover maidens.
But it had taken only a few moments to realize that her efforts had been unnecessary. Although Miss Keaton was properly polite toward Peter and his father, she made no effort to disguise the fact that her interest was firmly fixed on Lord Wickton.
Isa’s annoyance had slowly faded to amusement, even allowing her to ignore the prickly dislike extended toward her as Miss Keaton and Cousin Harriet vied for his attention.
Barth might have invited Miss Keaton to distract Peter, but she was far more interested in the role of countess.
She glanced toward the thin Miss Keaton, who was seated next to the round-faced Harriet.
“Actually, I have never found the country to be dull,” she retorted in mild tones.
“But not even a season.” Harriet gave a flutter of her fan. “I should simply die. Mama says that a maiden cannot possibly develop the proper sophistication without being introduced to society.”
Isa smiled. “I have no desire for sophistication.”
Miss Keaton’s expression hardened in an ugly manner. “Well, perhaps you are wise to avoid London. After all, the ton is quite select in whom they include in their entertainments, and it can be utterly ruinous to a lady’s reputation to be seen as being without invitations.”
“A dreadful fate, indeed,” Isa agreed, a rather dangerous glint in her eyes. The spiteful chit needed a stern lesson in manners. “Tell me, Miss Keaton, what did you think of Almack’s?”
The younger woman flushed at the direct hit. Isa had suspected neither Miss Keaton nor Harriet moved in exalted enough circles to obtain such elusive vouchers.
The younger woman opened her mouth to deliver a cutting retort, only to abrupdy sweeten her expression as the gentlemen entered the room.
“Oh, Lord Wickton, you must join us,” she called in loud tones. “I was just telling Miss Lawford of London. Can you imagine she has never been farther than Canterbury?”
The chestnut-haired gendeman, attired in a tailored black coat and silver waistcoat, obligingly crossed the room to stand beside the sofa. He glanced toward Isa with a mocking smile.
“Shocking.”
Miss Keaton gave a giggle. “Yes, indeed.”
Isa met his gaze steadily. “Lord Wickton, on the other hand, has traveled throughout the world and would no doubt be delighted to discuss the wonders of London.”
His eyes sparkled at her devious tactics. “Miss Keaton must be weary of my opinions. Perhaps she would prefer to discuss such matters with Mr. Effinton?”
“How could any lady weary of hearing your opinions, my lord?” Isa drawled. “You are such a fascinating and charming gentleman.”
“Quite,” Miss Keaton chimed in, refusing to be outdone. “In truth, I do not believe I have encountered a more fascinating gentleman.”
Barth flashed Isa a wry glance before turning to Miss Keaton.
“I am certain you exaggerate.”
“Not at all.” Miss Keaton leaned forward. “My aunt claimed you had bewitched every maiden in London.”
Isa gave a choked laugh at the surprising heat that crawled beneath his skin.
“It seems that your reputation precedes you, my lord,” she mocked.
“Only a fool would believe such nonsense.”
“Perhaps we should ask Miss Keaton and your cousin Harriet?” She gave a slow smile as she turned to the simpering young ladies. “Do you believe he bewitches every maiden he encounters?”
The two gushed, proclaiming him the most delightful, elegant, charming gentleman of their acquaintance, while Barth clenched his teeth at their blatant flattery. Using their chatter as a perfect excuse, Isa rose to her feet.
“Please excuse me.”
Barth took a step forward. “Where do you go?”
“I am in sudden need of fresh air,” she murmured.
“I will join you,” he instantly announced.
She raised a deliberate brow. “And leave your bewitched guests? No, sir, I could not be so cruel as to bereft them of your company.”
As predicted, there was a chorus of demands that he remain at their side, and with a triumphant smile, she slowly crossed toward the door, pausing to speak with the vicar before moving into the hall. Once certain she was out of sight, she hurried to slip through the narrow door to the terrace.
She had not lied about her need for a few breaths of fresh air, she realized as she crossed toward the narrow path that led through the shadowed garden. As much as she might enjoy the sight of Barth being tormented by two giggling schoolgirls, she had endured enough of their vicious tongues.
At least she had no concern for Peter, she told herself as she aimlessly followed the circular path. He had shown no interest in Miss Keaton beyond a vague politeness. Certainly he harbored no violent tendre. She could only presume that the forward Miss Keaton had somehow badgered him into a proposal, since Peter could be remarkably malleable when confronted with a stronger will. And then, when the thrill of being engaged wore off, Miss Keaton must have realized her life would hardly be the elegant social whirl ofher dreams, and she had promptly cried off.
Of course, Isa was obliged to admit that Peter’s feelings for her were hardly violent. There were times she was not completely certain he had realized she was a young, eligible maiden. His only passion appeared to be for his studies.
Perhaps it was time that she attempted to attach his interest more firmly, she thought with a tiny frown.
Intent on her thoughts, Isa circled back toward the terrace. She had just passed the Italian fountain when she caught sight of two forms pressed close together.
In the shadows it was difficult to determine more than the image of two people locked in an intimate embrace; then a sharp, utterly galling stab of pain lanced through her as the gentleman abruptly shoved the female back to reveal the chiseled profile of Lord Wickton.
“Oh!” At her startled exclamation, Barth turned to regard her stiff form. A shrill giggle revealed that his companion was the annoying Miss Keaton.
“Isa,” Barth breathed.
Just for a moment Isa remained frozen in surprise; then, realizing that absurd pain was still clutching at her heart, she attempted to smother it with a flare of anger.
Really, the man was beyond the pale, she told herself sternly. It was obvious he would take advantage of any woman as long as he could lure her into his clutches.
“Isa.” Barth stepped toward her, a scowl marring his handsome features. “Allow me to explain.”
“There is no need, my lord,” she gritted, her hands clenched. “You clearly make a habit of seducing unsuspecting females in your garden. I would suggest, however, that in the future you ensure that you are alone. Good night, Lord Wickton. Miss Keaton.”
With her head high, she swept across the terrace, impervious to Barth’s demands that she halt and Miss Keaton’s grating laugh.
Blast Lord Wickton.
She had thought she wished him in London, but that was not nearly far enough away from Kent.
She wished him in Hades.