Nine
Barth was up and on his way to Cresthaven at an uncommonly early hour. In truth, he had slept precious little. It had disturbed him more than he cared to admit to have driven around the corner and discovered Isa overturned in the middle of the lake.
He had not even hesitated; he had vaulted from the still-moving carriage and sprinted toward the water. His only thought had been to reach Isa before she could be harmed.
The devil take Peter Effinton, he silently cursed as he urged his chestnut mount up the sweeping drive to the manor house. The bloody fool had nearly killed Isa. He should be locked away before he injured her further.
Not that Isa hadn’t managed to take adequate care of herself, he acknowledged with a reluctant smile. Unlike most women of his acquaintance, she had not panicked, but instead had set about saving her companion from his own folly. And certainly her spirit had not been dampened by her plunge in the cold water.
His smile widened at the thought of her flashing eyes and tempting lips.
She was a most enticing brat.
How had he ever thought otherwise?
His blood stirred at the memory of their brief kiss. Lord, not even the practiced seduction of Monique had sent his heart pounding in such a manner. He could only conclude that his knowing she was determined to resist his advances made her all the more desirable.
Entering the courtyard, Barth waited for a young groom to hurry from the stables and take the reins of his horse; then, mounting the steps, he removed his hat as the door was pulled open by Rushton, and he stepped into the vaulted foyer.
“Good morning, Rushton.”
The butler gave a dignified nod of his head. “Good morning, my lord.” “I am here to see Miss Lawford.”
Rushton gave a regretful frown. “I fear Miss Lawford is still in her chambers, my lord.”
“Good God, do not tell me that she has taken to lying abed the morning through?”
“No, sir. I believe she has developed a most unpleasant chill.”
Barth’s earlier annoyance with Peter Effinton rushed back with a vengeance.
“I might have suspected,” he snapped; his brow furrowed in a dangerous scowl. “Blast that fumbling looby.”
The faintest hint of a smile flickered over Rushton’s wooden features.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Has the apothecary been sent for?”
“Miss Lawford insists she has no need for Mr. Payson.”
“Miss Lawford has obviously no sense when it comes to her health. Indeed, I begin to wonder if she possesses any sense at all. What female in full control of her faculties would willingly share a boat with Peter Effinton?” His expression hardened with determination. “Have a footman fetch Payson.”
Rushton glanced covertly toward the staircase, clearly reluctant to disobey Isa’s commands.
“My lord . . .”
Barth lifted a slender hand. “I will take responsibility, Rushton.”
The butler gave a smooth bow. “Very good, Lord Wickton.”
“I shall call later.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Turning on his heel, Barth returned to the morning fog, but rather than heading for the stables, he instead turned toward the side path that eventually led to the enclosed kitchen garden.
Although it had been years since he had used the narrow path, he confidently slipped into the servants’ entrance and made his way through the back maze of corridors. Climbing a narrow flight of stairs, he at last made his way to the main hall and the door of Isa’s chambers.
It never occurred to him that he was behaving in a less than proper manner. What did he care of propriety? He was not about to leave until he had discovered for himself the status of Miss Lawford’s health. And if that meant slipping into her room like a common thief to avoid any unpleasant gossip, then so be it.
With a swift glance to ensure no one was about, Barth silently pushed open the door and stepped inside.
Not surprisingly he discovered Isa lying on the bed, her golden curls haloed about her flushed countenance and her tiny frame covered by a thick blanket.
Presuming she was asleep, Barth moved directly to the bed, settling himself on the edge to study closely the disturbingly high color in her cheeks. How tiny she appeared. How fragile. As fragile as the jade figure she had proudly displayed on the table beside her bed. He would have Effinton horsewhipped if she were truly ill.
He was debating whether he should ride to Canterbury for a doctor himself or send a servant, when his thoughts were distracted as the heavy black lashes fluttered upward.
Just for a moment the amber gaze clung to his near countenance as if relieved to see him; then, abruptly, a frown of disapproval tugged at her brows.
“You,” she breathed.
“Good morning, Isa.”
“I suppose you bullied your way past my servants?”
Despite his concern, Barth could not help but smile at her petulant tone. With her curls in disarray and the covers pulled to her chin, she might have been a child of five rather than a grown woman.
“Your servants would have carried me to your chamber upon their shoulders if they hoped I could halt you from behaving like a stubborn fool,” he informed her with a speaking glance. “However, I presumed you would prefer that we keep my rather unconventional visit between the two of us.”
She gave a restless shake of her head. “What do you want?”
His hand reached out to lightly stroke her cheek, his alarm only deepening at the feel of her heated skin.
“I wished to discover for myself how you go on.”
“Ghastly.” She gave a decisive sneeze as if to prove her point. “Are you satisfied?”
“Of course not. I would never wish you harm, you ridiculous brat.” His lips thinned. “You are hot.”
Her mouth opened; then, clearly feeling too wretched to continue their delectable battle, she heaved a weary sigh.
“Yes.”
A most dangerous pang clutched at Barth’s heart, and he leaned toward the table next to the bed to retrieve a cloth soaking in cool water.
With a gentle tenderness, he bathed her heated features.
“Here.”
Her restless motions halted beneath his soothing ministrations.
“Thank you.”
“I have sent for Mr. Payson,” he informed her without apology, not surprised when her tiny nose flared with annoyance.
“There was no need.”
“There was every need. Indeed, I have every intention of sending to Canterbury for a doctor.”
“Absurd. I have a chill, nothing more.”
His expression assured her that she would have little say in the matter.
“We shall see what Payson has to say.”
“Fine.” She eyed him sourly. “Now that you have once again thrust your way into my presence and run roughshod over my desires, there is obviously nothing left here for you to do. Go meddle in some other unfortunate maiden’s life.”
He gave a husky chuckle. “How did I ever think you to be a sweet, biddable creature?”
“You more than likely had me confused with some other maiden,” she said dryly; then, as another sneeze wracked her body, she gave a miserable shake of her head. “Go away.”
“Poor Isa,” he murmured, continuing to stroke her brow. “You do feel beastly.”
The maiden briefly closed her eyes; then, as it became apparent that Barth was not yet prepared to leave, she reluctantly opened them again.
“How is Peter?”
“I haven’t the least notion, nor do I care,” he informed her. “Although I have often found that such bumbling fools, while creating havoc in those around them, rarely suffer themselves.”
“It was not Peter’s fault,” she protested. “He did not even wish to be in the boat. I convinced him that I desired a picnic on the island.”
Barth carefully hid his flare of annoyance at her confession. An intimate picnic for two? The sooner he rid himself of Peter Effinton, the better.
“And you label me the bully, Isa?” He tapped the end of her nose. “Still, he should have taken greater care.”
“As you would have, I suppose?”
“But of course. I do not make a habit of tipping young ladies in the lake. When I take you for a picnic, you may depend on remaining quite unharmed.”
Her chin jutted. “I will not be going on a picnic with you.”
“Certainly not in the next few days,” he agreed.
“Not ever.”
His lips curved in a small smile. “We shall see.”
Her eyes once again fluttered, but this time there was no combating the feverish sleep.
“I am so tired,” she muttered.
Barth’s smile faded as he gazed down at the drawn features. He once again experienced that odd pain in the center of his heart.
What if it were more than a chill?
What if her lungs became inflamed? Or if the fever became worse?
Certainly a doctor must be sent for, he decided grimly.
Nothing was going to happen to Isa.
Not while he was near.
“Rest easy, my dear,” he whispered, gently stroking her brow. “I shall keep you safe.”
* * *
It was nearly three days before Isa felt strong enough to sit upright in bed. Although she was still weak from her prolonged fever, she was relieved to discover that her head had halted its spinning and her stomach no longer threatened to revolt at even the tiniest sip of water. Indeed, she had managed to consume a small bowl of gruel less than an hour before. Now she considered how she could possibly pass the day.
She had no desire to send for her mother. Although Mrs. Lawford meant well, her habit of bursting into tears whenever seeing her poor daughter laid upon her bed made Isa’s head ache. Not even the assurances of the doctor that Barth had brought from Canterbury had managed to reassure her mother that Isa was not about to succumb to some dread end.
Perhaps she would call for her maid and have her bring a book from the library, she at last decided.
Debating what she was in the mood to peruse, Isa was startled by the sound of the door opening. Turning her head, she expected her mother or one of the numerous servants, but instead, it was the decidedly masculine countenance of Lord Wickton that suddenly appeared.
“Ah, you are awake,” he said, a small smile of satisfaction curving at the sight of her perched upright on the bed.
Despite knowing she should be furious at his forward behavior, Isa discovered an answering smile curving her lips. She was well aware that he had spent the past few days downstairs not only providing comfort for her mother but commanding doctors to be fetched, fresh fruit acquired, and her room filled with flowers.
Besides, if she were perfectly honest, she would admit that she longed for a bit of company. After three days of her mother and the stern-faced doctor, even Barth’s presence was a welcome diversion.
“Good afternoon, my lord. I suppose you used the servant’s entrance?”
“Of course.” Entering the room, he regarded her wan features with a glittering intensity. Isa resisted the wholly feminine urge to smooth her tumbled curls. Really, why could she not halt those ridiculous tremors of awareness whenever he entered a room? “How do you feel?”
“Much improved, thank you.”
“Good, then I have a surprise.” He opened the door wider, and a large ball of tan fur bounded into the room. Isa gave a gasp of delight as the cur of indiscriminate breeding gave a yelp and raced to leap upon the bed.
“Macbeth.”
“The disreputable scamp was going into a decided decline without you.”
Isa raised her head and flashed Barth a grateful smile. “Mother had him banned for fear he might disturb me.”
“I discovered him at a side door howling in a most piteous fashion.”
“It was kind of you to bring him to me.”
A rather teasing smile curved his lips at her soft tone. “Are you certain you are feeling well?”
She could not blame him for his amused suspicion. Since his return to Kent, she had maintained a brittle antagonism that was meant to keep him at arm’s length. Although why she had felt it so necessary was something she had no desire to ponder upon. Now, however, her illness and his continued displays of kindness had undermined her resolve.
“Mother told me that you have spent every day below stairs.”
An odd expression rippled over the handsome features. “You were very ill. Where else would I be?”
Her heart gave a sudden lurch, and she dropped her gaze to the dog, now sound asleep on her pillow.
“I did not even thank you for saving Peter.”
“No, indeed.” The more familiar edge of mockery returned to his voice. “As I recall, I was somehow blamed for the entire incident.”
A rueful grimace wrinkled her nose. “You make me very angry.”
“I did not use to. I once made you smile.”
She slowly lifted her head. “That was long ago.”
“Well, I shall prove that I can still amuse you.”
Isa frowned as Barth left the room. What the devil was he doing? Then her frown abruptly fled as he returned, holding her half-finished canvas and box of paints. A sharp, poignant warmth flooded her heart. Suddenly, she was once again a young girl confined to her chamber, and he was the handsome hero sweeping to her rescue.
“Oh . . .”
“There, I made you smile,” he said as he situated the painting on the window seat and returned to perch upon the bed.
The warmth and scent of his male body wrapped about her.
“I have never denied you can be extraordinarily charming,” she said in breathy tones. “Indeed, you are far too charming for your own good.”
His lips twisted with rueful amusement. “If I am so charming, then why are you not madly in love with me?”
Her stomach gave a sudden quiver. “I have told you that I desire a gentleman who is dependable, not charming.”
“Are you sure you do not mistake dull with dependable?” he demanded.
There was no missing his subtle reference to Peter, and she gave a shake of her head.
“Please, Barth, I am in no mood to argue.”
“Nor am I,” he surprisingly agreed. His gaze stroked over her pale features. “This brings back old memories, does it not?”
“Yes.”
“You look as if you are still twelve.”
Absurdly shy beneath that warm gaze, Isa struggled to maintain her composure.
“I am sure I look a mess.”
“You are beautiful,” he murmured.
“You, sir, are a shameless liar.”
He lifted his head, the slanting sunlight glinting off the golden fire in his chestnut hair.
“I will concede that you do not possess the more full blown beauty of a Lady Moss or the exotic appeal of Mrs. Plantz.” He named the two Incomparables that had taken London by storm. “But your skin is the texture of silk, your hair a tumble of sunlight, and your eyes the finest amber.”
The huskiness of his voice tingled down her spine.
“Absurd.”
“Your mother was a fool not to take you to London. You could have done far better than an impoverished earl.”
Good lord. It was no wonder women tossed themselves at his feet, she thought as she hardened her expression.
“I am uninterested in such things.”
“Yes, so I have discovered,” he said wryly.
“I suppose you would prefer that I was anxious to become a countess?”
“It would certainly make my life considerably less complicated, but I must admit a grudging respect.” Without warning, he reached out to stroke her silken curls from her brow. “There are precious few young maidens who would toss aside the prospect of acquiring a title.”
“Maidens such as Miss Keaton?” The question tumbled out before she could halt the near jealous accusation.
“Good lord, do not remind me.”
Isa discovered her gaze clinging to the chiseled features that were so impossibly familiar.
“You shall have to find some such maiden,” she reminded him.
“Perhaps.” His hands moved to cup her chin, his gaze lowering to her full mouth. “Or perhaps I shall simply kidnap you until you agree to become my bride.”
She caught her breath at his outrageous daring. He was being absurd, of course. Civilized gentlemen did not kidnap maidens even if they were in dire need of a fortune. And civilized ladies certainly did not feel a thrill of excitement at the thought of being swept off in such a manner.
“Ridiculous.” She shakily laughed.
“We shall see.“ The hazel eyes darkened as he abruptly lowered his head and claimed her lips in a possessive kiss. Weakened from her illness, Isa did not even attempt to evade his caress. In fact, her lips readily parted beneath his caress. Why pretend? she thought groggily. She had longed for this moment since he had stirred her slumbering passions in the garden. His touch deepened, seeking the yielding sweetness of her mouth. Isa felt his body stiffen with the same building excitement that raced through her own. Then, disappointingly, his lips were easing their enticing pressure. “Oh, yes,” he whispered against her throbbing mouth, “we shall definitely see.”