Eight
“So you see, his entire philosophy was centered on the simplicity of life.”
Abruptly realizing that Peter was regarding her with an expectant expression, Isa hastily recalled her wandering thoughts and suppressed a treacherous yawn. It was not that she did not find Peter’s research fascinating, she attempted to reassure herself. Indeed, it was quite gratifying for a gentleman to speak. with her of philosophy and politics rather than presume that a mere woman could not comprehend such complicated matters. And certainly she was not so silly as to desire a gentleman who wasted her days with empty compliments and shallow flirtations.
Still, as she sat beside Peter on the sofa in the front parlor, she could not deny a tiny pang of regret. She would not mind if he were a bit more . . . dashing, she had to admit.
Against her will, the image of dark features and gold-flecked hazel eyes rose to mind. What would Barth do if they were alone on this sofa?
Certainly he would not have devoted two hours to discussing his previous night’s readings. No. More than likely he would have pulled her into his arms and made her head spin with his heated kisses.
A thoroughly unwelcome tingle of excitement raced through her body.
Such kisses . . .
“Isa, are you attending me?”
A flare ofcolor rushed to Isa’s cheeks as she firmly chastised her wayward thoughts.
She was shameless.
“Yes, of course I am.”
Once more confident his audience was giving him the proper attention, Peter continued his lecture.
“It is all so much clearer, since I have a copy of the original manuscript. Too much can be altered in the translation.” He held out a large sheet of parchment covered in neat script. “You see the verb here . . .”
“Peter.” Isa desperately interrupted the droning voice. She simply could not bear another two hours of such tedious conversation.
“Yes?”
“Could we not perhaps spend the day upon the lake?”
She might as well have suggested that they traverse to the colonies for the shock that widened Peter’s eyes.
“The lake?”
“Yes. I could have Cook prepare us a basket, and we could row to the island.” She smiled in a pleading fashion, not about to admit that she had already requested that Cook prepare a romantic luncheon and pack it into a wicker basket just in the hopes of luring Peter away from his manuscripts.
Peter grimaced as he glanced toward a window where the sun tumbled happily into the room.
“There is rather a breeze.”
“Nonsense,” Isa retorted. “It is a lovely day.”
Peter hastily changed tactics. “Yes, well, perhaps your mother would not quite care for the scheme.”
“What is not to care?” Isa demanded. “We shall be in perfect view of the entire household. There could be nothing improper.”
“I do not know.” Peter gave a delicate shudder. “I have no particular fondness for water.”
Isa bit back a sigh of impatience. Really, she was not asking so very much, was she?
“We shall not be in the water. We shall be upon the island enjoying a lovely picnic.” She once again flashed her most persuasive smile. “Do say yes.”
Clearly cornered, Peter had little choice but to give a vague flutter of his thin hands.
“I suppose we might.”
“Superb.” Isa abruptly rose to her feet. “I shall go fetch our food while you see to the boat.”
Peter blinked. “Now?”
“But of course. It shall be a delightful change.”
“I suppose,” Peter muttered, far from convinced.
“I shall join you at the lake in a moment.”
Unwilling to give Peter any further opportunities to argue, Isa swept from the room and made her way toward the back of the house. Perhaps she was being somewhat devious, she conceded, but she had to do something. Peter would never notice her in a romantic manner unless she took matters into her own hands.
And so, putting aside her vague sense of guilt at the lengths she had gone to, Isa entered the vast kitchen to locate the decidedly plump cook, who was busily kneading a large ball of dough.
“Mrs. Sculder.”
Glancing up, the middle-aged servant with a round face and disorderly gray hair regarded Isa with a sudden smile.
“My dear, don’t you look lovely.”
Isa glanced down at the elegant gown in the shade of bluebells. It was one of her favorites as well as being one of her most flattering.
“Thank you, Mrs. Sculder. Is the basket prepared?”
“Aye.” The cook nodded her head toward a long table on which a basket was covered with a white cloth. “Although it be a waste of good food, if you ask me.”
Isa gave a sudden blink. “I beg your pardon?”
“I might as well have boiled a turnip for all the notice Mr. Effinton will give my fine pheasant and mushroom pie,” Mrs. Sculder mourned, her artistic soul wounded by Peter’s philistine disregard for her creations. “Now, Lord Wickton. He is a gentleman who appreciates a well-cooked meal. He is always complimenting me on my way with pastries.”
Isa frowned in exasperation. “Lord Wickton possesses a keen appreciation of his own pleasures.”
A surprisingly naughty smile curved the older woman’s lips.
“A lady could do worse.”
“Not you, too, Mrs. Sculder,” Isa groaned. For goodness’ sake, had Lord Wickton managed to charm every female in the country? She heartily wished never to hear his name spoken again.
“I only desire you to find a gentleman that will appreciate you as you deserve.”
“What gentleman ever truly appreciates a lady, Mrs. Sculder?” Isa demanded. ‘’They expect us to provide them comfort, see to their needs, and entertain them when necessary. And, of course, to gracefully fade into the background when we interfere in their privacy, which appears to be the vast majority of the time.”
Mrs. Sculder gave a disapproving click of her tongue at Isa’s words.
“You are too young for such thoughts.”
“You think I should still be a giddy schoolgirl in love with every fribble who might pay her a pretty compliment?” Isa demanded, recalling her once naive passion with a shudder of embarrassment. “No, thank you. I prefer a gentleman who possesses substance, not charm.”
“Substance?” Mrs. Sculder kneaded the dough with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary. “More like soggy pudding.”
Isa resisted the urge to defend Peter. Why bother? Mrs. Sculder was clearly as blinded by Lord Wickton’s charm as every other woman.
“I must not keep Mr. Effinton waiting.”
Turning about, she moved to gather the large basket and left the kitchen. It was only a short distance to a side door that led to the garden. Stepping into the warm sunshine, Isa felt a measure of her annoyance fading. She would not allow thoughts of Lord Wickton to ruin her day. Not when she was determined to capture Peter’s elusive attention. Sternly forcing her thoughts toward the upcoming picnic, Isa made her way through the garden and into the parkland. Before long, she had reached the short dock where Peter was struggling to untie the small rowboat from its post.
“Are we ready?”
Glancing up from his task, Peter cast her a decided frown. “I do not know. That cloud appears particularly ominous.”
Isa dutifully scanned the brilliantly blue sky for the treacherous cloud, only to discover a distant puff of white.
“I believe that all will be well,” she reassured.
“I suppose,” Peter agreed with obvious reluctance. “Here.”
Taking the basket, he prepared to help Isa into the boat, but she needed no aid. With practiced grace, she leaped into the center of the boat; then, sitting down, she took the basket and tucked it beneath her seat. Unfortunately, Peter possessed none of her skill, and after finishing untying the rope, he awkwardly stepped down into the boat and immediately set it rocking in an alarming fashion.
“Careful,” Isa called as she grasped the sides of the boat.
Peter fell back onto his seat, his weight tipping them to one side.
“Good lord, I wish the blasted thing would hold steady.”
“You must sit in the center.”
Peter obligingly shifted to the center, then set the boat rocking once again as he reached for the oars.
“I thought carriages were treacherous beasts.”
“You must not fidget,” she commanded.
“Easy enough to say,” Peter muttered as he struggled to push away from the dock and set the oars in motion.
There was a great deal of splashing, and more than once Isa feared they would not even make it away from the shore, but after much struggle, Peter managed to head them toward the small island in the middle of the lake.
“There, is this not pleasant?” Isa encouraged.
Peter grimaced, his face red from the unaccustomed exertion.
“It seems rather foolish to go to such effort when we might have eaten in comfort at your home.”
“But is it not nice to be among nature?”
“I prefer a less damp nature,” he complained.
“You will enjoy the island.”
“If you say.”
“There are flowers and birds and a host of butterflies.”
“And insects and . . .” His words trailed away as a sudden breeze danced over the lake. Abruptly, he gave an exclamation of disgust. “My hat.”
Isa watched the black hat fly off his head and skip over the water. Then, with a sudden flare of disbelief, she realized that Peter was instinctively attempting to retrieve the renegade article.
“No, Peter, wait . . .” she urgently commanded, but it was far too late.
Feeling the boat tipping, Peter lunged in the opposite direction and only succeeded in overturning them with a resounding splash.
Thoroughly at home in the water, Isa swiftly resurfaced despite her clinging skirts. Within moments, Peter also surfaced, but with such coughing and flailing of his arms, it was obvious he was unable to swim.
“Help . . .” He coughed.
Swift to realize the danger, Isa struggled to swim to his aid.
“Peter, you must relax,” she urged as she attempted to avoid his swinging arms.
“Help.”
Debating whether it would be more prudent to approach from behind, Isa was startled as another head abruptly crested the water directly beside her. The flare of shock was swiftly replaced by that of overwhelming relief at the sight of Barth’s grim countenance.
“Thank God,” she breathed.
“Lean against me,” he ordered.
“No, I can swim. You must help Peter.”
The hazel eyes seared over her worried features before turning to regard the young man flailing in desperation.
“For God’s sake,” he muttered.
“Help,” Peter yelped.
“You are sure?” Barth demanded of Isa.
“You taught me yourself.”
A sudden smile curved the masculine lips at the memory of summer days spent in the cove and the tenacious young girl who refused to be outdone in anything, including a bracing swim in the chilled water.
“So I did.” With a concise motion, Barth swam forward and grasped Peter with one arm about the neck. Isa bit back her instinctive protest as Barth began swimming toward the shore. It was obviously the best method to haul the still-struggling Peter out of the water, even if it did appear less than sympathetic.
Beginning to shiver, Isa followed close behind. All in all, the day had turned out to be a complete disaster. Not only had the romantic picnic she had envisioned been reduced to a soggy mess, but she had nearly managed to kill Peter with her selfish demands.
Battling her clinging skirt, Isa swam to shore. Barth had already laid Peter on the grass, and she moved to stand next to him.
“Shall I go for a servant?” she demanded.
Peter coughed, struggling to his feet. He appeared decidedly miserable in his dripping clothes and his hair matted to his narrow head.
“No,” he insisted with another cough. “No, I only wish to go home.”
“But you need to dry off.”
“Please, Isa, I only wish to go home.”
“I will have my carriage take you home.” Barth took charge, lifting an arm toward the groom, who had obviously been ordered to remain with the high perch phaeton and perfectly matched grays.
“Thank you, my lord.” With an awkward bow, Peter trudged to the waiting carriage and allowed the groom to help him onto the narrow seat. Isa watched in silence as the groom vaulted beside the shivering Peter and with a brief nod toward Barth set the grays in motion.
“And now for you,” Barth announced in firm tones.
“What?” Slowly turning, Isa was caught off guard as Barth stepped forward and swept her off her feet, cradling her against his chest. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she gazed in shock at the suddenly near hazel eyes. Before leaping into the water, he had stripped off his boots and coat, and now Isa could easily feel the heat of his body through his damp lawn shirt. Itwas a decidedly disturbing sensation. “Barth, put me down.”
Already heading toward Cresthaven, Barth smiled into her wide eyes.
“You have had a shock,” he retorted.
“Ludicrous,” she breathed, shuddering at the feel of his powerful muscles rippling against her delicate form. Unlike Peter, who had appeared worse for his dunking, Barth only seemed more poignantly masculine, with his chestnut hair tousled and his clothes clinging to his strong frame. “It would take more than a mild tumble into perfectly calm water to give me a shock.”
The hazel eyes glinted. “Then why are you shivering?”
“Because I am cold,” she gritted.
“All the more reason to hurry you inside.”
Annoying man.
“We could hurry much faster if only you would put me down.”
His long strides never faltered. “And have you stumbling over your wet skirt?”
Botheration. Did he have an answer for everything?
“You are without a doubt the most annoying gentleman I have ever encountered,” she informed him.
“I?” His lips twisted in a wry smile. “I did not possess the ill grace to tumble you into the water. Indeed, I was the one attempting to save you. Most ladies would consider me the hero, not the villain, of the piece.”
That he was absolutely right did not ease her irritation. Of course he was the hero. He would always be the hero. Poor Peter.
“That was an accident, and I was referring to your overbearing habit of doing exactly as you please, no matter what anyone might say.”
An indefinable emotion rippled over the handsome features. “If that was true, my dearest Isa, then we would already be wed. Now, be a good girl and hush before I toss you back into the lake.”
Her mouth opened to utter a sharp retort; then, noting the steely glint in his eyes, she abruptly closed it again. He was just arrogant enough to do it. She instead settled for a fierce scowl as he crossed the terrace.
As they neared the door, it was abruptly thrust open to reveal the round, worried face of Mrs. Sculder. “Heaven’s above, what has occurred?” the cook demanded.
Barth carried Isa into the hall. “Unfortunately, Miss Lawford was tumbled into the lake.”
“I feared as much would happen,” Mrs. Sculder muttered in disgusted tones. “That Mr. Effinton might be bookish enough, but he knows nothing about taking care of a young lady.”
Barth deliberately met Isa’s flashing gaze. “My sentiments precisely.”
“It was an accident,” Isa wearily repeated. “Now, will you please put me down?”
“In a moment. Mrs. Sculder will you call for a hot bath?”
“At once, my lord.”
“Thank you.”
Flashing his most enticing smile, Barth continued down the hall and then shockingly began climbing the steps of the sweeping staircase.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
He regarded her startled countenance as if she were a trifle dense.
“Taking you to your bedchamber so you can have a hot bath and change into some dry clothes.”
“You cannot enter my bedchamber,“ she protested.
“Do not be a goose, Isa. I have been in your chambers on a dozen different occasions.”
“When I was a child.”
He lifted a deliberate brow. “Since you continue to behave as a child, then all should be well.”
Her jaw tightened in an ominous manner. “I should like to . . .”
“Plant me a facer,” he helpfully supplied.
“Yes.”
Entering the vast rose-and-ivory bedchamber, Barth crossed toward the canopy bed. Still holding her close, he studied her pale features with a rueful smile.
“Really, Isa, you are a most ungrateful brat. Not only have I ruined my new shirt and breeches, but I have left my favorite boots standing in the mud. And all for the sake of that whey-faced milksop who has stolen my fiancée.”
A peculiar tingle inched down her spine, and Isa instinctively shivered.
“I have never been your fiancée,” she protested.
“Not yet.” The hazel eyes abruptly darkened, and without warning, he lifted her upward to claim her mouth in a brief, searing kiss.
Isa trembled, but even as her lips treacherously parted, he was leaning forward to place her on the soft mattress. Her eyes fluttered open to discover him studying her with a disturbing intensity.
“You are shivering again, Isa. Get out of those wet clothes and I shall visit you later.”